From the Memoirs of a Non-Enemy Combatant: A Novel Page 5

  They often say it turns the world round, and that in America it can be made hand over fist. I did it for the money! I was swayed by the necessity to pay my way, which quite honestly I had not been doing up until that point. Even though I was regularly booking jobs as a stylist, I was still living off the fat of my homeland—Momma and Dada; my two parents back home were sending me a monthly allowance of one thousand dollars. And I don’t need to tell you that in 2002 this amount didn’t go very far, considering the cost‑of‑living expenses in New York City. One needed to pay rent, eat, buy new clothes every season to keep up with ephemeral fashions, go clubbing, pay cover charges, tip, buy drugs for the after parties. I know this all sounds sophomoric, but such is the fashion industry. To make the necessary contacts and to develop an insider’s network, a large amount of time and money needs to be devoted to nightlife. You need to put in the face time. And face time comes at a cost.

  Let me here dispel the stigma of the scrappy dark illegal: the small man-child who waits in the shadows undetected while you finish your entrée. We do not all come to America with the sole intention of taking all the American jobs at a lesser hourly rate. That is a bias, a slander, a belittlement, and gratuitous! Like the fullest-blooded American, I knew that the key to my success was capital, and making Ahmed’s suits for twenty-five hundred dollars would be profit, pure and simple.

  Moreover, the earliest seeds of my passion for clothes lay in the business of suits. As a child I spent each summer working for my Tito Roño in Cebu. He was a tailor by trade. A family man. He had a wife and two adopted children from the provinces. He was also a closet cross-dresser. Once when he bent over I saw that underneath his trousers he had on a pair of women’s panties. I immediately learned that my uncle was a little special, that he was incognito and hiding something from all of us. (By no means does wearing women’s panties make one a homosexual. Yet I made the only judgment I could at that age—the same judgment my fellow classmates made upon me in the schoolyard.)

  Lying on a steel desk in front of a large industrial fan, I watched my uncle work. Each day I held an ashtray for clients who stood still in front of a three-part mirror while Tito Roño wielded his measuring tape, the one he always wore around his neck like a doctor with stethoscope. If I was to look over while my uncle was taking an inseam, I could expect to catch sight of his pastel underpants stretching past the point of no return—the space between the femur and the lower back where American college girls often get tramp stamps. Even his clients espied his little satin secret. Some of the men pretended it wasn’t there, some looked to me for guidance, some smiled and just continued smoking their cigarettes, occasionally burning me with the ash they flicked in my direction. Yet all of them returned time and again, so loyal, so admiring of my uncle’s way with suits.

  So what was there for me to like? Not much. Tito Roño’s shop was cramped and smoky. Rolls of fabric were piled into skewed towers, each one threatening to topple over like a heated game of Jenga. Even then I thought suits lacked the luster and pulse of the dress, the medium I would devote my life to.

  I did understand, however, that my uncle was very well respected. The fact that he was someone at a time when I was no one. And that we were related, of all things, and that people would recognize me, the tailor’s nephew, as I made my rounds about the city. All because of my Tito Roño, who wore women’s panties. Here was someone, I thought. And I understood fashion as its cause.

  Among some two hundred names in my uncle’s Rolodex were several politicians, once high up in the Marcos administration, as well as a few film actors I recognized. They were the upper echelon of Filipino surnames: Rosaleses, Aquinos, Cuarons, even actual Marcoses, most likely relatives of the exiled ex‑president.

  These were the high times, the years when my uncle’s shop thrived. Nearly a decade and a half later, as Ahmed stood before me with an offer I couldn’t refuse, I felt those high times return to me.

  I admit that on the evening of my encounter with Ahmed, after he left my room, I had my doubts. But any doubts about his character were overwhelmed by an awareness that I was about to make some good money. I suppose I was immature in matters of money. Sure, I had sold a few dresses here and there to boutiques back home, but I hadn’t really turned a profit. My financial savvy was stunted. And for this I blame my parents. They spoiled me rotten as a child and as a twenty-five-year-old man. So however unlikely a true deal with Ahmed seemed, however much of a pathological liar he was, I couldn’t discount the matter of twenty-five hundred dollars, the amount I was being offered to tailor the two suits. I kept thinking about the sum total, depositing the amount into my account and then withdrawing it in five-hundred-dollar increments day by day until I spent it all. It seemed like enough money to last me forever, even though it would last me only four days.1 This was the American dream thrown at me, without asking.

