Desafinado: Slightly Out of Tune - 22. FINAL - Desafinado

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CHAPTER 22: DESAFINADO

"He’s hidden bodies all across the island, I’m telling you. He’s a serial killer."

"I swear," said Albert, his head turning idly while crouching down and tapping the final peg, "if you don’t help me set up this tent, you’re sleeping outside."

We were camped up at the edge of a cliff when my intrepid wits of deduction deduced the un-deducible. "He must have hidden bodies all over this island. My tits are tingling. I can feel it."

I was behind Albert, hand resting under my chin, when he said, "So what you’re implying is that he’s been on the same boat excursion numerous times just randomly selecting gay people to murder and hide their bodies on this island? Do you know what that sounds like?"

"What?"

"Stupid. Now help me with this, Sherlock. Your genius is better used to setting up this tent than making wild assumptions that bear any water."

"You’ve got a point. That theory sounded dumb. I’ll think of something better."

Albert stood up and stretched his legs while I pinned down the tent and started hammering the peg on the soft ground.

Behind us was the stunning view of the ocean overlooking the camps set on the lower side of the beach. The sun had a different spectrum of light, ranging from ochre to almost sepia, and it looked like we were in the Maldives with the coconut huts and the coralline sands that were so fine and white that there was no way of telling we were still in Palawan. Setting up at Ngey-Ngey campsite, our final campsite, we chose the higher ground due to mosquitoes flocking to the beachside at night. Having enough encounters with those critters was enough.

Further beyond the vista, there were two colossal rocks towering on both sides as if someone dropped a boulder and placed the tip on the shallow part of the ocean to look like rock icebergs, and one middling-sized boulder, slightly tilted and flat, tossed in the centre, perfect for taking photos if you wanted to look fashionably stranded somewhere in the middle of the ocean. It looked stupid, but the guests seemed to love it. I had Albert take photos of me holding one of the huge rocks in my palm. I know. I’m basic. Don’t judge me.

Today was the last day of our 3-day El Nido beach hopping tour, filled with the more touristy spots but made more fun. We left the campsite at 7 AM and headed to Seven Commando Beach, lined with a tonne of coconut trees, docking for an hour of snorkelling and a chill session. A major case of hangover met those who partied last night. Some stayed at the beach to sunbathe. The majority of us did a beach cleanup. And the drunkards from last night’s mini-boat rave slept on the ferry.

The captain said that the trash on the islands remained prevalent, and it was a nice activity for Albert and me to bond over broken bottles of beer and empty sachets of Lucky-me Pancit Canton noodles.

When my people at H.M.S. Initially brainstormed for this tour, some smart alecks suggested having the tourists do the environment a favour by having a beach cleanup. Whoever said that this activity was fun was on crack. This was hard work, picking up other people’s trash. But it made me smile when Albert wore a dried-up coconut husk over his head, slapped his arms with dried coconut leaves, and got himself a trident from the bark of a mango tree. He flailed the pointed tip while picking up trash and singing Da Coconut Nut, or the coconut song.

"The coconut nut is a giant nut

If you eat too much, you'll get very fat

Now, the coconut nut is a big, big nut

But this delicious nut is not a nut

It's the coco fruit (it's the coco fruit)

Of the coco tree (of the coco tree)

From the coco palm family," sang Albert as he waved his trident-shaped paraphernalia into the sky.

One of the Filipino passengers who was picking up trash said to him, "How come you know this song?"

"This guy Kulas taught it to me when I heard him sing it one time. It’s catchy, isn’t it? Now sing with me. The coconut nut…"

He pointed the staff in my direction. I nodded sideways and told him, "In your dreams. No way am I singing."

His singing voice was decent—not off-key or anything. But I’d leave it to the professionals. I was glancing at him having a blast with his dancing and singing, and all the while, the surrounding people were buzzing with energy in this early morning. They even sang with him, with the tune being easy to follow. I didn’t even realise I was smiling as he sang and shook his shoulders with that husk of coconut on his head. I was biting my lips and couldn’t take my eyes off him. More than I would like to admit, I was madly in love.

Our next stop was the Big Lagoon. It had a narrow entranceway with very dramatic cliffs. We were taken onto a 2-seater boat with over 15 boats sailing the calm emerald waters. Over low-hanging clouds, the sun sprinkled its radiance with flashes of light, hopping rock per rock as we gazed up and everyone arched their necks to marvel at the rocky outcroppings soaring over the horizon. The green mottled rocks looked endless until the boat, gliding across the tranquil, glassy waters almost crystal-like, entered this slim and fraught path where you think you will not make it but you do anyway, which opens up into a giant lagoon.

