he was not one of those who lived in the park—her hair was washed and her dress was clean and she smelled nice. Nor was she a tourist. The residents of the park did not try to beg from her, but went about their business—some boys playing among the rocks at the water’s edge, some men fishing, small groups gathered around cardboard sleeping places and driftwood campfires, barefoot children playing soccer with a ball fashioned from rags and twine. The woman passed these by until she saw what she was looking for—a young girl who sat alone on the concrete wall that separated the city and the bay. She sat beside the child and told her she was pretty and put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. The girl had learned about women like that, women who liked young girls, from an older friend. From what that friend told her, it wasn’t bad. The older woman who had taken her friend to her apartment in Makati had been nice; had given her new clothes and fed her. She stayed there for three nights until the woman said she had to go to Davao City on business. The friend said that what the woman did was not unpleasant—kissing and touching, nothing that hurt her.

So the child did not move away when the woman put her arm around her. The woman said that she would be even prettier if she was cleaned up and had a nice dress to wear. That seemed alright. Touching and kissing a woman would be a small price to pay for new clothes and food and a real bed in a real home. They went to the shopping center on Mabini where the woman bought her underwear, a dress, and a pair of black patent leather shoes. They took the purchases to the woman’s apartment on Singalong street. The girl showered and shampooed her hair. She came out of the bathroom smelling nice and wearing her new underwear.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked the woman.

“It’s very easy. I want you to pretend to be my daughter.”

She was confused. Women did not kiss and touch their daughters, not the way her friend had described it. And if the woman wanted a daughter, why choose her?

“Why?”

“It’s like this, sweetheart. I’m a prostitute.”

She knew the word, and knew what it meant. She knew girls who made money that way, waiting in the little park across from the Ambassador Restaurant or walking Roxas Boulevard. She knew what they did, had seen them on their knees in the shadows, and it disgusted her.

“I don’t want to do that.”

“You won’t have to do anything. Just go with me and pretend to be my daughter.”

“Why?”

“I’m getting old. The men don’t want me anymore. They want young girls.”

“I don’t want to do that.”

“You won’t have to. I promise. Do you know how to flirt with a man?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll bet you do. You’ve seen other girls do it, right?”

“I guess so.”

“That’s all you have to do.”

“That’s all?”

“We’ll go to a hotel and find a man. You flirt with him, act like you want to have sex with him.”

“But I won’t.”

“I know, but act like you would. He’ll take us to his room. I’ll explain that I have to go with you because you’re a virgin and you’re scared.”

“His room?”

“When we get there, I’ll take care of him. He might want you to take your clothes off, might want to touch you, but I won’t let him hurt you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. I’ll take care of that. And then he’ll give us money.”

“How much money?”

“I’ll give you four hundred if you’ll help me.”

Four hundred pesos was a lot of money. She’d seen that kind of money, seen wads of hundred peso notes pulled out of the pockets of the Anglos. They liked to jog or walk the narrow parkland between Roxas and the bay in the cooler hours. When they passed by in their white shorts and tennis shoes, she’d put herself in their path, holding out her hands and opening her eyes as wide as they would go. Sometimes one would stop, pull folded bills from a pocket, peel off a ten or twenty Peso note and hand it to her. Sometimes that would happen; more often they’d pass her by. When it did happen, she seldom got to keep it. One of the older people in the park, if they saw it, would take it from her.

Living like that, out of doors and rarely fed to the full, made her skin dark, her body slim, and her spirit tough. Things had begun to change. Before, she had been treated as a child, one of the many who shared the park, who begged for food and money and played football when no Anglos were around. But when she turned twelve the men began to treat her differently. They began inviting her to share their sleeping places, often with promises of food and warmth. The first time this happened, she accepted. But when she felt his hand between her legs she ran crying back to her own sleeping place. She knew what he wanted to do, had seen it done many times in the night darkness of the park. Why she didn’t want to do it, she didn’t know, they seemed to find it pleasurable, those nighttime lovers, she only knew it frightened her.

“I guess it would be okay.”

“Good. Get dressed.”

“I’m very hungry.”

“We’ll eat later. First, let’s go make some money.”

He was in the coffee shop in the lobby of the Sofitel Hotel on Roxas Boulevard when they approached him.

“I am a poor widow,” the woman said. “And this is my daughter. Could we have a moment of your time?”

Later in the day he was to meet with some people from the University of the Philippines whom he hoped to interest in his line of educational software. But for now, at three in the afternoon, there was nothing on his schedule save coffee and relaxation. He welcomed the intrusion.

“Of course. Please sit down,” he said.

