Desafinado: Slightly Out of Tune - 5. What You Know

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CHAPTER 5: WHAT YOU KNOW

We were aboard the 135-foot luxury charter yacht, The Kabukiran. And the smaller one, The Hiligaynon, was beside our ship, rounding up its list of passengers. We were still waiting for the final guests to be picked up by the chase boat when Albert asked me, "Why are we on this yacht?"

"This boat is for the VIPs."

"Then why am I here?"

"Cause you’re a VIP. Come on, I’ll show you around," I said while carrying his backpack as I motioned for him to follow.

The sight that greeted him once we entered the stairs to the main dining hallway did nothing to take the smile off Albert’s face. The long, exquisite table, able to seat 12 people, was an extravagance set for the famous and wealthy.

"Wow. Just wow," he mumbled. "I could see that the décor in this area has been used to harmonise with the greens and the blues of the ocean. It’s really tranquil and calming. I like it."

"Someone’s into interior design," I said, grinning at his delight. "I’m glad you like it. The stockholders think this was a very expensive investment that the owner’s hoping would turn into a cash cow in the future."

"When was this ship commissioned?"

"3 years ago. About 1,500 more trips before this yacht gets fully paid."

"I’ve never been on a ship this fancy. I’ve never been into anything this fancy."

"Well, tonight you’re one of the VIPs. Your wish is my command. After you," I said, as I welcomed him to the main deck and saloon.

Rippling wall panels blended with the seashell carpets as subtle design features of the main deck, so that as he gazed inside the saloon, with the minibar on the right, the round table with the chandelier in the middle, the grand piano in the centre, and the L-shaped lounge sprawled in the space, his mouth opened wide and he said, "This is too fancy."

"Welcome to The Kabukiran sir," said the bartender manning the minibar. He poured him a glass of champagne. "I’m Carlo, and I will be assisting you with all your beverage needs and drinks."

"Er—hello."

"Why don’t you grab a drink?" I pointed at the cascade of wine flutes and champagne glasses in front of him.

"No, I’m good."

I approached him from behind and whispered, "They’re free."

He whispered back, "Bloody hell. I thought it cost 40 quid per glass."

And then his eyes were glued to the Asbjorn Lonvig and Leo Evans paintings, worth more than $200,000 each. He stared at it for a good moment. One of the American couples relaxing in the lounge, a woman wearing a fashionable summer romper and a man casually sporting bretons and chinos, gave us a once-over as they both clinked their champagne glasses, giggled, and headed upstairs.

"I may be underdressed by this," he said, looking worried. "I think I need to change.

"No you’re not. You look fine," I assured him. "Let’s go. I’ll show you the room."

We walked over to the passage deck, with a stairwell surrounded by elegant nautilus shell relief and an elevator in the middle able to transport everyone to all decks of the ship. With his eyes doing a roundabout turn of the view; he was speechless at the luxurious feel of the space as we headed down to the ensuite stateroom. Passing through a hallway, we turned right and entered one of the suites for the VIPs. There was a king-sized bed in the middle with gold and turquoise linen as a complement to the ship’s overarching theme, including a study table, a mini fridge and an accompanying ensuite bathroom with a tub and shower.

"There’s no door," he said.

"There is."

"It’s see-through. The door to the toilet, the tub, and the shower are literally transparent."

"I can see that."

"You’re not concerned that either of us can see each other taking a crap?" He pondered as he sat on the bed. "And what’s with this?"

"The bed?"

"There’s only one."

"I’m bunking at the crew’s quarter," I said as I placed his bag in the corner. "I’m not sleeping here. Don’t worry."

"I see."

"And besides, we’re only here for a day. We’ll be returning tonight."

"Makes sense."

I didn’t tell him that there’s no more available room below deck, so I might just stay on the sun deck if that’s the case. "Are we good?"

"Yep." His face was beaming. "So where are we off to next?"

"Let’s go upstairs."

We arrived at the sky lounge, where most of the guests were corralled. There were a few people already using the gym on the top deck. A man in a towel stepped out of the shower room and headed over to the plunge pool. He was one of the Swedish guests who were all crammed into the bar and the social sunbathing area. The American couple were laughing and brushing elbows with another couple from Germany, who were both in their speedos. An old gay and lesbian couple from Australia were relaxing in the aft area, or sun deck, overlooking the local panorama, with one of them soundly snoring and the other reading a book. Seconds later, the charter yacht set sail for South Miniloc, a famous dive site here in Palawan.

