Desafinado: Slightly Out of Tune - 3. Holiday

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CHAPTER 3: HOLIDAY

The workers have finished setting up the 40x40 pole tent in the middle of the square. In the centre was a long table covered with banana leaves that served as the table’s mantle. The kitchen staff placed the bed of rice at a particular angle.

"No, no, no. You’ve got to slant the bed of rice towards the guest, not away from them," said Ryan to one of his newer staff members. He looked clean in his chef’s uniform and sounded strict as he made sure the food presentation was perfect.

Meanwhile, I was in the square, slouching in one of the lounge chairs, sipping fresh mango juice with a plaster cast on my arm. A few hours ago, when the doctor examined me, he wanted to make sure that no bones were shattered. My refusal to head back to the city to get an x-ray and get examined was so vexing to Kulas that putting my arm in a temporary cast was relieving to his spirits, despite the fact that my arm was not really broken.

I was idly sipping my drink and looking bored to death when Ryan hovered nearby. He was rubbing the back of my head when he said, "So does this mean I’ll have you all to myself?"

Succumbing to my boredom, I shook my head. "Don’t be selfish. Everyone can have me," I said, sipping harder on my near-empty drink.

"You have all the free time in the world now." He glanced at my arm and took a seat beside me. "No more hard labour for you and more flirting with the guests."

"I don’t flirt with the guests."

"Yes you do."

"No I don’t."

He tilted his head in a certain direction. "That woman right there. She’s been asking about you since you spoke to the group this morning." I turned around, and a bunch of women were playing volleyball with friends. One of them smiled as our eyes locked in. I immediately looked away. "And that guy sunbathing?" I peered to my left, and a man was sprawled on a beach towel with his back facing the sun. "He was asking around about a guy named Damien. Apparently, there was a leak in their toilet."

"Well yeah!" I exclaimed, contesting his ridiculous claims. "That’s a valid excuse to see me if they really need something."

"They’re staying at Villa #5."

"Damn it," I said. Villa #5 is one of the VIP abodes. A personal assistant handles all their concerns—even plumbing.

"Barbie and Ken over there." He pointed to the cabana where the woman with split ends was having a full-body massage and her boyfriend was running around capturing her video. "Barbie made a request if you could be their tour guide around the island. They wanted you in their vlog."

Squirming at the idea, I said, "Thanks but no thanks. Still not a flirt though. This proves nothing."

"We’ll see once I tell them you’re glad to have your face in their videos." He then turned up with a California surfer accent. "Hi. My name’s Damien. And I’m here today as your tour guide." I grabbed him, and we both had our tussles. He karate chopped my arm inside the cast, while I tried to grab his shoulders for a takedown.

We’d have our moments like this, acting like kids. And the crew was already used to our shenanigans. But the guests—not so much. We had to stop when the girl playing volleyball was pointing at us, as Ryan had my arm twisted and I had his head locked in a vice grip.

"Ok. Time’s up, man. Time’s up," he cried. "This uniform’s new, you bastard."

"Quitter." I then released his head from my grip.

"You know what? I just realised," he said while catching up for air. "It is actually a good idea that you sometimes grace us with your presence, from Mt. Olympus down here to the land of the peasants."

I returned to my seat and wondered what he meant. "You call being stuck in an office at 24/7 Mt. Olympus? Let’s trade places. You stay at the head office, and I cook scrambled eggs for the guests."

"My cooking creations are called art. How dare you?"

"I think being a part of this trip’s a waste of time. Look where it got me," I said, pointing at the plaster cast with my mouth. "I should’ve just stuck to doing the payroll or met up with an investor or something."

"Well, not only are you a hero for saving that guest, but you’re also the poster child of this entire trip. Man, they should have a poster of your face at the welcome sign."

"It's not happening. I plan on staying anonymous."

"You don’t want the guests to know that you’re the grandson of Robert Ellison, the 7th richest billionaire in the—"

I grabbed his head and covered his mouth. "—shh. Someone might hear you and kidnap me," I said, with a hint of sarcasm.