  I spent that entire night dreaming of ATMs scattered around Manhattan, their screens blinking at me: Would you like a receipt for this transaction? Or, would you like to make a balance inquiry? Long white scrolls of paper fluttered out of the machines and into the night air to form a light drizzle of confetti. Meanwhile, I skipped along Seventh Avenue, trying to catch the flimsy scrolls out of the sky while singing a show-tune rendition of the Wu‑Tang Clan’s “C.R.E.A.M.” (“Cash Rules Everything Around Me /

  C.R.E.A.M. / Get the money / Dollar dollar bill y’all”). On one of these receipts I saw that printed very lightly in indigo ink was my birth name (Boyet Ruben Hernandez; I was named after

  my father, Dr. Boyet Hernandez Sr., Ear, Nose, and Throat), my account number, and an available balance of $2,500, the exact sum Ahmed had offered to pay me. The ledger balance, however, was much more extravagant: $250,000 or $2,500,000 or more. It was hard to make out the exact figures in this lucrative dreamland; all the zeros ran down the length of the receipt in an infinite trail.

  I swear to you, I had no preconceived intentions besides making the dough to infiltrate the New York fashion scene.

  I considered Ahmed’s offer for all of one night, then did exactly as he commanded. The next morning I was headed down one flight of stairs to his apartment, neither in excited two‑at‑a‑time leaps nor in slow, doubtful intervals. I moved at an average tempo, calm and collected. I was approaching this new business deal like a levelheaded professional, weighing in my mind both the pros and cons: on the one hand, my neighbor—a pathological liar (but not an arms dealer, I assure you!)—on the other hand, cash, cold and hard. These were the known knowns.

  Now, it would be impossible to pinpoint my exact thought thought at the precise moment I arrived at Ahmed’s that morning. But I do remember this, a most telling action: My hand froze, halted in the air, before I knocked on the man’s door. There you have it—an outward sign of hesitation. Actions, or in this case inaction, can sometimes speak volumes, as I’ve told my interrogator.

  And how could I have turned away? To abandon my course at this stage would have been cowardly. I am many things to many people, as you will soon learn, but one thing I am not is a coward. This man was my neighbor, after all. The least I could do was conduct the fitting. Imagine the embarrassment I would suffer by not showing up and having to see him around the building after. He lived on the first floor. I’d have to pass his apartment twice daily at the absolute minimum.

  This was opportunity, as they say, and so…I knocked.

  “I was about to start taking bets with Yuksel on how long you were going to stand out in the hall,” Ahmed said. “I was watching you through the peephole.”

  Ahmed stood in the doorway in what looked like the same dishdasha he had worn the night before. The three buttons at his neckline were undone, revealing a nest of white chest hair in the shape of a large diamond.

  I actually admired the gown’s free-flowing elegance. It was airy and had a lot of movement. It somehow covered up the fact that underneath was a hairy, stinking man. This was fashion’s power, after all. To disguise our mos
t hideous weaknesses. I took a mental note of the way the dishdasha draped over his shoulders and belly and how, even though it was white, it was surprisingly slimming.

  “Come in, Boy, please. Make yourself comfortably at home.”

  I entered the foyer. Ahmed wrapped his free arm around my shoulder and pulled me in for a friendly cuddle. His body odor was rancid.

  “Are you a betting man, Boy?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Betting. Are you a betting man?”

  “I suppose not,” I said.

  “How about horses? Do you like horses?”

  “I like horses, yes.”

  “What am I saying? Everybody likes horses. I can get us an owner’s box in Saratoga. You don’t believe me?”

  “No. I didn’t say that.”

  “If I wanted to I could make a phone call and we’d be in Saratoga instantly, betting on all the thoroughbred beauties. Ever see those brunettes in their big fucking hats?” He spread out his arms to demonstrate the width. “Like this.”

  “We’re talking about the horses?”

  “Ha! Yuksel, you see what I was telling you about this guy? Yuksel. Yuksel!”

