Desafinado: Slightly Out of Tune - 18. Grow As We Go

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CHAPTER 18: GROW AS WE GO

A month had passed since Albert stayed with me. He sometimes hangs out at the H.M.S. office here in Limangpulo while I’m there working. It’s a small space with four office tables, filing cabinets, a dining area in the back, and his favourite section, the table with a flat-screen hanging across a wall. Often watching his teleseryes in that cubicle, I spent my days behind my laptop dealing with clients, banks, investors, and other persons of interest related to the business.

At first, Kulas and Mariel didn’t say a word. His presence was foreign to them, looking like it was a bring-your-boyfriend-to-the-office day. When the two of them would speak with their eyes, I sometimes joined in.

One afternoon, Mariel was glancing at Albert, tinkering with a broken watch he’d gotten from the lost and found aisle. She pulled her eyebrows together and peered at Kulas, who was having a glimpse at Albert. Kulas nodded, then gazed at me as I glanced at Mariel, who stared at Albert, who urged me to ask the busy man, "What are you doing there?"

"I fixed it!" he said. He looked at the three of us. We gazed at each other, befuddled. "If no one picks this up in a week, then this watch belongs to me, right?"

"Yes," said Mariel. "Where did you learn how to fix watches?"

"My father. He owns a watch repair shop in Vauxhall. I used to hang around there the whole day while studying."

She stood up, went to the back of the kitchen, and brought him a gadget. "Do you think you can fix this? This seems to be the latest model. This iPad has been here for over a month. Wanna try?"

"Ok," said Albert, looking confident. Two hours later, he was done. "Fixed it. This just needs a working internal battery, but you can still charge it."

"Oh my god! I now have an iPad!" screamed Mariel out of delight. "Thanks friend."

"You’re welcome."

Kulas wasn’t having it. "You ah. It’s like you’re not getting paid enap here that you can’t appord to buy an iPad of your own. You’re embarrassing."

Mariel frowned as she returned to her seat and hid the iPad inside her desk. "Who’s going to use this kuya Kulas? It’s not like we can return it to the customers who left it."

"Don’t be like that. You just bought a car last week. Don’t be very kuripot," (stingy) said the old man. He went over to Albert’s table, looked sideways as if no one could see him, and said, "Can you pix dis for me, huh?" He slipped him a handheld gaming device under the table.

"Sure. I’ll try," said Albert as he winked.

That afternoon, Albert the mechanic became busy fixing things. It kept him preoccupied on the days when I was bogged down with work and managing everything. He would hear me screaming at a supplier whose delivery batch of salmon was stuck at a port in Manila and that we might have some shortage of fish.

Food was mainly the source of my headaches. Any problems arising from it surely made my blood boil. Living on an island with restricted access to every source possible meant that delivery schedules had to be kept on time. And that’s where Albert came in. He made sure that every night that we were together, I’d have a good night at the end of a bad day.

The full moon was barking in the sky, howling of its opulence that night. I was gazing at the big white circle in the sky, knowing that tomorrow, the trip to South Miniloc for the underwater diving adventure would be postponed because of the small ferry that capsized, as the boat encountered big waves, causing its bow to crack and water to flow inside. Local authorities had the entire area sealed off, which meant no trips to and from that section.

Breathing in all my frustrations, I felt an incoming migraine. I looked ahead, and Albert was sitting on the kubo’s deck, his feet dangling on the edge as he was looking up at the sky. Skyward, his face went. He was pointing at something as I called him out.

"What are you looking at?"

"To the brightest star on the horizon, the North Star."

"It’s actually Sirius, the dog star."

"Stop being a know-it-all."

I climbed up the kubo to sit beside him, and he was pointing at his lap. This was going to be one of those nights where I was treated like a prince. Untying my man bun, my locks were freed to drape around my shoulders. I nestled my head on his lap, as he held the fringes of my curls, and he began massaging my head while we gazed at the clearest night sky.