He pulled away and threw my hand away. "Fuck off. I’ll kidnap you myself if none of you know where I live. All I’m saying is, that’s free marketing right there."

One of the kitchen staff members approached him and said, "Chef, the Lechon is ready."

He smiled and seemed pretty excited. "Gotta go. Laters, brother."

"Laters bud."

He walked out with a certain gait in his steps, while I felt down on my luck. I pondered what had happened earlier. How Albert had nearly died... his face, all blue. Getting flashes of it sent chills down my spine. I’ve been trying to block the vision of him dying, but I couldn’t. He was the one on the brink of death, called upon in the hereafter, yet I’m the one developing some kind of trauma? How messed up is that?

Dozing off in the chair, loud chatter woke me up. I removed the hat from my face and was welcomed by several people standing around me, glancing towards the centre of the square. Wiping the drool around my lips, Ryan said from a distance, "That’s why this food was inspired by my experiences in Sicily, Madrid, and Tokyo—I found the best ingredients to make the dishes I present to you today." I snorted since he enjoys bloating his own ego. And then he saw me. "I think it’s time to give the floor to the hero who saved one of our guests this morning. He courageously saved him from drowning. Please welcome one of our senior guides here on Limangpulo island, the one and only one, Mr. Damien THE ROCK Jr."

So much for anonymity. He couldn’t even get the story right. What a dick. I just woke up, and I’m already being queued to do my job. I silently mouthed to him, ‘Suck my dick,’ and he was mouthing back, "I will," as he clapped louder. I bit my lips and welcomed the people cheering around me. Still on the threshold of consciousness, I asked Mariel, who was behind Ryan, "What am I supposed to say?"

Mariel explained, "Tell them about the boodle fight, sir."

Glancing at the table dutifully prepared in the middle, the table was a feast—a feast for the black AMEX cards or for the ones who could afford it. I mean, these people are paying top dollar, so you might as well give them an introductory meal with the best meat and seafood money could buy.

There were rows of lobster thermidore; spicy Singaporean crab; squid cutlets fried with pepperoncino mushroom; Lechon or a whole roasted pig set in the middle; racks of lamb in a spicy mint chutney; several ribeye steaks of varying levels of doneness; sausages all the way from Germany and Hungary; Chinese Szechuan noodles, Indonesian fried noodles, and chow mien; five types of rice dishes: adobo rice, garlic rice, paella, jollof rice, and Yangzhou fried rice; at both ends of the table, several dipping sauces with lobster bisque as the star; with cuts of various fruits as a palate cleanser; and trays of several cakes and Filipino native desserts.

Every item on the table was arranged equidistantly to ensure that everyone had equal access to every meal. The table setup looked beautiful and fascinating as I peered at Ryan proudly. He’s always smug with his meal creations, looking cute in the way he crossed his arms, having that ‘You’re looking at the one who made this' bravado, and wearing those tight pants with that round ass.

As soon as I explained the concept of a boodle fight and how everyone has to eat with their bare hands as a communal feast to solidify camaraderie and brotherhood, some of the upper-class guests winced at the suggestion. That’s why I was there—to give them a sample.

I took a small portion of rice in my hand, turned it into a scoop, and used my thumb as a utensil to force the rice down my throat.

"Kamayan is for everyone, guys. Use your fingers to grab a hold of the food. Enjoy," I said while stepping out of line to let the guests in. Everyone started eating with their hands. And to see a group of around thirty people talking, chatting, and conversing in front of their meal was a sight to see. This was always the best part of the trip, seeing everyone enjoying themselves regardless of their differences and bullshit.

On the sidelines, Mariel handed over a plate of food to one of the workers, while bimbofied split-ends were calling for me from the furthest end of the table. I could hear the squeak in her voice as her vocal cords trilled my name.

"Damien!" she said while the boyfriend followed her around with the camera.

"What’s that for?" I asked Mariel.

Pointing at the plate, she explained, "It’s for the guest at the kubo. The doctor said he might wake up anytime."