Everyone had their phones out by the time we were circling the body of water as we marvelled at the intense scale of the limestone cliffs and were captivated by the tiny patch of sounds completely dwarfed by the huge cliffs, which must have been hundreds of feet high. Trees were scattered throughout the incredibly sharp cliffs, giving a great contrast to the greys of the limestone. Then, people talking and conversing muted the silence, and chatter soon filled the space with everyone recording the experience. I wasn’t taking videos of the location. I was filming Albert and Allison's segment.

Albert was standing on top of our boat, while Allison was standing on their boat, inches away from ours, as I recorded their conversation in the style of an interview.

"What would you like to say to the children of our future?" asked Allison. She moved her hand, clenching like a mic, and placed it near Albert’s mouth.

"Don’t do drugs."

"What else?"

"Moisturise."

"Great point," said Allison, matching the level of craziness of the interviewee. "That’s it, kids. Moisturise and never let dryness be your weakness. If you want to be pretty," she said, shaking her head and batting her eyelids to João who was also capturing some footage on his phone, "Make sure to stay out of the sun. If you don’t, you’re gonna die."

Albert looked directly at my phone and said, Yes, kids. Life is too short, so never wear jeggings. Lastly, never get married."

"Hey," said Allison, putting her hands on her hips and showing her ring finger.

"Unless you have sex all the time with protection, don’t be pricks and overpopulate the earth."

"Yes kids. Only get married if you’re having sex all the time. Right, honey?"

João answered behind his phone and said, "Yes babe. Lots of sex."

"And if you ever get pregnant," said Albert, pointing at the camera, "Give your child to me. I’ll take care of it and feed it chicken nuggets. And don’t be a muppet. Respect your elders, unless they’re wankers. And if they’re wankers, chuck them in the bin."

"Exactly. Now back to the station and back to you, Fran."

"Who’s Fran?" asked Albert.

"The newscaster back at the station."

"Oh yeah, Fran with the good hair." Albert gazed at my camera and said, "Back to you, Fran with the good hair."

"Can you do a backflip on this boat?" randomly asked Allison.

"I can’t."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not medicated," said Albert, bringing an arm to his hips and doing a snap.

Those who were listening began laughing, as the unexpected duo could easily start their own podcast. The two were horsing around, and Allison pushed Albert out of our boat, and they began chasing each other in the lagoon. Their energy was soon met by their mortal enemy: le hunger. 30 minutes later, they were both sitting in our respective boats, all quiet and hungry. Albert was particularly snippy when asked about his opinion of the lagoon and asked, "When are we eating? I’m starving."

I peered at Allison and slumped in her seat, complaining, "I should’ve brought a nut. A macadamia nut would do. I need food."

As we paddled our boats to the narrow stretch of the exit, João and I looked at each other as he said, "Mine’s broken."

"Same here."

Our guides had been cooking on the makeshift grill inside the ferry all morning. As Albert stepped into the splayed bamboo outriggers, the smell of grilled pork, chicken, and fish wafted throughout the boat. They gave us complimentary mojitos, daiquiris, or a cold beer to quench the midday heat. If I’m being honest, some tours gave us a cruddy sandwich or a bag of chips for an afternoon lunch meal, but I was surprised that they served us an absolute feast and blew it out of the water. I think the captain went all out, knowing I was on tour. But regardless of whether he did or did not, it was truly a lunch for the gods. And it made my chunky Albert happy.

I was eating with my hands when Albert saw me and said, "Bloody hell. Fine. When you’re in Rome, do as the Romans." He returned the utensils and started eating the fish and the meat with his bare hands, together with the abundance of rice. "What’s this?" asked Albert.

"That’s dilis with a sunny-side-up egg. It’s dried anchovies battered and deep-fried. Try it. You’ll love it."

He grabbed a handful of the little dried fish, tore a piece of the egg, took a spoonful of the vinegar sauce and drizzled it on the fish, then stuffed everything in his mouth in one big bite. "Oh my god, this is heaven," said Albert, as he could barely open his mouth while chewing. A couple of passengers became convinced that it must be easier to eat with their hands and followed suit.

Allison saw him and, with a full plate, started gnawing on the grilled pork with her fingers like she was starving for sustenance. She spooned the dried fish and said, "Ok. I love it. This is love, love, love."

Albert asked, "How about this? This looks like some fruit with cream and custard."

"That’s mine." I took the fruit bowl and ran to the bow. "Catch me if you can."

"Captain! This greedy gannet has knickered the fruits!"