We headed up to the sun deck to see the view. The Pacific Ocean's expanse and the brushing wind on our cheeks made the trip more accommodating as the sun dipped into our faces. I was well protected with my straw hat, and he, for one, reminded me of it.

"What’s with that large hat?" he asked as he leaned over the railing. "You somewhat look like you’re about to ask me for a tenner. You know—the derelict homeless fashion might not be your thing."

I took off my hat. It’s partially dilapidated and old—it smells a bit funny too. I may need to have this washed. "It’s a thing. My thing. I wear it everywhere I go."

"Why?"

"A friend gave it to me. It was his parting gift before he left the Philippines to go back to America. I—well, they diagnosed me with skin cancer when I was 20. The whole backpacking trip in Europe did me in."

"I’m sorry."

No, no, no, it’s okay. They caught it very early."

"But still…"

"Yeah. It still scares me. That’s why I slather SPF every few hours or any chance I can get. My sister tells me to find a different job."

"She’s right. It makes little sense that you’re in this business, though."

I chuckled. "Yeah. It doesn’t. But I like the feel of the ocean, the island life—you know, the feeling of freedom. Most of all, I like that everything’s slow here in Palawan. Like everybody’s changing, but you’re still the same."

"So how did you get into this business? How did a white guy end up living the island life? Like, how did—you, in this ship right now—happen?"

"Do you want the long version or the short version?"

"The short one, please."

I gazed into the horizon and said, "After they cured me of cancer, I really didn’t have a plan in mind. I partied hard. Drank all day. Took drugs. Like a lot of drugs, like they were M&M’s. Slept with men and women like they were clothes I was changing into every night."

"This sounds like a Wattpad coming out story."

"Oh yes. It does. In fact, I met the man of my dreams, and he had me converted from pussies into wanting bussies."

He laughed. "No, I’m serious."

"I am. I was searching for something—a purpose."

"And you found that here?"

"No. I found it through the mysteries of our Lord Jesus Christ, our saviour."

"I’m going to slap you," he said, "hard."

I was smirking as I explained, "I’m kidding. Yeah yeah... you’re right. The islands saved me. I’ve visited the Philippines every summer since I was a child. But I’ve always hated going here. I spoke the language, but the people barely approached me or talked to me. There was this disconnect. Years later, a friend invited me to go to his party here in Palawan where I met this really cool guy. Something happened. We both fell in love with the island, the culture, and the people. But he had to leave, and I decided to stay. I had an awakening for island life. I saw my life on the islands, and so I stayed indefinitely." Everything was true, except this part. "When I heard there was an opening in this company, I—er, uhm, applied. 10 years in, and I never looked back."

"Hmm. That’s a feel-good story. I could feel my intestines warming up."

I turned around and leaned my back on the rail. I glanced at him and asked, "How about you? Like, what do you do in the UK?"

"I’m an entrepreneur doing things here and there."

"What business?"

"The business of walking dogs. I’m a dog walker."

"That’s cool," I said, confused by what he said. "You kind of have that chill vibe going on with you."

"I’m also a yoga instructor, a substitute elementary art teacher, a carpenter on the weekends, and a newspaper delivery boy—except that a 32-year-old man is doing the paper routes in a bicycle. What else? Er—I’ve also been an uber eats driver?"

"Really? An Uber driver?"

"Yeah. That didn’t go too well. One customer nicked me with £2.00, so I shoved him inside a postbox. I got banned."

I didn’t want to prod. But something made me want to ask him. "And before that?"

He then stared at me. "Before that?"

"Yeah."

"What’s before that?" he said, sounding amused.

"I mean, you don’t look like you’ve been a straggler for years doing odd jobs for you to end up in a country a thousand miles away from home."

"Are you saying I can’t afford to be here?"

"Stop redirecting the conversation," I said, with my brows furrowing.

"Ok. Fine."