"I’ll bring it over then." I grabbed the plate and frantically scurried off from the vlogging stalker.

Minutes later, I was at the kubo with the patient still asleep. After asking the French contractor this morning if they had installed a power grid nearby, I called in some people to have air conditioning installed. It was a spare one, lying dusty in the maintenance room. Despite the rust and the dust, it’s still magically working.

Putting the plate on the small coffee table I had asked the workers to bring in, I checked up on the patient. I took off my hat, pulled up the only chair, and studied his face as I stretched the bedsheet close to his chest.

Lips were fairly thick, plump, robust, and fully defined. His nose was thin, probably an Asian feature of him being mixed or a by-product of his other bloodline. His eyes; pretty—very pretty. Like a doll. His beard was dark and full—manicured even, unlike mine, which is long and scraggly to a tee. Then, for some unexplained curiosity, my fingers traced his jawline until the edge of his buzz cut. My eyes were stuck on his breathing in case I woke him up. His haircut didn’t match his face. It made him look like he was rugged, hard, or broken. If not for these almond-shaped eyes, his face would have been harsher. But it wasn’t. It was kind.

Then my eyes caught something. It was fluttering to a close; I was sleepy. My body has finally reached its limit, and it is feeling the exhaustion from the earlier expedition of trying to save Albert’s life. I moved into the corner of the bed. The mattress bedding wasn’t as thick as I assumed. It’s hard on his back. I’ll have a thicker mattress delivered tomorrow, as I noted to myself.

Leaning on the wall, sitting upright, I could feel his feet on my thighs. Minutes passed, and I was slumbering off with a sweaty forehead. The air conditioning must be struggling with the heat. So, I woke up half-dazed and lay vertically on his side.

I was level with his torso and thought, with half of my body submerged on the bed and the lower part dangling on the floor, there’s still some wiggle room for him to move and for me to safely not be assumed as a pervert or a maniac. Bringing up an arm to my forehead, I closed my eyes and slept like a baby.

My eyes were still closed when I heard someone breathing. The whisk of a dimly lit room welcomed me, along with Albert’s face, two inches from my own. I rubbed my eyes, and he stared at me. His eyes were wide open.

"You snore," he said calmly.

"Good evening," I answered with a smile. Discarding the intimate nature of my arms wrapped over his chest and hugging him, I panicked as I stood up. "Er—yeah. This isn’t—er, erm. Yup. Great. It was nice to meet you. Gotta go."

"I need to pee," he said, looking at me for help.

"Who? Me?"

"Never mind." He pushed himself out of the bed, lacking the strength to do so.

Turning blue from a heat stroke must have zapped all of his energy. He tried raising himself and grunted as his arms turned wobbly. Piling all of his energy so he could sit upright, I was a dull statue just staring at him for not understanding his situation. I had to help him out. He was sitting on the edge, so I brought him a bucket and turned around to give him some privacy. And when he was done, he placed the bucket in the corner.

Confusion set in as he muttered, "What happened to me?"

I grabbed the chair, scooted closer to him, and laid out the events. "You nearly died."

"What?"

"Heat stroke with mild pneumonia. That’s what the doctor said."

"Oh."

"The weather worsened your condition. The doctor said the pneumonia will take a few weeks of rest to go away."

"You skipped the part where I nearly died."

"Er—your lungs struggled to get some air the moment you passed out from the heat, so your face turned blue and your fingers turned purple. I literally had to drag you to the ocean to cool you off."

"Thanks," he murmured. He chuckled and held his chest. "Ouch. That hurts." He kept laughing and holding his chest as the pain writhed in his expression.

I stood up to turn on the light and said, "That’s not funny. You should stop laughing. Look what it’s doing to you."

You've got to admit, that’s bloody hilarious—nearly dying on my holiday."

"It’s not." I turned off the air-conditioning, then opened the windows as I leaned on the wall and took a sharp breath. "You nearly died. I don’t see the fun in that."