  I heard someone gag and hack and spit in the far room. Then I heard a stream of urine and deduced that Yuksel was a man. The pee came from a considerable height.

  The apartment itself was a horrific mess but sizable enough to house a small sweatshop. The four original first-floor units had been gutted to form one giant temple of disorder. Only a dilapidated wall remained as a division between two main rooms. The foremost had several large wooden crates marked FRAGILE. Now, I won’t simply play the victim of my own tale. Here was a man who I knew had been concealing something about his origins. Much more than that, he was a Muslim in the year 2002. I tried my damnedest not to give in to stereotypes, but with respect to the truth—for this is a confession—I was not at ease in this man’s home. I won’t go so far as to make accusations, but I did curiously inquire as to the contents of those “fragile” crates, and the sacks of earth that lined the walls in between small piles of sheetrock and copper. “Cedar,” he said of the sacks throughout the apartment. And in truth, yes, I picked up on their woodsy scent. It overtook Ahmed’s rancid body odor. As for the crates, I was told they were packed with art. Paintings and sculptures by Pakistani artists. “I can move anything within reason out of Pakistan,” he said, which confirmed my suspicion that he was Pakistani.

  A carpet of bubble wrap with all of the bubbles decompressed led us into the far room, the living quarters.

  “Pardon our appearance,” Ahmed said. “We’re renovating.”

  The centerpiece was a grand piano surrounded by a few upturned milk crates. In the back, next to the small kitchen area, was a bathroom visible through hollowed-out walls. I could see Yuksel in front of the toilet with his back turned, shaking off. He reminded me of a snake in a cage, a great boa. “Hee,” he seethed as he looked at me over his shoulder. He was smiling. Ahmed said something to him in Arabic, but Yuksel didn’t respond. Once he flushed and came out of the bathroom, revealing himself to me in proper daylight, I saw that the little devil was still smiling. A birth defect, I would later learn—a permanent smile that made him appear as if there were some joke going around. It made one feel very self-conscious, though in truth, he was a shy man, and moved past me quickly into the front room with his head down, concealing that demonic grin.

  “Don’t mind Yuksel. He’ll be working in there while we have our breakfast.”

  “Is there something wrong with his face?” I asked, in the politest tone I could muster.

  “He’s just happy. Come, take a seat at the piano.”

  Ahmed went to the kitchen area, where he prepared some coffee. His odor began to dissipate. I sat at the piano as directed, resisting the urge to press on the keys. Even while not being played they seemed to produce music with their silence. I pressed my foot down on one of the pedals and felt the piano’s drone.

  “I play myself,” Ahmed said. “Mainly show tunes. Go ahead, try me. And I’ll tell you if I can play it.”

  I decided I would humor him. “How about something from West Side Story?”

  He stopped what he was doing suddenly, and his face turned rather serious. It frightened me. “Dare is a place fur’uzz,” he sang. “Anyplace fur’uzz.” His fingers lightly tapped the air.

  It occurred to me that this didn’t prove he could play the song, or the piano. “Soomewheeeeerre. Soomehooooww.”

  “Nicely done,” was all I could think to say.

  “See, I told you I could play anything.”

  “Indeed.”

  Ahmed poured the coffee and brought it over to the piano.

  “Boy,” he said, “since we’re going to be in business together, allow me the privilege of your full name.”

  “I was named after my father, actually. Boyet Ruben Hernandez.”

  “It already sounds famous! As I said last night, I have no doubts about the limits of your success. You’ll go far, my friend. Here’s to you.”

  I raised my coffee, then took a sip.

  “Now may I inquire—and forgive me if I’m being rude—where you are from. Wait, don’t tell me. This is a little game I like to play. I call it ‘country of origin,’ just like it says on the passports. I will start with your accent, or lack thereof. I detect a slight U.S. colonization in your speech. You’ve learned an American English, not British, from a very early age. Perhaps even simultaneously with your native tongue. Your English is nearly flawless, but there is a slip in the pronunciation of your Fs as Ps. Only sometimes. It’s your tell.”