His eyes were still drawn upward, and his fingers brushed my hair. He said, "That knot on your brows means you’re overthinking again."

"It’s been a busy day." I sighed. "An accident somewhere means the diving trip’s been delayed or postponed. I've got to fix it the next morning."

"Don’t overdo it. You’re a busy man. I get it. But please. Don’t stress yourself too much. It would break me if something happened to you."

"You care for me, don’t you?"

"Very much," he said, still staring at the stars. "If I’m good to you, then you’ll be good to me. You've been very good to me. I have nothing of value to give you back in return. But I’d like to care for you, to make sure that nothing bad happens to you. It’s the only thing I want."

I raised my arms to touch his face. He had just shaved his beard, and I saw the outline of his face—he really was beautiful. Then, my fingers brushed the forming double chin just above his neck.

"You’re getting fat," I said jokingly. But in truth, he had become plumper, and I liked it.

"You’re turning me fat, feeding me inordinate amounts of food every day. I wonder why that is."

I chuckled. "I’ll make you fat and bouncy so I can roll you easily into my arms when I feel like it."

"You wish. A month of training and I’d be back to my old self. I’ll get my abs back."

I touched the slightness of his belly, bit my lips, and looked at his puckers. "Will I ever be able to kiss you?"

He leaned down and kissed my forehead. "That’s not a part of the contract."

"Damn it. I should’ve added, no sex, but yes to kissing in that stupid contract. Lots of making out. It's like French kissing kind of making out."

"Too late for that."

I licked my lips and started pouting at him lewdly. "But it’s not too late if I kiss your body. I’ll start with your neck."

He quickly stood up and said, "Damien. Stop it. What if that thing," he pointed between my legs, "becomes a problem?"

"That’s not my problem. It's yours. Come to Papa!" I started chasing him outside the kubo as he ran. He cackled and roared while being chased down the ridge. I grabbed his arm, and we rolled down the sand. On top of him, caressing his face and hearing his breath along with the gentle cries of the ocean, I placed my cheeks on his cheek. And then we fell asleep under the shade of some palm trees.

Nights like these were spent with him and me, living like we were in a fever dream. It was unreal and supernatural at the same time. I would never trade these nights for anything.

However, there were also days—days we’d both rather keep to ourselves—that proved difficult to contain in our lives. Monitoring him twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, had turned out to be a herculean task meant for a steadfast gatekeeper. I wasn’t around him all the time. And in the moments when I wasn’t there, his anxiety and depression sometimes took hold of him like a darkened friend he’d keep on a rainy day.

One morning, I was on the phone with the bank when David came bursting through the door. There wasn’t anyone in the office except me, so I was the only one who listened to his pleas.

(You have to come,) David signed exasperatingly, looking exhausted and running out of breath.

"Yep. I’ll call you back," I said to the director of the bank. I hung up the landline and started signing. (What’s wrong?)

(You have to come. Something’s wrong with your friend.)

(What do you mean?) I stood up, ready to go to Albert.

(He’s in the shower. Hurry!)

I ran to get there, racing to get to the makeshift bathroom behind the creek. There, I found Albert, naked and crying, hunched down in a foetal position as he called the names of his dead husband and child. I wrapped him in a towel, and only hoped he would come back to me.

"Albert, do you know where you are?"

"Daniel," he said, "you’re here." His words faded into mumbling as if I were him, his dead husband, the source of all his delusions. He patted my face and said, "I’m coming. Wait for me.

"Fuck. Shit. Albert." Realising the gravity of the situation, I didn’t know what to do. No one in their right mind would have the tools to deal with this. Only the power of prayer and grovelling can help in this situation. And that’s what I did. I grovelled for him to come back. "Please, please, Albert. Don’t do this. No baby, no," I frantically said as I shook him, hoping he’d return to the land of the living. "Albert, it’s me? It’s Damien."

"Daniel, we’d have to wait for the babysitter. Eloise needs her food."