"Why am I in my underwear?" He asked, his eyes furrowing in my direction.

"I didn’t strip you naked," I said. "Er, I may have stripped you naked in order to save your life."

"Fair point." He then started looking for his bag. I observed him opening his backpack to get a shirt, and he could barely wear it. "I think I still have trouble lifting my arms. Can you help?" I was beside him, helping him get dressed, as he wore a white shirt and some jogging pants. "Thanks," he added, and he noticed my arm. "And what’s this?"

"I, er," I said, wondering if telling him about this would add to his worries. "It’s from a boating accident."

He nodded with a slight gesture of doubt as he pursed his lips. "Ok," he said, not sounding convinced.

"You should eat." I gave him the plate and opened the top lid, and the smell quickly filled the room. I’d forgotten that I hadn’t eaten the whole day, and my stomach was bubbling from its need for nourishment.

Putting the plate on his lap, he asked what particular food it was. "Is this lechon?"

"Yeah. And that’s some fancy lobster. Crab. Pieces of squid. Some—er, I don’t know what that is. Might be some meat, vegetables, or probably, er, bits of chicken."

"Great. You’re really helpful—chef."

"Wow. Someone’s being snarky tonight," I said, smiling at the way he played with his food as he took a bite. The corner of his mouth lifted, and his own smile formed. Yep. He liked it.

"I think you’re wrong about the chicken. This might be a fish."

"Really?" I was sure it was chicken, so I grabbed his fork to taste it. "Yeah, it’s chicken."

"Want to have some more?"

"No. That plate is yours."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"One last call."

"No. That’s yours."

"You’ve been eyeing this—come on, don’t be shy now."

"No. That’s really yours."

"Ok," he said, teasing me with a spoonful of roasted pork as he took another bite.

My mouth was watering. "Maybe just a small bite."

"Go ahead," he offered, motioning for me to sit beside him.

It reminded me of a scene from the movie The Lady and The Tramp. Both dogs were eating spaghetti, and as they were both eating a single pasta noodle near the end of that scene, they kissed. It's not much different if you compare two grown men sharing a plate. Although it’s less romantic than that. Instead of sharing, we started a friendly competition. Whichever food ends up on their plate remains on their side. And as we were about to finish the meal, he and I were in a staring match, betting on the goal for a single piece of a mouth-watering sausage. Bite-sized and ready to be swallowed, the goddamn thing was just right there, staring at us. He tried forking the sausage, but it slipped out of his hand. I stole it when I spooned the little fucker and plopped it into my mouth.

"Wow. You were really desperate," he said, surrendering his fork.

I wiped the grease off my chin. Feeling embarrassed, I thought of an excuse. "I didn’t know I was starving. Sorry."

He grinned. And then, out of the blue, he said the words that chartered a question, bringing more questions than answers. "It’s alright. You’re forgiven," he said, then mumbled, "You’re just like him."

"Just like who?" I countered. Wondering who it was, I reached for the table to get a glass of water.

"No one."

"Oh, you mean Daniel."

Out of all the moments in my life where it was symbolic to be silent as a strict measure of one’s resilience and discipline—this part, it seemed, I completely fucked up.

"GET OUT!" He screamed. "Get the bloody hell out!" Suddenly, he had the strength of a madman to push and shove me out of the room as he kept on screaming, "Get out!"

In less than a minute, I was outside, barefoot, in the cold, and shivering. It was dark and gloomy, and the scariest part was that there were mosquitoes out to get me. I should’ve segued onto the table and grabbed myself the OFF lotion before I was thrown out.

I wondered if I should leave or check to see if he was okay. Moments later, the door creaked as it opened. He got down the stairs with just enough balance. His foot waddled for a second, and I was ready to catch him if he fell.

"I’m sorry," he said, as he steadily paced his steps and sighed his frustrations. "I haven’t had my Sertraline yet."

"Sertraline?"

"It’s called Zoloft in the US."

"Ah. Got it," I said, seeing if he was on medication. "So we’re blaming the attitude on the lack of drugs?"