After lunch, we swam back to the island and found a very shallow spot to do a couple of jumps. I wasn’t really in the mood to have my digestive tract regurgitate everything I ate, so Allison and João did us a solid and jumped themselves for a quick photoshoot. Nearby, Albert and I found a couple of logs and sat on them while watching monitor lizards race to the opposite side of the beach. Albert fell asleep on my chest. Head-leaning, with his hand around my hand, was the most scenic explanation of two men who’re in love. I have no idea how Albert feels about me… so, walang basagan nang trip pare. (Don’t spoil this for me man.)

Our last final stop was over at the Snake Islands, commonly known as the Vigan Islands. A very white S-shaped sandbar over 3 kilometres long that arced out over mainland Palawan. The islet was explorable at low tide, with green hills as the backdrop to the cerulean blue waters, which reminded me of French Polynesia and their famous atolls.

I was drinking guyabano juice or soursop juice at this palapa bar near the sand trail, talking to the South African lesbian couple, when I saw Albert sneaking into the mangrove bushes. He was supposed to be with Allison, taking photos of the walkable stretch of sand, but he looked highly suspicious, looking side to side in that hidden trail as though he were checking if he was being followed. So I followed him.

Skirting the off-road path, he didn’t take the clear route to this small shed on top of the hill. I was behind him initially, thinking he was tired and needed some alone time, when I saw tank top redneck sitting in the covered shed. I hid behind the bushes, as I was close enough to listen to their conversation. I didn’t want to think much about them sitting together that close, but damn... I applauded myself for having the restraint of a priest and not toppling his face for sitting that close to him.

"How are you doing?" asked Albert. They were both gazing into the distance, with tank top redneck looking mighty lost. He looked like he'd been staring at the same spot since we got to the island.

"I’m fine." He breathed deeply and said, "No. I’m not."

I wondered, How the fuck do they know each other? "I had to lie to my boyfriend," said Albert. "And I don’t like lying to him."

"Sorry."

"And you’re lying to everyone when you didn’t tell them how you tried to kill yourself last night."

"You shouldn’t have saved me."

"I shouldn’t have."

"Hanging myself would’ve solved everything."

"I doubt it. And I can’t have you ruining our trip and everyone else's on this tour." Albert smiled. He peered at tank top redneck, looking at himself with the genteel nature of an older brother as he stared at the ligature marks on his neck and rope burns. To the unseen eye, he looked like he partied hard. But for Albert, they were a testament to his perseverance to end things that were all beautiful in him, inside and out. "Tell me why you did it. Why try to hang yourself?" He pulled up his shirt and showed him his patched wound. "I got this from saving you. I fell onto broken potted plants when I severed you from the tree. The least you could do is tell me what was going on in your mind."

"I—er," mouthed the tank top redneck.

"What?"

"Nothing."

There was silence. For a good minute, not a single one said anything to speak up. Albert gazed at him, sighed, patted his shoulder, and said, "I have never experienced what you’re going through. To lie about myself and keep everyone in the dark, my friends and family happily accepted me for who I am. I was loved."

"Well, good for you," said tank top redneck brushed with sarcasm. "And you’re telling me this? Why?"

"But I lost my husband and my child. You don’t get to be happy forever. I didn’t. I’ve tried countless times trying to kill myself. But I’m still here. Living, or some semblance of it." Tank top redneck looked at him in the consolation that he’d finally found a comrade; a person he could share his pain with. Albert pinched his shoulder and said, "That man you see on the beach, that wonderful man, was a man I met on my way to my holiday here."

"You met him?"

"He found me. No. He saved me."

"I-I-I don’t… I think, er," said tank top redneck as he stammered his way into explaining his truth. "I don’t think I’ll be as happy as you."

Albert grabbed him by the shoulder and said, "You have to try. Even if you force yourself to be happy and pretend that the feeling is real, you have to try. Put this into your head and never forget it. You’re responsible for giving meaning to your own life. No one will do that for you. And if you can’t find anything of value to remind you that maybe, just maybe, staying where you are might spark joy in other people, find those people who will think you’re a joy in this world. Look for them. Search for them. I don’t care where they are. But you have to find them. And hopefully, someday, the feeling you’ve been pretending to have becomes real." He began writing on a piece of note he took from his pocket. "Here’s the number of a colleague of mine. Name’s Brad Ainsley. He has practise in Manchester, but he’ll answer your call as long as you tell him I've sent you. He owes me. He's very good at what he does, which is helping people like you and me and those struggling with something the world will never understand. Do you hear me?" He nodded.

Craig held his face. The tears swelled, then fell. Floodgates of truth—Craig’s truth—swept out the silence in that shed. The moment he tried to open his mouth, I began my hike down the hill. I didn’t deserve to listen to Craig’s story. What secret he and Albert shared was between him and the island and the two of them. And whatever version of hurt, agony, or pain Craig had, it was told in that shed with a bird's-eye view of the snake-looking sand trail and the nearby El Nido islands.