He tried standing up, but I gently pulled him back for an embrace. He wanted to go somewhere to end all of his miseries. My nearest clue was drowning in the creek. The thought of it brought me to tears. I thought he was okay. I didn’t know that the coils that hold his mind could pull him back into a fit of delusion. I was so stupid. I shouldn’t have left him. "No," I said, "They’re dead. I’m here. Come back. Please?"

Moments later, he started gasping for air, and then the tears fell. As though something had awoken him, as if my words had washed over him, he held my cheeks and said, "I want to go to bed."

"Ok, ok. We’ll go to bed." I turned around and signed to David, (Don’t tell anyone about this, understood), and he nodded.

Albert clung to me as I carried him to the kubo. I was beside him the whole day and night. He slept the entire day and woke up to eat dinner past midnight as he went to sleep, ready to forget this day had happened.

One afternoon, I had a surprise waiting for him. I’d been meaning to get him a violin, and I got him a 1765 Tommaso Carcassi violin from a Southeby's Auction in New York. I waited for a week to have it shipped to the island. It was auctioned for $148,000, and I won the bid. I had no idea if the violin was any good. But given the amount of money I paid for it, it must sound at least decent.

I left the violin beside the bed. He found it as soon as he woke up, and there was a glint of happiness with the way his mouth curled at the end and the way he muttered, "Thanks," which assured me that he liked my present.

He took out the violin from the case and placed it on his collarbone. Supported by his left hand and shoulder, he began playing Variations of the Last Rose of Summer by Ernst. Not really knowledgeable on this side of anything classical, I had to ask him what he played. I was sitting on the couch, listening to him. By the time the three-minute mark came, his left hand was jumping and jutting like a bullet, nodding up and down to strike his instrument like there were three violins playing in the background. My mouth was left open by how amazing he was. He was magnificent in those nine minutes of playing that piece, given how much time and dedication he’s put into learning how to play. He was gifted in his craft, and rightly so; he was very talented. I wondered if I should get him a piano. The problem was that there was no space for it in the kubo.

Two nights later, I got back from an overnight trip to Manila for a two-day meeting to discuss the redesign of the branding and marketing approach of the resort. It was tedious with heaps of presentations, and the thing I hated the most was PowerPoint, and lots of it. Walking into the kubo, all I wanted was to shower and cuddle with Albert till I fell asleep. I heard the violin playing. It was fairly late, and he was still awake. My mouth lifted at the thought that he was practising in the middle of the night. The moment I opened the door, there I saw Albert, still playing the same piece. For the last two days, he didn’t sleep, he didn’t shower, and he didn’t eat. "Five more minutes," he said, with the bags under his eyes blackened and protruding and the jowls of his face slightly sunken.

I placed my bag in the living room and said, "Ok. Five minutes more."

"I just need to get this passage done. It’ll be done in a second."

After I’d showered, he was still playing the violin. If drugs used to be my addiction, heroin was his music. And he probably wouldn’t have stopped until his hands bled to death or he’d starved himself to his own end. I took the violin from his hands, and he resisted.

Enough, Damien! Enough! Give that to me!" I shouted.

"But I need to play. I have to play."

I grabbed the darn thing and told him, "Go have your shower now and go to bed. If I don’t see your ass in the shower, I’m dragging you there to give you one myself." Like a parent telling his child off to lay off the videogames, he stomped outside the kubo and had his shower. He slept on the couch that night and didn’t want to sleep beside me.

He certainly was addicted to feeling normal. For when he played, he was Albert the violinist, not Albert the crazy who sees his dead husband lurking around, or Albert the psychotic who has demented moments of feeling an unwavering sea of depression.

In those two days of playing, he was at his best. In the two days that he didn’t eat, it seemed that he’d lost all the weight he had gained. I never saw that his addiction would be the gateway for him to give me the silent treatment for three days. And in those three days when he wanted to be left alone, that was my chance to set things right. To finally help him the way he needed to be helped.

