An aura of history suffused the streets. That is to say that time mellowed the white walls into pensive gray and the idlers leaned on the parked tricycles, looking on to the next passerby to ask for directions, arguing about the fastest route as they nonchalantly mention the obsolete street names that prove their long years in the old city.
Some things were new, of course. They passed by the yellow lights, and a sprawling front the size of three houses that prompted Amory to ask if it were a hotel.
“No, that’s a casino,” she replied.
He knew that. He had seen casinos before. That wasn’t the point of the leading question, and the car was moving too fast for him to think of Plan B. The trike drivers could probably answer his question, but the girl insisted on carrying on with her tour. (Or just ask her straight up if she wants to go). The curious thing about his own thoughts, Amory wondered, is it’s not made in his own voice. It was a gruffy voice of a surer, steadier man, the type of which he had never met.
“That’s the Malate church,” the girl blurted with pride.
Amory saw the soft smile form on her face, the first time he looked at her during the whole car ride. Things fell quiet after he thought he heard an explanation along the lines of unrequited feelings. That she had liked “someone else.” (She’s not attracted to you) the gravelly voice pressed on. Amory knew that, of course. But the old city was just so grand, he thought its beauty could fix the tiny problem of one-sidedness.
“And that’s the red-light district. It’s actually nice.”
Amory chuckled at the quick jump from church to this. He saw her darting her eyes at him in a glare that quickly evaporated into a chuckle of her own. But she was right. It was the right kind of clean. The natural sort of clean that suggested free will still ruled the streets not the paranoid tidiness of tyrannical cities. The litter almost colored the streets with breaths of life. Or, Amory admitted, it was simply a romantic justification of things as they are.
There were no women outside. Makati’s P. Burgos had women roaming around bathed in pink lights, bantering with the drunk white men who travelled in packs of three or four. And Quezon Avenue was the worst. It proved the boogeyman thrived in dark closets as the bars, tucked away in labyrinth caves, felt so far away from the city proper, from the lights of civilization.
Manila might have gotten it right if there was a way to get it right. And Amory caught a bar door left ajar, a quick flash of a bare hip gyrating to the beat. Even there, there was a sense of tradition. The dance redolent of the exotic movements caricatured in memes and movies that it had become absurd. Some would call it “classic.” Amory was just impressed by the unabashed commitment to the old ways. The world’s oldest profession carrying the dignity that comes with time.
“I’m here,” she interrupted.
Amory fumbled as he came to, clumsily narrowing the glaring backseat gap between them to bid the girl goodbye. Those amorphous, couch-merging globs you see on weight competitions could have sat in that immense space and there would have still been room.
She got off and Amory marveled at the clarity of peripheral vision as he caught sight of her silver frame glasses under the faint yellow light.
It was by the time he reached Osmeña highway, past the four-piece mural of “Tondominiums” that from his angle, looked like rapture-white warning signs, “the end is nigh!” paintings serving as beacons in the desolate construction sites, that is when he felt it all. The foam-soul of the abandoned teddy bear, the buried notes of his favorite sad songs, under the shadow of the newly minted skyway hovering over his taxi, she “likes someone else.”
In the nameless corners that Amory swore was once one of the many street-side parol shops he anticipated as a Christmas-mad fat kid, a shanty popped up. It was a manger-oasis in the city slums. Yero drooping overhead, the warped wooden table scraping the last inch of highway territory, it’s a wonder the whole thing would survive the rushing wind of the many murderous, side-sweeping ten wheelers that traverse at night.
The residents waved hello. And it was the most welcoming greeting Amory encountered in a while that he got off on the side of the road and shook hands with his new friends.
There was no alcohol. There was a chiffon mocha cake with sky blue icing that spelled happy birthday to a “Julius.” Amory found himself placing the candle and lighting it for the celebrant. It was only after they sang the customary birthday song that he got to sit down and act as if everything that had just transpired was normal.
But there were no introductions. He was given a seat at the head of the table as the guest and a thick slice of cake and sweet spaghetti. The noise of the highway did not reach them. As if a vacuum protected them from the frenzied whoosh of speeding trucks. What’s more, the entire place smelled of perfume. The dialed-down, sophisticated version of the overpowering powdery scent he was forced to inhale in those girly bars. It was pleasant – a touch of rose and the hint of the secret smell that made everyone smirk, knowing they all recognized it.
