hk diary six: the forlorn young man
it was a forlorn sunday afternoon. there was a slight of a rain and the sky was a gloomy grey. most of the bars and restaurants along the hilly part of the city were shut. except for this one, although some sections of it were also closed, with the chairs neatly stacked on top of the tables. luckily, the stalls (read: tall stools) lined up in the bar were available and that was where i sat.
i conversed jovially with the filipino bartender about the political situation in manila, unmindful of the depressing weather. i tried so hard to shake off the sadness and homesickness that usually enveloped me every time it rained in the former british colony by talking about home.
at that time, the only son of president corazon aquino and senator benigno aquino jr., who was assassinated at the country's only international airport in august nineteen eighty three just as he was getting off the plane from the united states, was in a dilemma: whether to give in to the clamour for him to run as president of the country to prevent the eventual victory of former president joseph estrada, who was earlier convicted of plunder, or stay away from the presidential race altogether and let his best friend, senator mar roxas fight estrada off.
the bartender, a man in his fifty's who has been living in hong kong for the past thirty years, was against the idea of the aquinos' son to run for president. he said the late-middle-aged bachelor did not have the credentials to run the country. he cited, among others, his lackluster performance in the house, when he was a congressman, and then in the senate.
but he's the only one who can defeat erap (the nickname of estrada), i pointed out. if noynoy (aquino's nickname) would let roxas run in the elections, then the presidency is there for erap's taking. can you imagine how the philippines would become a laughing stock in the whole world? erap, a disgraced president who was thrown out of office by a popular uprising, then convicted of plunder but pardoned, would again retake the presidency and rule the country for another six years!
the bartender laughed. he was about to say something when a young man in his twenty's arrived and sat beside me. he ordered a bottle of stella, the same beer that i was having. thus one became two, i thought. i wanted to take a look at him, but was embarrassed to do so. the beer had not yet taken its toll on my psyche.
he had a nice voice, this newcomer in the game of how not to let the rain ruin your day off. i was guessing he looked good too. like a movie star. in my mind, i was picturing the ruggedly handsome and rough looking garrett hedlund, who perfectly played the young and reckless neal cassidy in one of the films about the writer jack kerouac (actually adapted from his book, on the road, which sparked the beat generation's invasion of american literature).
as the bartender entertained him, i resumed reading the book that i had been trying to finish for the past few weeks -- haruki murakami's 1Q84, a nearly one-thousand page of a novel that bears the japanese writer's familiar signature -- loneliness in a city that's as crowded and populated as tokyo, being lost in all its modernity and chaos, feeling nostalgic for a teen-age romance, then the element of magic realism (two moons in a world that looks exactly like ours).
$$$$$$$$$$
after a while, i was on page five hundred and thirty-six (at last i was making some progress), when the young man spoke to me. i was sure he was talking to me because there were only the two of us in the bar. the bartender had gone outside to smoke a cigarette. i heard them talking for awhile about hong kong's freaky rainy summer. then the bartender excused himself to smoke. the hong kong government had disallowed smoking inside enclosed areas, including bars and restaurants.
"so what's the biggest news for the day," he said, smiling, a bottle of stella in his right hand. he was wearing a navy blue blazer, with the buttons opened revealing a black v-neck shirt that clung to his skin to emphasize a well-sculptured body and probably his well-defined arms, dark jeans. an expensive looking wet umbrella, black and long with a dark wood as a handle, was hanging on the chair beside him, rain water dripping on the floor. soon the bar would be flooded too.
"excuse me?" i said, my eyes away from the book. and on him. i sounded annoyed, but deep inside, i felt a rush of genuine happiness as though an angel just told me i won a million dollars in a lottery.
he was good looking. i guessed it right. but not as ruggedly handsome as garrett hedlund. he was more like the preppy and sensitive ethan hawke in dead poet's society. he even have his sad eyes.
asian european, i was guessing, judging from his accent (not chinese), squinty eyes (i am not being racist here, but there was no other way to describe them), freckles (?) on his neck (not a lot thought just enough to make him look even appealing), long, aquiline nose, prominent cheekbone, and smooth, but tanned complexion that made him look as though he just spent a day or two under the sun playing golf or lawn tennis, or lying in the sand in some beach away from the city.
"you're lex right?"
"yes."