They did, the woman on one side; the girl on the other. Not more than twelve, he thought. While the onset of womanhood showed in her hips and breasts, he guessed she would be more interested in dolls than lipstick and mascara. She was taller and more occidental looking than the one who claimed to be her mother. The difference made him wonder if the pair was related by blood or merely by the poverty that brought them to him. Both were dressed in what he supposed was their best. Both in flower print dresses and black shoes, the older woman’s ill-fitting and frayed at the hem; her shoes scuffed and worn down on the soles.

“We are poor women of Manila,” the older woman said, “we are wondering if you could help us.”

“I don’t know. What did you have in mind?”

“My daughter likes you very much,” the woman said, getting right to the point. She nodded to the girl and she, without looking at him, placed her hand on his thigh.

“That’s nice,” he said, realizing he could be referring to the statement or to the touch.

“She would like to go to your room with you.”

He felt his stomach contract. What was unfolding was, if he understood correctly, something for which he could be imprisoned in America. But here? He didn’t know. Did the Philippines have similar laws governing age of consent? And, if it did, did it matter that the mother was the instigator? What of morality? Would he feel guilty? Would he be ashamed? Again, he didn’t know. What he did know was that at the moment he had nothing else to do.

“She is very young and inexperienced. I would have to go with you.”

More questions. Would the so-called mother be a full partner? Or would she be a coach and source of support for the girl? He needed more time.

“Maybe later,” he said, “but for now, would you like something to eat?”

“Bless you sir,” the woman squeezed his hand. “Yes, we would.”

They went into the dining room, now almost empty. The woman and the girl circled the buffet table and returned, each with two plates piled high with eggs and sausages, donuts and fried potatoes and fish. He sipped his third cup of coffee and watched with admiration while the pair ate as though the meal might be their last, or their first. They ate in silence, totally absorbed. He watched for signs that might tell him more about them. What he saw re-confirmed his suspicion that the two were unrelated. A mother would show some concern for what and how her daughter ate, but the woman showed no sign of that. A daughter, any daughter, would turn occasionally to her mother, silently asking, “Is this alright?”, but the girl did not. So the older woman was a pimp. So much the better. A menage a trois with a woman and an underage girl may not have been admirable, but better than doing a girl and her mother. So he decided, while they were mopping up the juices on their plates with bits of chocolate covered donuts, to see where things led. He signed the check and led them to the elevator.

In the elevator and walking down the hall to his room the girl held on to him, her arm inside his arm, her thin body pressed so close they walked like people in a sack race. Inside, the women went straight into the bathroom. He heard water running and toilets flushing and voices raised in argument. They spoke in Tagalog, which he did not understand, and that, coupled with the fact that the girl had not said a word to him, informed him that the girl knew no English. The older woman, on the other hand, spoke English well—another clue to their true relationship. Any English speaking mother in this or any other foreign country he had visited would have shared knowledge of that most highly valued language with her children.

He turned on the television, took off his shoes, and lay down, his head propped up by pillows set against the headboard. China and Malaysia were engaged in a men’s doubles badminton match when they came out of the bathroom. The girl lay down beside him; the woman took a chair by the window.

“You can do what you want with her,” the woman smiled.

He looked at the girl’s face. Her expression showed a mix of fear and resignation. Traces of tears stained her thin cheeks.

“But first,” the woman cautioned, “there is the matter of your kind generosity.”

“How much?” he asked, not because he intended to violate the frightened girl but out of curiosity.

“She is a virgin.”

“So you said.”

“Three thousand.”

Three thousand pesos. Over fifty American dollars. It seemed excessive, even for a twelve-year-old virgin. The girls on Roxas Boulevard would be happy with a couple of hundred pesos - less if one bargained. What made a child so valuable? What kind of man would pay so much for her? Not him. No matter what the price.

“She’s scared,” he said. “She doesn’t want to do it.”

“But she will,” the woman said, and then she said something in Tagalog to the girl. The girl began to unbutton the top of her dress.

“I won’t,” he countered. He took the girl’s hand in his, stopping her.

The woman left her chair. She walked around the bed and lay down. She turned toward him and put her hand on him. “You’re excited,” she said, stroking him, “If you don’t want the girl, you can do what you like with me.”

“Not for three thousand, I wouldn’t.”

“Oh, no sir. I’m not young. For me a few hundred. Just a few hundred would help us so much.”

The woman was not ugly, just worn. It was tempting.

“Is she going to watch?”

“If you like. If you want, she will take her clothes off. You can look at her while we do it. You can touch her if you like.”

“What will you do?”

“Anything you want. You can do with me what you want.” She hissed another command to the girl. The words were unintelligible to him but he quickly learned what they meant. The girl stood, removed her dress, panties and bra, folded them neatly on the chair, and lay back down beside him, careful not to touch him. The woman unbuttoned his shirt, undid his belt and zipper and pulled his pants and shorts off. She kissed him, starting at his chest and moving downward. He put one hand on the girl’s thigh and felt her body tense.