I scoured the city of Manila, looking for the best and most reputable clinician able to tackle his condition. I had Dr. Rodrigues fly to the island. She sported a greying short bob, a pair of glasses, was petite, and had a very soothing and calming voice. I would’ve slept like a baby if she had read me a bedtime story.

She was at the kubo with Albert, doing psychotherapy and assessing his situation and state of mind for three days. Every day in those three days, she would close the door inside the kubo, and there, they’d have their whole day of sessions discussing his history. And within three days of waiting, I was pacing up and down at the office and had walked the stretch of beach as I awaited news about Albert’s diagnosis. We were sitting in the square when she told me everything about him.

"Mr. Mathersen’s suffering from early psychosis. Some form of trauma caused this. That trauma could be traced to the death of his child as a precursor to his condition, and his husband’s accident as the source of all his fears."

"How do we cure him?"

"We can only hope that it doesn’t get worse. But taking some medication—"

"—he doesn’t want to get medicated. I was against the idea. But I think he desperately needs it now."

"I see." She fixed her glasses and said, "Mr. Mathersen has been going through therapy for two years?"

"I didn’t know," I said, sighing, as this was news to me.

"For two years, it seems, he has been in and out of clinics. He ran away."

"He did what?"

"I’ve been reading his file, and the London clinic said he’s highly incorrigible and very argumentative, refusing care and fighting authority. He’s hostile and is very dangerous."

I was frustrated with that opinion. That’s not the Albert I know," I said. "He’s not dangerous. They must be mistaken. He’s barely lifted a finger at anyone since he got here. He’s been very kind. To me. And to everyone."

"Exactly. He’s highly self-aware. His stint at the clinic must have been his way to refuse treatment. And as he was refusing treatment, in those two years, the psychotic episodes must have gotten more vivid and alive. The last note from the clinic said that they found him talking to himself." She then said, "Mr. Ellison, I have to tell you something."

"Yes. Tell me everything there is to know."

"Mr. Mathersen said that a few months after his husband passed away, he received a call from a travel agency telling him of their booked trip and that his deceased husband, Mr. Kipford, had planned on renewing their vows on the island."

I swiped my face and held my mouth. "He didn’t tell me."

"What Mr. Mathersen may have also forgotten to tell you is that... he had planned on killing himself. He had laid out a detailed plan to jump on a cliff as soon as he’d scattered his husband’s ashes somewhere around here."

"Jesus Christ, Albert," I muttered; my hands were shaking as I held my mouth, holding it tighter than I should.

"But when he met you, Mr. Mathersen confessed that I’ll quote him on this: Damien ruined my plans. And now, I’ve got nowhere to go, so I’m stuck with him. Because he was clingy, needy, annoying twat. But most especially... he’s everything I need and more," she said, with her mouth curving at the end.

"So what can we do? How do we fix him?"

"What can you do, Mr. Ellison? That is the question you should ask yourself. What can you do to help him through this? You’ve now become his anchor. And I’m certain you’ve taken this responsibility really well, for you wouldn’t have flown a therapist into your island if you didn’t take this job seriously. Don’t you agree?"

"Yes," I said. "What happens next?"

"Mr. Matherson knows very well of his situation. He even told me about his diagnosis and the proper medication to help ease the psychosis he’s been experiencing. He would’ve been a great therapist himself, if I might add. But given that he knows so much of what he’s going through, comes the arrogance that he knows his cure. And, I have a feeling that if both of you discovered how he could finally accept the death of his husband and accept the reality that his child is gone, then maybe he’ll find normalcy again. Or something close to it without these psychotic episodes happening in his life. But be warned, Mr. Ellison."

"About what?"

"Having intimate relations with Mr. Mathersen, more than I could say as a prescribed antidote, may prove fatal."

"Fatal to him?"

"No. To you."

"What do you mean?"