Hours later, the bells on the ferry were clanging just as we were heading to Ngey-Ngey Island for our final campsite. I was already at the ferry, sitting on the main deck, when Albert sat beside me. I glanced at Craig on the far side of the boat, sitting with his sister, who seemed to have her eyes musty red, her hands reaching for him as his back was turned, both of them shaking and crying.

I pointed at him with my mouth and said, "I have a theory."

"What about?"

"I think tank top Craig’s a serial killer. I’ve been thinking about this ever since we got to the beach."

"Really? Tell me more."

The next morning, the wind was freezing. I felt a chill, like a cold gust blowing inside our tent, when I yawned. I got out of the tent and saw Albert already outside, looking over the horizon and drinking his tea. Stretching my arms, I said, "Good morning."

"Morning."

He sounded like he was having one of those days. I didn’t like one of those days. Those were bad days for Albert. "Are you ok, mon coeur?"

Bobbing his head to me as he sipped his tea, he said, "This is it. This is the place where I say goodbye to him. I feel it."

"Oh," I said. "Do you need anything?"

"I’ll be alright."

I was pulling out the pegs and the latches of the tent when I turned my head and asked him, "Are you sure?"

He tried to reel in his sob, but it slipped out. "I haven’t seen him in weeks." He rubbed his eyes and placed his tea on a folding chair beside him. "It’s time."

A couple of hours later, everything was set, and we were ready to leave. The tent was packed, the bonfire extinguished, and all we needed was for him to say his goodbyes.

I was behind him at a distance to give him some space and some privacy as he stood on the edge of the cliff. He took out the urn from his bag. Slowly, he drizzled Daniel Kipford’s ashes into the sky. And as he did, his smile outstretched his face while the droplets of tears escaped to the wind. Moments later, he put the urn on the ground as he whispered some kind of prayer—a prayer for his husband’s journey to the other side. Perhaps the things he’d said to his husband could only be heard within the walls of his mind. Those walls where Daniel lived and blossomed had been Albert’s prison for years. Overcoming the harshest truth one must live with and the most convenient lie to keep, Albert, in the end, chose to set Daniel free, as he did himself.

From his pockets, he took out a locket. I saw him open it and kiss it, as he whispered, "Daddy’s with you now. Take care of each other, okay. I’ll see you when I see you, my little angel."

I’ve never been sentimental. Nor was I a big crier or a gusher for the heartfelt. But seeing Albert put the locket on top of Daniel’s urn, I began weeping, and I didn’t know why. I suddenly imagined Albert, looking old and frail, going back to the same spot to say hello to his loved ones. He heard me crying and came up to me and said, "Darling, what’s wrong?"

"You didn’t tell me you were saying goodbye to her too."

Albert gazed up and swiped my eyes. I was bawling like a child, and he hugged me. "Oh darling, don’t cry." He rubbed my back and said, "I have to learn how to be alone starting now. That’s the deal I made with them—to always have someone by my side and keep me company. Now that they’re gone, that job belongs to you."

"Ok. That’s a messed-up way of telling me you’re stuck with me and you have no choice," I said, pulling up a towel to dry my eyes.

He teased me with a smile and said, "Yes. You could say that."

"So what happens now?"

"I don’t know." Albert began pulling my arm as we headed down the path. "But I’m ready when you are."

"I’m not ready. You’re literally dragging me."

"You’re just being a slowpoke."

"What’s gotten into you?" I said to Albert, hurrying down the trail with me in tow.

"I promised Allison we’d be seated together. We can’t have that if we’re late."

"So you’re BFF’s now?"

"We are."

"Now I’m jealous."

"I don’t care. I’ve finally found my best mate."

We were at the clearing, and we could see the ferry docked and the sun on the horizon peeping to welcome the countless mornings to come. "Where does that leave me?" I asked.

"You’ll be my mate. My good mate. While Allison and I are best mates."

"That’s bullshit, and you know that. I deserve a placement higher than a stupid mate. How about a sex mate?"

"We don’t have sex, Damien."

"Hey! Not yet. And call me darling."

"Sorry darling."

"How about bedmates?"

"That sounds like something you put on before going to bed," he said.

"How about, great mate? I’m not just a mate, but I’m also a great mate."

"That is ridiculous. But it's very catchy. But you’re not a great mate." As he stepped into the ferry, he offered his hand and said, "You’re my darling. My only darling."

With a grin that could swallow me whole, I answered, "I’ll take that."

And with it, our adventure continues on...