It was common enough among people who killed their spouses, at least those he’d read about or seen portrayed in television dramas. The murderer could recount in detail the events leading up to the moment when he or she confronted the victim with a gun or a knife then claim to have no recollection of the act itself.

It was possible, he supposed, that a person’s mind could obliterate events too horrible to accept. But, more likely, especially in the case of someone accused of murder, he saw it as a convenient amnesia designed to place the burden of decision as to guilt or innocence in the hands of others.

In his case, there was no trial, no accusation of crime. Whatever it was he could not now remember posed no threat of imprisonment. The morning after, over coffee in the hotel cafe, he tried again to force his mind to give up what it was holding in its secret place. One moment he was lying between the naked girl and the woman who claimed to be her mother. He remembered the excitement that surged through his body as he touched the girl’s leg while the woman took him into her mouth. And when he came back to consciousness, he was lying, spent, beside the crying girl, and the woman was sitting in the chair by the window holding a bundle of peso notes and humming. Whatever happened between the touching and the humming was lost.

He forced his mind to take a different path. He had gotten orders from the English Department faculty he’d met with the evening before. Today, he was scheduled to have lunch with a woman who ran a string of private language schools and, later in the day, he had appointments with people at De La Salle University. If they bought in volume, as he anticipated they would, his stay in Manila would pay off handsomely. He was considering a further itinerary that would take him to potentially lucrative markets in Hong Kong and Singapore when he saw her come up the steps from Roxas Boulevard and through the glass doors of the entrance to the lobby. This time she had a different daughter. The woman looked at him and said something to the girl. The girl nodded. They walked straight to his table.

“As you can see,” the woman said, “I have more than one daughter.”

He nodded to the girl. She nodded back, a knowing gesture that verified his first impression that the woman could not advertiser this one as a virgin.

“She is a bit older than my other daughter, but, as you can see, even prettier.”

“Yes.”

The ladies took chairs at his table and the woman went on with her introduction. “Her sister told her of your kindness and your skill in love-making, and she asked me to bring her here to meet you.”

The woman was good. Her statement complimented his generosity and his ability and invited him to demonstrate his skills with this older, wiser version of a daughter. He did not, for a second, believe the two girls were sisters or had spoken to each other. But what, he wondered, did the woman mean by her claim that the young girl praised his skills? It could mean that the girl had only watched and the woman’s claim of her daughter’s appreciation was merely a hopeful stimulant meant to lure him into the charms of the one who now sat at his table. Or the reference, though certainly not to a conversation between the girls, could nonetheless be accurate—not that the girl had expressed appreciation for what he’d done to her, but that it was she, and not the older woman, who had satisfied him.

“That’s nice,” he said, and remembered that he used the exact same phrase the day before. The repetition and the woman’s statement, like keys to a forbidden room, began to unlock what had been hidden.

“Shall we go to your room?”, the woman asked.

He looked at the hopeful face of the woman, then at the pretty child at her side. The girl’s smiling countenance fused with the pain and resignation on the face of the child who had passively lain whimpering beneath his thrusting form and he shuddered, his body recoiling in shame, his mind desperate for escape.

“Not now,” he said, and stood up.

He left the hotel, went carefully across the traffic on Roxas Boulevard and hurried through the beggars in the park until he stood at the cement breakwater at the edge of Manila Bay. The bay was flat and nearly empty, a single freighter at anchor to the north and pleasure craft tied up to the slips around Imelda Marcos’ Cultural Center to the south. He tried to imagine what it must have looked like in 1898 when American warships destroyed the Spanish fleet anchored there, or, in 1945 when U.S. forces drove the Japanese from the harbor and the city. It seemed to him unfair that a scene of so much hatred and bloodshed should be so tranquil. Such places should carry scars, he thought—permanent reminders of the destructive power of America. It was a power that not only destroyed opposing forces, but which brought about enduring political, economic, and cultural subjugation, the kind of subjugation that made him and his countrymen objects of the needful begging of the disenfranchised human flotsam in the park or that was presently patiently awaiting, he supposed, his return to the lobby of the Sofitel.

Such, he understood, are the real scars of war. The monuments to leaders and the lists of the fallen commemorate those who waged those wars, but the lasting scars are in the people who survive, in the subservience of the losers and the guilt of the conquerors.

By the time he did go back inside, the woman and the girl were sitting at a different table, talking to a different man.

He hoped they would be successful and he hoped yesterday’s daughter, like Manila Bay, was free of scars and was somewhere playing with her friends.

He knew his scars would be forever.

 

[END]

© 2005 Robert J. Scholes - Contributor's Bio

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