Julius was the old, hunched man sitting at the opposite end of the table. He had horns, the sinewy cornucopia of a faded gold that Amory had seen in folklore books.
“He’s the devil,” another old man explained. Amory nodded his head along, finding he had expected the revelation all along. Of course, he was the devil. But maybe owing to the heartwarming welcome, he didn’t feel he was remotely near hell.
“He’s mute, sadly,” a younger man explained. He, too, had the tortuous horns of the old man but with a reddish tint to its girthier form. Amory instantly recognized the gruff voice as the one in his head.
“I’m the devil too. Sort of in transition. Pops is set to retire.”
“Oh, good luck,” uttered Amory, feeling it was the most natural response and added, feeling the playful mood in the air, “do you guys sing?”
He was tossed a guitar and before Amory could object that he had never learned any instrument, he found himself playing a quick succession of notes that was almost certainly the beginning of a very sad song.
He thought of the girl as sad songs deserve the tribute of real sad sentiments. There was the memory of her taking her glasses off at some point in the night and Amory realized there were many ways to see how beautiful she was. He had hit the wrong note by then, but the song carried on as the crowd sang with him.
“So the girl?” Devil Jr., asked as the chorus faded. “She doesn’t like you?”
“How do you know about her?”
“I know as much as God. But I’m not as nice.”
“Yes. She likes someone else.”
“I can kill him if you want.”
Amory paused at the suggestion. Going past the idea of murder and black magic, he thought it was a nice gesture from a new friend.
“I’m kidding. I’m past my quota. But if you really want to…”
“You have a quota?”
“Yup. A few thousand evil things to do a year. I try to keep it minor. Like implanting insecure thoughts.”
He smirked at Amory who nodded his head and smiled at the oblique admission.
“Why do you have to do those things?”
“To keep the job.”
“Can’t you just…quit?”
“Nah. It’s a legacy thing. Dad got it from his dad and so forth.”
“But do you actually like doing it?” Amory demanded as Julius. made his way gingerly to his side, hunkering down across him.
“I never really thought of it. Was born to it. It was always like this.”
The older devil raised his shirt and presented his back to Amory with a toothless smile.
“Oh, could you scratch his back? He likes it after eating.”
Amory looked down at his scrawny body, shoulder blades and spine prominent against the sagging, yellowing skin. Across the entire back drooped a tattoo of a faded pink heart with “Jane” scrawled across it in the tackiest old English font imaginable.
“Jane’s your mom?”
“No. Dad’s old girlfriend. Well, they dated somewhat.”
“And your mom never objected to that tat?”
“She never saw it, he said. I don’t know how that’s possible, but dad can keep a lot of things secret.”
“Anyway, I like you. I won’t kill the other guy, but do you want me to make her like you.”
“Isn’t that against the rules? Free will or something?”
“There are no rules anymore. Too many heartbroken kids these days; he allowed everything.”
“Who’s he?”
“You know who. So, what do you say?”
“Alright, do it. Make her like me.”
“Done.”
“Aren’t you supposed to do some hocus pocus thing or set a bible on fire?”
“Nope. I just made it happened.”
“How am I supposed to know it works?”
“Oh. Well, you’re supposed to feel something. Like lighter or I don’t know what you people feel. Maybe check your phone if she messaged?”
“Nah. Maybe later.”
“Okay another song?”
Amory nodded his head. One of the old guys strummed his guitar and they all clapped along. It was some sort of Salsa tune, and the old man sang in rapid Spanish.
Amory stood to try his hand at Salsa when Julius., surprised him. In the corner, he danced in fluid rhythm with the energy of a man half his age while he smeared cake on his friends’ faces.
“Won’t he tire himself out like that?” he turned to the devil’s son.
“Nah. After he went mute, he started dancing like that all the time. You should get him to teach you.”
Amory made his way to the old devil and moved his body that noted the heaviness of bone in flesh and the angular, rigid movements that mobile limbs can still unfortunately make.
“You’re a horrible dancer!” shouted the devil’s son.
And Amory chuckled upon hearing the powerful, gravelly growl that faded in the music.
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