Generation X, Part 2

 

I had my eye on her since she first attended a film showing at the old Instituto Cervantes in Leon Guinto in Manila. It was on the third week that I took a chance and approached her as she was sitting idly on a bench under a huge mango tree one summer evening.

“So, how’d you like, ‘Como Agua Para Chocolate?”

--“It was okay. I like the sensuality.”

“I would’ve guessed as much. I didn’t catch your name?”

--“I never gave it,” she giggled.

“You got me! But seriously…” and introduced myself.

--“Pia, the name’s Pia…” and she blurted out her last name.

“Sorry to intrude. You seemed like you were having a conversation with one of the bats on this here, tree.”

She cracked herself up so hard, her laugh echoed on the walls of the four-storey building which housed the Spanish cultural center where I was trying to learn the language, the culture and its cuisine. Almost every week in the summer, they would show films in the outdoor theater and you could have a beer with your tortilla de patata or huevos while smoking a purro. After the film showing, we’d usually stay for a few more drinks or head off to Penguin Café at the Remedios Circle for a jam with fellow artistes.

I bought her a beer and sat next to her and lit a cigarette. I knew the evening was going to be interesting. We had to leave after the second cerveza since the center had to close for the weekend. The conversation had to be continued at the Penguin.

We left the bar at closing time which was at 2:00AM. We walked a little bit, once around the rotunda then sat in one of the park benches for a cerebral night cap.

“That was interesting, seńor,” she remarked.

--“It was, seńorita. Will I see you again soon?”

“Yes, you will. I’ll be at the Cocina Espańola on Sunday.”

--“Can I call you, then?”

“You can page me. I’ll call you back wherever I am.”

--“Sounds good.”

She handed me a slip of paper with a 9-digit code that was standard for paging services back in the day. I speculated as to why she wouldn’t let me have her home phone number but at that moment, it was more than I had bargained for.

And she walked towards a taxicab waiting at the corner from where we were sitting. I watched her walk away and before lighting up my last Marlboro, I took a deep breath as her perfume still lingered—“Chanel No.5!” I was tipsy but her scent intoxicated me. I smiled victoriously as I walked the few blocks home.

I would page her and then she’d call a few minutes after. These were the days when “caller IDs” were non-existent so I never got her phone number ever. It didn’t matter. The paging system worked and that was all that mattered. For months, we burned the phone lines from 10:00PM to around 3:00AM the following day. I often wondered what the hell we talked about that took so long.

She called me, “sungit” for the manner in which I answered a call. I would come across as irate but it was just how I am. I tried to make every conversation business-like or an intellectual discourse. I enjoyed her company immensely but for some reason, we never turned romantic but we did talk about sex a lot, in an academic fashion, rather than as innuendo.

As early as the 1990s, we knew that future generations were going to be hopeless. Technology was evolving. The old ways were giving in to the new and life was getting more complicated just as our relationship was. We actually talked about going to bed with each other and the idea excited us both but we never really acted on our desires. In fact, we never really talked much after having “phone sex” late one evening when the house was quiet and everyone else was off to bed.  

I cannot describe how that felt other than to say, it was interesting.

A week after that, she would totally disappear from my life. I still attended film screenings every Thursday night and cooking classes on Sunday mornings but she never showed up. We were never a couple but I felt a sadness I could not explain. I felt like we’ve broken up long before we even got hitched.

It took me several weeks to get over her. Nursing a beer and cigarette under the huge mango tree where I found her the year before. I knew I’d never see her again.