I grabbed his wrist and pointed at his watch. "You've been wearing a TAG Heuer Formula One watch since you arrived on the island. That’s gotta be priced around more than a thousand pounds in your country. Plus, you sound highly educated and knowledgeable. Besides that, you can kick my ass if you want to. So you will not tell me it’s just street smarts."

"You know your watches. Touché. I have met my match."

"Yeah. I deal with rich and wealthy people a lot. You kind of get a feel for these things. So come on, tell me what you did before you became an entrepreneur of doing odd jobs?"

He folded his arms on the railing and laid his head down to rest on his arms. We listened to the sound of the yacht’s engine like a heartbeat thumping in a rhythmic fashion.

"I didn’t exactly come from a rich family. We were renting a two-bedroom apartment in Wembley Park. My dad owned a watch repair shop and my mum was a secretary. Our home in that posh neighbourhood was rent-controlled thanks to mum’s job at the law firm. The law firm owned the building. And the watch was a gift from my dad when I graduated from college. He told me he’d saved enough shillings to buy me a proper watch when I spread my wings and show the world who I was. Before dad gave me the watch, I’d been wearing this broken watch and, er—whenever someone asks me for the time, I’d tell them, oh, my watch must have broken." He grinned, and I smiled; hearing him tell me about his past made me more curious about him. Something inside me felt happy listening to his story. "Why am I telling you this?"

"Because, er—I’m a friend?"

"Hmm. That sounds convincingly logical."

"So, did you have a white dad with a Filipino mom, or is it the other way around?"

"This question also sounds convincingly racist."

I gagged and snorted a laugh. "It’s not racist, Albert. Come on, tell me. I’m curious."

"They're both white. A white Catholic family adopted me. Steve and Mary." He sighed and exhaled hard. "They loved me so much and I…" Then his face, downcast, with his eyes drawn to the ocean. "They gave me the world, and I’d love to think I gave everything back in return."

"How so?" I asked gently.

"You know I wasn’t—I didn’t, well I studied hard. I was the kid you invited your relatives over to brag about at a family reunion. Well, they bragged about me a lot, but I was humble about it. I never took drugs. Got into school through several scholarships. Had great friends growing up. Taught abstract art classes on the side. Was the President of the Chess Club. Was the leader of the debate team—Alpha Phi chapter, of course, not the Delta Chi chapter because they highly consider Einstein’s Theory of Relativity to be antiquated. Bunch of degenerate morons. I have also studied krav maga for years."

"Really?"

"Yes. For a man my size, no one would expect it."

"Why though?"

"They have always bullied me at school, but my parents always believed in a pacifist approach to talking things out. Then I was nearly kidnapped when I was 8, and that changed."

"You were kidnapped?"

"Nearly. We were at a shopping mall. I got lost for a bit. I remember a man telling me to follow him. I didn’t know what happened afterward, but someone stopped the man and my parents enrolled me in a self-defence class after that. It's very unlikely that an 8-year-old could stop a grown man. But it was fun. I enjoyed it. And I became a black belt before finishing High School. Do you want a sample?"

"NO. Er—I’ve already tested that portion of your skills, and my back’s still reeling from that. Wow! You were nearly kidnapped. I guess men always gravitated around you." He glared at me, and I laughed. "So what else did you do that no one else on this planet has done?"

"I also played the piano and, um, the violin on a professional level—I guessed the Asian in me wanted to play an instrument, although I haven’t taken up the ABRSM Grade 8 exams on the violin."

"What’s that?" I asked, since I had no clue what he was talking about, but I loved that he seemed enthused about it.

"It’s a difficult exam. If you pass it with enough A-level points, you can teach the violin. I was planning on teaching music when I retire."

"That’s thinking ahead—way ahead for someone who’s only 32."

"Yeah. I was pedantic that way. I was also planning on taking my FRSM, equivalent to a Master’s or Postgraduate degree for the piano, after I finished college. But I never got into that. And lastly—"

"—there’s more?"

"Yeah. I forgot to say, I graduated Suma Cumlaude in Organisational Psychology and Psychiatry at King’s College in London. I did all that."

"So you became an overachieving hardass."

"Yeah. You could say that I was an overachieving hardass."

I laughed aloud and said, "God, I would’ve hated you if you and I were classmates."