  I must say I was insulted. I took pride in how I’d been able to suppress my native tongue. Ahmed came closer, beckoned me to stand, and began to size me up. “Then there is your height. You’re a petite one. A man-child. But you have a big spirit. An unnameable proudness without a hint of entitlement.” He latched on to both my arms and smoothed them over. “There are your hairless arms, and under your shirt, a chest bare like a woman. Your legs are smooth too, as if you just shaved in a warm bath moments ago.” I swallowed the bitter taste of Colombian bean. He leaned in closer to where I could feel the baked air of his nostrils. He examined my face from the front and then the profile and said, “No beard, a whisper of a mustache. I know your people well. No one can say ‘puck it’ with more brio than the Pilipinos. Am I right?”

  I nodded, relieved as he let go of my arms. He patted me on the shoulders and returned to the kitchen.

  “I spent a lot of time in your country in the early nineties. Manila and the southern provinces. It’s a wonderful republic. My business takes me all over, especially to countries in economic and political turmoil. I don’t have to tell you. Labor’s cheap and the resources are for the taking. Ninety-three was my best year. I made a million dollars in Malaysia. It was very hard to do at the time. A lot of people said it couldn’t happen. But I made my million. Ninety-four was not so good. I went through a painfully expensive divorce. It dampened much of the previous year’s successes.”

  I should have stopped myself right there. I should have put down my coffee and excused myself. How could I have been so naive? For if I only knew then what I know now! That the U.S. Department of Defense does not take these things lightly. That an innocent conversation on origins could be used as sufficient evidence to be detained by the Department of Homeland Security, or as conclusive evidence of conspiring by DoD, depending on who you ask. I should have inquired into which southern provinces Ahmed had spent time in and, more specifically, had he ever been to western Mindanao (immediate red alert). Everyone knows that’s where the Abu Sayyaf Group2 (DoD-certified terrorists) rage jihad in an attempt to stake out an independent Islamic state in the middle of the Pacific. If only I had inquired, maybe I would have felt fear of this man, and I could have gotten the hell out. But I swear to you, I did not know then what I know now. According to the defense secretary’s schema, my situation in Ahmed’s living room resem
bled a known unknown—that is to say, I knew there were some things that I did not know, and that was okay by me, at the time. I saw no reason to pry into Ahmed’s business or past.

  “Sheela took the business and the flat in London,” he continued. “She would have gotten custody of the kids too, but we never had any. It was better that way, for their sake. She had an incredible lawyer, a Jew. Israelson. They called him ‘the Shovel.’ I suspect she was balling him. I prepare the paninis now.”

  I was distracted by Ahmed’s somber tone as he lamented over his marriage. He had me feeling sorry for him, and so I put aside any lingering suspicions. Instead, I turned my attention back to the piano, pressing the keys. What a simple man I was!

  Ahmed shouted something from the kitchen that was hard to ignore. “Fucking Allah of prickdom! My hand! My fucking hand!”

  “What happened?”

  “I burned my fucking hand on the damned panini maker.”

  Yuksel came running in from the other room with his head down. “Hee,” he seethed. Ahmed shouted something at him in Arabic and Yuksel opened the freezer and brought out what looked like a frozen pork butt. Ahmed smacked it out of Yuksel’s hands. The quick devil ran to the bathroom, then emerged with some gauze and a rusty first-aid kit. Now I felt sorry for Yuksel too. Even in a situation where someone had been severely burned he was incapable of showing any emotion besides glee. He must hurt on the inside, I thought, but how could he show this to the rest of the world?

  “Boy, my apologies. Why don’t you distract yourself while I bandage this inflammatory. Please, keep fiddling with the piano. Lunch will be ready in a moment. Perhaps when I am done nursing my hand I will play something for you, yes?”

  Yuksel tended to the wound, applying ointment and wrapping Ahmed’s hand with gauze.

  “Gently, stupid,” Ahmed instructed.

  After Yuksel finished he was directed to the other room once more. I watched him pace back and forth from afar, muttering something under his breath. He had a damaged soul, I was almost sure of it. The memory of this reminds me of someone here in No Man’s Land, one of the other prisoners who gets his own cage, as I do, during rec hour. This rabid dog ambles to and fro in almost the exact same manner. He’s not quite right in the head and has been honored by the guards with a nickname of his own: Retard.