"You see, Mr. Ellison, doing this for Mr. Mathersen is commendable, as is his friend. But if you’re doing this because you have an anxious attachment with borderline low self-esteem and trust issues, then you’re doing this for the wrong reasons. Just... don’t fall for him. And letting him go—" She looked at me. She drank a glass of water without her eyes leaving me, puffed her sleeves, and fixed her dress, then said, "I’ve taken too much of your time. Just keep me posted if there are any drastic changes to his personality. I’ve listed the medication he needs to take in case he changes his mind. Goodbye, Mr. Ellison. Please tell Mr. Mathersen to take care."

That same day, I knocked on the kubo, hoping Albert was awake. No one answered, but the door was opened. I found him sleeping, his back turned, facing the wall. Slowly creeping behind him as my hands found his belly, I hugged him tight while sniffing the scent that had followed me all day.

"I have to take out the doors from here and in the bathroom. Are you ok with that?"

"Ok."

"You can’t lock the doors anymore." He gently nodded. I rubbed his arms and said, "Also, you are never to be alone. When I’m not here, someone will be with you."

"I understand. What else do you have for me?"

"I love you," were the words I wanted to say to him. But instead of the dreaded three-letter words, I said, "I’ll be around, I promise," as the closest thing I could say to the real thing.

The therapist said I shouldn’t fall for him. If she hadn’t told me that falling for Albert was a bad idea, I wouldn’t have known that I already had.

It's too late.

I’ve fallen harder than I should have.

Sunken deeper than I ever swam.

I’m lost further than I have allowed myself to be.

Too late…

I spent the next few days observing him. All I could do was watch him and hope that my presence was easing his mind. There was this one day when all he did was stare at Daniel’s urn. He sat in the lounge for an hour, looking at the jar. Lunchtime came, and we were both eating in silence. He stared at it like he was figuring something out as he chewed his mouth. By nighttime, I was behind my laptop doing some work.

At exactly 10:26 PM, he said, "I’m done. I’m tired of remembering Daniel. Well, that was exhausting. I can’t believe I’m getting a migraine. Let’s go to bed?"

I was shocked. He said it like he had just finished watching his soap operas. He sounded very casual. "Ok," I said, seeing that what he’d been doing the whole day was staring at his dead husband’s remains.

We were in bed when he asked, "Spoon me?" And as we were cuddling, he told me something about his past that got me smiling. "Did you know Daniel had a food allergy?"

"He does?" I said, pretending he was still alive. He pulled my arm close to his chest as he fondled my fingers.

"He got food poisoning once when I fed him shellfish. I'm not sure if it was from the shellfish or from my cooking."

"It must be from your cooking."

"Hey, I resent that!"

"You burned potatoes once."

"Fair play. You win."

"So what else did you do to poor Daniel?"

"Well…" he said.

Stories about his husband filled the room until he fell asleep. I'm glad he could get it out of his system. He slept smiling that night.

One weekend, we were in front of the kubo having a barbecue for lunch. I had a large beach canopy installed in front of the kubo, and I was roasting some prime rib. That weekend had to be special. Mainly because he has had no episodes in the past few weeks. Then he said something that got my ears piqued. He came up behind me and put his arms around my torso, squeezing me tight as I rubbed up against his arms.

"Eloise hated pork."

"Your child doesn't eat pork?" I said, looking over my shoulder as I was fanning the meat in the spit roast.

"I tried putting pieces of cooked pork in a blender, but she disliked it. I was fairly certain that my child was a vegan."

I nodded my head and smiled. "I think you’re not supposed to feed a 3-month-old baby pork mash. That’s gross."

"Hmm. I didn’t think about that."

That afternoon, we talked about how he and Daniel had been fathers. The time they’d spent with her, regardless of whether it was short-lived, was filled with great memories. Happy memories he shared, like when he told me how he and Daniel had forgotten their baby in the apartment and they rushed upstairs to get her, or when Eloise called both of them mama to what a 3-month toddler would sound like, or that time he woke up 12 times in the middle of the night making baby formula; every memory he had of her was filled with love. Every memory was given affection deserving of their world. At one point, Eloise was their world.