"The feeling’s mutual," he added, "your chiselled jawline and Hollywood-esque look would’ve kept me up all night." I glanced at him while grinning because he found me attractive. "My parents would assume you’re only with me to get tutored, because you do look dumb as a brick. It kind of makes it a fair dichotomy, if you think about it."

I started teasing him. "So if we were classmates in High School, you’d be dreaming about me all night."

"Yes. I would. But the thing is, look how you turned up now. With that unkempt hair, unshaved beard, and borderline homeless look—I’m glad it didn’t happen. My dad would’ve thrown you out the door."

I smelled my shirt in case I smelled like a homeless man as I scratched my beard. "You didn’t have to roast me like that."

"You were asking for it."

We were laughing for a bit. I glanced at him and bit my lips. I liked that I was getting to know him—the real him. I asked him something serious. My face turned sullen when I said, "What did your parents say when they found out you’re, er, into?"

"Guys? Men? Into the dick?"

"Yeah yeah—that."

"They said, if you could bring home a man to spend the rest of your life with, that’s all we want in life—for you to be happy."

He turned to the side and swiped his eyes. I could see his eyes turning red. I had to change the topic. "What did you do after college?"

He opened up his wallet, slid out an ID, and gave it to me. It was a Cambridge University ID. I stared at the photo in the middle. His smile was up to his ears. It was funny, but endearing. "You went to Cambridge?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"I was in my final year in the clinical psychology doctoral programme."

"What happened next?"

The boat slowed down as it took a sharp turn. The sound of the yacht cranked up; it lost its melody.

"I lost myself."

"How?"

"I lost him."

Was this Daniel? Questions came running to my mind. I had to piece together the clues to find out what really happened.

"He cheated on you or something? How did you lose him?" I was testing the waters in his mood to see if he’d reciprocate. My first instinct was that he might go crazy if I asked the wrong questions. But looking at him, he seemed well-adjusted, bright, and happy. So I asked again, "He broke up with you, didn’t he?"

"Nope."

"He left you at the altar.

Oh, definitely. I’m a runaway bride. Did you see my train?"

I chuckled while I surmised, asking more questions. "Ok. Maybe not that." He pulled out a ring and slowly put it on his ring finger. I wouldn’t lie if I said that I was shocked to see the ring. I was staring at it when I asked, "What the—you’re married?"

"Not anymore," he said casually.

"I was right. Did the two of you get divorced or—?"

He patted the railing with a drumroll and said, "No."

"Then how did you lose him?"

He took off the ring and raised it up to the sun as if he were studying the piece of metal and its components. With a smile that gleamed with the sun’s radiance, he put back the ring in his pockets, turned his head to me, and said, "I didn’t lose him. He’s the moon. He’s the sun. He’s all around us. He’s in the water where this yacht is placed. He’s in the sky, where the birds fly high." He began dancing and motioning around him.

"Geezus Christ…"

"He’s in the wind where the air brings carbon dioxide so that we won’t suffocate. He’s in this ring where the metal is probably fake." He bit the ring, and it bent, making me feel like an idiot for believing him.

"I’m walking away now."

"He’s in this railing… the railing that protects us from falling into the ocean. You’ve got to believe in him, Damien. Believe that he will rise! He will come to the eve on the 5th night of the winter’s solstice and save us from doom!"

"Damn it. I hate that you got me good."

"I know. You’re welcome."

The yacht stopped its engine. We arrived at our destination. "Are you heading downstairs?" he asked.

"I’ll follow."

Albert went down with the other guests, while I stood there contemplating everything about what he’d said and how it related to Daniel. A wedding ring, Cambridge University, An event that happened, and something in between escaped me. I couldn’t figure it out. There’s truth in the ring. I saw the ring mark on his finger the first day I saw him, but I didn’t piece it together until now. The ID seemed legitimate, so he wouldn’t lie about that.

So why did Daniel leave? How did they break up? What was it that pushed him to seek therapy? What was the event that finally broke him?

I was staring into the distance when my phone rang.

"We’ve got a problem, sir," said Mariel on the phone. "She says she knows the real you—who you really are. Sir, I think she might blow your cover. She wants to meet."

"Who’s she?" The phone was up to my ears when I felt the rage ringing through my neck. "Ok. I’ll see her," I said.

I put the phone down. I was livid.