Romance of the Four Juans

Track 08

It was way too short a walk to get to know HB better, and she’s better at asking and deflecting questions than Jigo will ever be. She’s playing in expert mode, and he’s at novice level. And when she doesn’t deflect or outright refuse to answer, her replies go round and round. And the girl, once she speaks, it’s endless! They reached George’s doorstep before Jigo could even ask anything relevant. But he didn’t have the key to George’s unit and when he tried calling, George didn’t even bother to answer.

HB lets out a small laugh at his helplessness. “Wait for him at my place.”

“Then, I’ll be disturbing you.”

Jigo follows her right inside once prompted. He removes his shoes and would have been fine going inside in his socks, but HB has kindly placed an indoor slipper right in front of him that’s one size bigger than what he wears. It must be intended for Kiko’s use, he thought.

“Ei...” Jigo stops midstep, both his hands pressed to the walls, his right foot raised midair. He almost stepped on this fluffy black ball of fur that came to greet them at the doorway.

“Are you allergic or something? If you are, then you can’t be here. Nine has been all over the place.”

Jigo shakes his head. Nine, who seemed to have taken a liking to him at that instant, purred and rubbed her head on Jigo’s leg. Jigo picks it up and the cat settles nicely in his arms. His eyes wandered around the room. It’s a mess. It looks as if HB had been turning furniture pieces around the place.

“How long have you lived here?” He asked as HB disappeared inside a bedroom.

“I don’t.” He heard her answer. Then she pops right out, now wearing a headband which pushes all her hair away from her face. “I don’t live here. Man, I’m not even a citizen of this country anymore. I use this place as a crash-landing site, somewhere I can go to rest after a long flight. As far as residences go, this is not it. I take my roots from way up, right in Luzon’s tiny horn because that’s where both my mothers are from. That’s where I was born and raised until I was about four. But if you’re asking how long I’ve had this unit, long enough. Initially, this place belonged to my brother. He liked this city and treated this one like a holiday home. All his properties naturally became mine after he died, so…”

Jigo has so many questions. Did he hear it right? She said, mothers? Plural? But every intrigue passed after hearing about a dead brother.

“I’m so sorry to hear that.”

HB simply smiled, but there was that sad look in her eyes that made Jigo regret ever being curious. He pinches himself. If he didn’t, he might have gone ahead and asked her how that brother died or how long it had been since. He knows he shouldn’t risk evoking certain emotions he’s afraid to face.

“So, how Filipino are you?”

“It depends on which part of me you’re asking. If it’s blood, I have about a quarter of Filipino blood running in my veins. But I was raised by a full-blooded Ilocana teacher who used to beat my hands with a ruler and my legs with a wooden stick if I started speaking to her in Italian or any other language aside from her native tongue. She raised me with all the Filipino cultural values she deemed important during her time, that even if we lived in Italy, it’s like I still live in this part of the world. Ay, nalabes ni mama. Nu mabalbalin kuma agaron pay lang ti kayat na nu agisaang idi.”

“What?” Jigo tried not to laugh at how thick her Ilocano accent came out.

HB laughs as well. “It’s like this. People label me as a millennial for being born in that certain time period, but I was raised by a

boomer. Part of me had adopted boomer traits, so I am half boomer. I guess the only person who can validate my being Filipina is my mama. She holds the gauge. So, if people say I am not as Filipina as I claim, then the fault is on my mama. It is not my fault. She did not raise me as Filipina enough. But what did you actually mean by your question?”

“I only wanted to know whether your parents are both Filipinos.”

“Oh. They’re not. I only have a quarter of Filipino blood.”

Jigo is still confused though. A quarter? Something about what she said doesn’t really add up.

“That’s the bathroom.” HB points to the farthest door from them.

“Go shower. You can have Kiko’s clothes. They’re right here somewhere.”

“I don’t think I should,” Jigo answers, bewildered about the offer. Well, it isn’t really an offer but more like an order. Although he’s dying to have a shower right that instant, he thinks it’s inappropriate. “I’ll wait for Kuya George. I’ll shower at his place.”

“You should do it now before you get sick. Believe me, the water will at least soothe you and alleviate some of your exhaustion. There’s no stopping it. You’ll end up a sick cat tomorrow and you won’t even be able to get out of bed.”

Jigo scoffs but HB pushes a towel in his hands and shoos him into the direction of the bathroom as she peruses box after box, trying to locate Kiko’s clothes and cluttering up the space even further by doing so. Jigo surrenders. “Don’t bother. I always bring spare clothes with me.”

Naked under the running water, Jigo wonders how a girl can be so generous to a person she barely knows. He decided that he should warn her after all, never to do this for other people, especially men and even if they’re acquaintances or the brother of her best friend. It is not right. She is a girl. She should know that men might interpret it differently.

Turning off the shower and wiping the water away from his face,

Jigo thought for the first time that this is really a girl’s bathroom. It’s girly and peachy, and she has so many products lined on the sill. How many shampoos, shower gels and body scrubs does a tiny girl need? Jigo stared at it for a long time, wondering if he could distinguish the shampoo correctly from all the others beside it because some of the products had plain Japanese characters in them and he couldn't understand.

Now that he’s really paying attention to the environment, he notices the obvious Japanese influences around him. Even the shower curtain has a Sakura print. And he chuckles as he spreads the towel after his bath. It’s a nice memento of Osaka; a Glico man printed towel. He realized that maybe this is another part of HB's origin.

Jigo comes out of the shower fully dressed in a plain white sweatshirt and black sweatpants, both baggy and ragged, rubbing his hair with the towel because HB has no hair dryer. He finds the girl coming out of the kitchen with a bowl of steaming noodles with fried gyoza on the side and places the bowl on the coffee table amidst the clutter of the living room. Again, he was ordered to eat.

She was making such an effort to welcome him into her home. Such hospitality runs deep within the roots of the Filipino people and it is so embedded in the girl, even if she grew up abroad, that she just has to feed her guest, even when it’s already past midnight. So, he accepts it well. Jigo sits down in front of the bowl, wincing because of his back, and tries to settle into the most comfortable position on the floor. He picked up the spoon but couldn’t help but take his time to just look at the presentation. A warm meal, made by caring hands, will always be tasty no matter what, and should be appreciated by not leaving anything for scraps.

HB comes back to join him with her own smaller bowl of noodles along with medicated patches with those Japanese characters yet again. “Take it.” Came another order from her. “It’s for your back. It will help soothe your pain.”

Jigo looks up at her in wonder, his forehead finally crinkling.

“How do you know?”

“You just look like you’re in a lot of pain.” She answers. “Are you able to stick it? Should I help you?”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” He picks one from the pile and hands it to her.

Jigo turns around for her. She didn’t even wait for him to lift his shirt up and did it herself. “Which part?”

He bends further forward and touches the part where it’s throbbing painfully. It was not only the cold, prickly feeling of the plaster that was being pasted but also her warm fingertips that brought him out on the verge of dying from the pain. He hears her take a deep breath and turns sharply only to find her with her eyes closed. When they opened, she grins right at him, showing her manmade dimples. “Ah~ You smell like me.”