"Pretty much. Don’t worry. I just took one."

"Well, praise be to Jesus—we’re saved now. No more bitch fits and temper tantrums for tonight," I said, rounding up my sarcasm against his chuckle.

He walked over the ridge to look at the night view. Peering to the right, the bonfires were still raging in the square, where a billow of smoke could be seen under the silhouette of the smoky clouds covering the ashy moonlight. A very faint electronic drumming noise, sounding like techno music, whittled away in the distance as it thrummed from where we stood.

"The live music’s over. There should’ve been an acoustic band playing earlier," I said.

"Sounds nice."

"So, you want to talk about it?" I asked while crossing my arms and walking over to where he was standing as we both gazed at the remarkable stars.

The dotted skies were literally dots caked in blinking lights. Glowing, somewhat blinding, and forgiving. It was like a petri dish of bacteria thriving in the glimmering sky. Nothing’s more perfect than this: the smell of the beach and its waters splashing down the ridge, minted grass mixing in the aroma, and the chirping crickets that you either get used to or don’t give a crap about and get used to. Inhaling the air reminded me of how it used to feel when you were with someone. It was a bittersweet scent made of terrible choices, amazing sex, and edible vomit. They’re interchangeable either way.

"Can I ask you a question?" he said.

"Ask away."

"How do you say goodbye to someone?"

I’m not really the best person to be asked about seriously life-changing questions. But one thing I knew for sure was how to be honest. "You say—Goodbye. Au revoir. Adios. Verabschiedung."

"What the hell was that?" he said, chuckling.

"It’s German for goodbye." He snorted and cachinnated into a burst of full-blown laughter. "Why? What’s wrong? Verabschiedung is a legit word. I swear those tourists weren’t lying to me."

He kept laughing but settled himself into asking, "Isn’t it auf weidersen?"

"Well, the Germans are a weird race. Sometimes they have their words mixed up. Like the word for their social security system is arbeiterunfallverischerungsgesetz."

He was howling with laughter and begged, "Do it again."

"Arbeiterunfallverischerungsgesetz?"

His cachinnating sounded melodious. I couldn’t stop smiling at the way his eyes lit up. until his bodily gases escaped and he let me hear a pinch of his deepest, darkest secret. I was now the one hollering with laughter as he laughed at me. We were well down, laughing the night away for a moment.

When the hysterics and laughter died down, I offered him a gift. "I’ll help you forget him if you want."

"What is the going rate for such an exclusive service?"

"It’s free. All I want is your 100% customer satisfaction."

He scoffed at the notion and said, "So a strapping young man is off to save me from my miseries—languishing the days of making me preoccupied in order to forget."

"You’re calling me a strapping young man? You don’t look that old. What are you, 25?"

"I’m 32," he said.

"Damn. I’m 35, but I look 35."

"You’re not going to offer me sex as part of the deal, will you?"

The way he said it made it seem like I was some sort of escort or fuckboy. It’s definitely a compliment. But it’s not the only thing I could offer. And so, I had to ask him if it was something he’d like.

"Would you want that?"

"No. Definitely not."

"Then there’s no sex," I said confidently—something I’d probably regret later.

"So you just want me to be satisfied?"

"Yes. Guaranteed."

"Then let me think about it."

I didn’t want to end the night with him saying no. Somehow, there’s this voice whispering in my ear telling me to ask him if he was happy, if he was sad, if he was alright, and if everything in his life was what he’d hoped it would be. So I asked him the most honest question I could think of. "Are you satisfied?"

"No," he said, whispering into the air. He looked at me for a moment, gazed up at the blinking dots, and said, "Not yet."

"You’re definitely going to need me then."

"And when I am satisfied?"

"Our contract ends." I bobbed my head to glance at him. "Do we have a deal?"

And from his eyes, intently fixed on the stars, it came down from the heavens to look into my eyes and say, "Deal."

We shook hands that night. Then he asked me, "So what other German words do you know?"

I smiled. "Well, you’re never going to believe this..."