"and you're a reporter."
"true."
"that's why i am asking you what is the biggest news for today?"
i smiled. he smiled too, showing white, even teeth. the smile, a simple act and gesture of friendliness, just melted all the snow in the alps, quickening the global warming. al gore won't be too pleased.
"sorry, it's my day off today."
"so there are no news when you're on a holiday?"
"definitely. i dictate the news."
"no, you make the news."
we laughed. the rain had become more persistent. more determined to flood the city. a few other people were now inside the bar, whiling away the time, drinking beer, reading a magazine, a book, a newspaper, or texting or facebooking. most of them were grey haired, plump, old. i felt lucky to be seated right next to this handsome young man, who seemed interested on me too.
lottery winner indeed.
but i did not mind them. the other noisy customers. i was focused on the boy right next to me. this time, we were facing each other. i put down the book on top of the bar table. i am sorry haruki murakami, but this young man was more important than you right now. you could only make me forget about the blues up to a certain extent, and i needed a warm body to make them go away. quickly.
there was something familiar about him. his deep, masculine voice (was it baritone? or tenor?) as though he was an announcer in some fm radio station in manila. his smile, relaxed and, i must add, gorgeous, his thick, black, wavy hair that's been swept by the wind but he hurriedly combed using his fingers. he even smelled familiar, ralph lauren blue. very preppy. i won't be surprised if he was wearing boat shoes. this thought made me glance down toward his longish (twelve inches!) feet that were hanging by the tall bar stool, and indeed he was wearing brown boat shoes. with the hem of his pants slightly folded up, showing tanned, hairy legs. hmmmmmmm....
i like him already, i thought. very au courant. very manly.
"what are you reading?" he asked again, eyes on the book.
"oh murakami's latest." i handed him the book. he held it with both his hands, and marveled at its thickness. at its weight. even pretended to drop it off because it was quite heavy for a paperback. then he handed it back to me, smiling. was he trying to seduce me? i suddenly became thirsty and gulped down half of my beer. he did the same.
then he asked again: "can you finish it all in one sitting?"
hahahaha.
"i am afraid not. have you read him?"
"a few. kafka on the shore. norwegian wood. but he's not my favourite. i like gabriel garcia marquez more. then philosophy. history. economics. honestly, i hardly read fiction."
"oh," i said, blushing despite the beer. "you're a realist then."
&&&&&&&&&&
our conversation was cut short by the bartender, who asked us if we wanted another round. i noticed that we both had ran out of beers.
"yes please," he said, smiling at me, with that embarrassed look as though we were underage high school boys caught drinking beer inside the campus by a strict professor (robin williams?).
the bartender quickly opened two stellas, wiped the very cold bottles with a rag (i hoped it was clean), covered the mouths with tissues, then handed them to our eager, waiting hands.
"you don't remember me at all?" he asked, when the bartender left to wherever bartenders usually go when there's not much customers. he probably wanted to give us more privacy after he noticed how the two of us were so deep in a conversation as though we were long lost friends. or lovers. we probably were. soul mates who drifted apart for a hundred years, now suddenly reunited in one of hong kong's empty bars on a rainy sunday afternoon. a bit cold. a bit sad. feeling the blues.
you finally found me! i have been waiting for you for a hundred years that all the hairs in my body had turned grey, my skin now as withered as prunes, and my mind empty of memories like a river during a drought.
then a song. the bartender probably decided that it's time for some songs that would go along nicely with the weather. ella fitzgerald came crooning in her soothing, crystal clear voice, lamenting about a long, lost lover: round midnight. everything went quiet.
"hmmmm." i said trying to recall his name. loving the music. but no matter how hard i scanned the dark corners of my mind, how many drawers that contained memories of men from my past i opened, i could not remember him. then i gave up and raised both of my hands in total surrender.
"dean."
"like dean & deluca?"
he nodded.
"that's my favourite store," he said.
"me too," i replied quickly. "and this one's my favourite song," i added, after i noticed him mouthing the lyrics quietly.
then silence. we listened to the song. each lost on each others' thoughts.
"memories always start 'round midnight
haven't got the heart to start those memories
when my heart is still with you
and ol' midnight knows it, too."
i pictured him outside of dean & deluca in soho on a bright spring day in dark raybans, blue city shorts, yellow polo shirt with the rl logo on the front, white blazer, a hat, and brown leather suede shoes sipping a steaming cappuccino in a paper cup, with a nerdy book (perhaps bertrand russell's history of western philosophy) under his arm. this image of him made me like him even more. even if we've just met. this lovely stranger with a beautiful accent now listening to ella fitzgerald.
have i told you that the rains always make me feel romantic and nostalgic too? at that moment, while his eyes were closed, while i was picturing him in front of dean and deluca in a colourful outfit, i wanted to hold him in my arms, touch his wayward hair, kiss his blushing cheeks, his swollen lips, the freckles on his neck. then his eyes. those lovely, forlorn eyes. what made them sad? i wanted to know. where have you been all this time?
the song ended. he opened his eyes, finding mine staring into them. drowning on their browniness. i blushed one more time, felt my cheeks burning. my legs started to shake. my heart beat began racing faster. ah. stop being a virgin. be still my foolish heart.
"so have we met before?" i finally asked in a soft voice, looking into his eyes. i already finished five bottles of beer (and him three, i think), so i was a bit bold. "have we......" i left the sentence hanging.
he laughed again. a bit sheepish. (yes, he smiled and laughed a lot. his way of hiding his discomfort. he confessed later on that he wasn't used to talking to strangers, nor disturbing them while they were reading a book in a bar.)
a light breeze blew, causing the tissues on top of the bar to fly. the cover of the book flipped open along with its pages. i covered the book with my hand then put it inside my bag. i shivered.
there were more customers now inside the bar, and the areas that were previously closed were now filled with them, talking noisily. but they failed to drown our conversation, and most especially the great ella fitzgerald, who was now giving us more blues: the man i love.
outside, darkness finally wrapped the city. some neighbouring restaurants and bars had already opened. street lamps, lonely, tall, damp, were now lit, their brightness masquerading the tears deep inside me. the rain kept on pouring. heavy and angry. relentless, as though crying for a lost lover. i was there, shouted the rain, why didn't you come? i was ready to go away with you where ever you wanted us to be. why didn't you come? why did you leave me alone?
"you mean slept together?" dean finished the sentence for me.
i nodded my head, then drank my beer.
he gave me a naughty wink.
silence. i didn't know what to say. i was lost in thoughts. again. a picture of someone who was trying to figure out a mathematical problem or a mystery. i tend to do this a lot, especially when i was with the person whom i liked so much. i tend to stutter too. say a lot of nonsense.
surely, if we had slept together, i would have remembered him. god, he almost looked like a greek god in leg-and-crotch-hugging denim jeans and preppy outfit. a divine, slight british accent. with eyes that were light brown and glinting with the energy of youth. whose thick, black hair smelled of the rain and of lavender. i couldn't help it. my fingers were now running back and forth on his thighs. he didn't seem to mind it. i thought he was even enjoying it. the slight stroking.
i became bolder. my fingers went up higher, my eyes on his face. then they found what they were looking for. he did not move, but something else did. i did not say anything. i just kept on stroking him. his face revealed nothing. after a few minutes, when i could no longer take it, i boldly asked (it was now or never, i thought. carpe diem, as robin williams famously prodded his young poet wannabe students): "you want to get out of here?"
as though he was just waiting for me to say it (he was, i found out later), he nodded his head and paid the bill right away. soon we were inside his car, wet like kittens abandoned on a deserted alley. he forgot his umbrella at the bar, but we didn't care. we were just too happy to be alone amid a strong rain. we finally kissed and had our arms on each others' bodies, now warm, now boiling, now under fire. the car smelled of wet shirts, of sweat, of cigarettes, of lavender.
&&&&&&&&&&&
the first thing i saw was his face, studying me as though i was a painting, when i opened my eyes. it was still dark outside. the curtains were open so i could see outside. the light on the table lamp beside his bed was still on. a white sheet covered our naked bodies.
"what time is it?"
he remained quiet. then i felt his hand stroking me right between my legs. wanting to wake up my sleeping little giant. it was pliant. the thing. heeding its master. after a few more strokes, it gave in. rock hard. pulsating with so much energy.
"it's one o'clock,"he said. then he started kissing me on the neck.
(to be completed soon...)
(photo of dean and deluca taken from the internet. no copyright infringement intended.)
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