He’s had no worrying episodes since then. Days of waking up and being unable to eat, move, or function for the rest of the day—he’s had no lapses of that kind. If ever he did, it would be on those days when he didn’t want to talk. He would go sit by the edge of the beach, and I’d sit beside him, looking at the ocean in silence. Then I’d tell him of the silly adventures I’d had with past guests and clients, and he would nod or smile to add something to the conversation. I would tell any story to keep him distracted. And when he was tired, we would go to bed with him clinging to my arms as we said our goodnights.

In those days, when I could not be by his side, I had David keep an eye on him, taking tabs on whatever he was doing and wherever he was going. Albert didn’t mind the teenager who was constantly following him. It was David and his extreme surveillance that got Albert bothered and annoyed.

One morning, I was about to ride the chopper to head over to Manila and speak with a wine retailer who was introducing me to his latest wines he’s got from Bordeaux, when Albert and David came running towards me.

Albert shouted, "This kid is getting on my nerves! He’s like a shrub I’d want to kill and wilt and chuck into the sea 'cause he’s what... annoying!"

David was signing with his animated hands and throwing his arms. up, motioning in the air. (He was secretly planning to go to the city. He already told the ferryman if he could go today.) He then started signing with Albert. (You think I’m not telling? Sorry. But I’m not sorry.)

As soon as David was throwing his arms and moving his hands at him, Albert said, "Just because you two have this secret language I can’t understand doesn’t mean I will not speak it. You’re not the only sign language artist around here. I too can make up my own words," as he began flailing his arms in the sky like he was praying for rain.

(What are you saying? That doesn’t even make sense.)

The deaf and the idiot kept arguing, so I put my foot down and said, "Stop it, you two!" They both looked at me and stood still for a moment. "You there. Where are you going?"

"Erm—to the city?"

Feigning my anger, Albert looked like a kid who was found skipping class at school. This had to be interesting. "Why? Why are you leaving?"

He pouted his mouth and said, "Cause I’m bored. There’s nothing to do here but stare at the ocean, the island, and the resort. I wanted to go to the mall and see the land for once. If it wasn’t for this meddling kid, I would’ve been there by now."

(Oh really? I could read lips, you moron.)

Albert made a valid point. The last time we left the island was for his last check-up. He hasn’t gone out since then. I placed my hands on my hips like I was about to make an announcement. "Ok. I’ve decided. You two go to the city. You," I pointed at David, "go with him."

(But I don’t want to go to the city! There’s nothing to do there.)

I began signing back to him. (You know, he hasn’t really been to Puerto Princesa, and he hasn’t tasted Isaw and Betamax yet. I bet he’s going to love that.)

David clapped, and Albert said, "Hey… what are you two plotting there?"

"Alright then. It’s settled. The two of you are heading off to the city."

"Really?" Albert jumped at me and began hugging me. He kissed my cheeks and said, "Great. We need money." I handed P10,000 to David. This was more than enough, exceedingly more than enough—to spend a day in the city. "Bloody hell. How come he’s the one getting our funds?"

"Cause I don’t trust you. I’m sure you’ll get a puppy or an iguana with that kind of money."

David stuck his tongue out and signed, (Serves you right.)

"But I love puppies."

That night, I returned to the island tired and exhausted. I just wanted to get home, grab a beer, and sit down on the couch to relax. Then I thought of Albert, and everything I’d just imagined went down the drain. Things haven’t really turned out the way I envisioned them to be, especially when he’s around. But I’d rather have that energy than a boring day without him. I grinned and shook my head as I climbed the stairs to the kubo. Then there was fighting. Noises of grunting and things smashing echoed outside the kubo. I opened the door and saw Albert and David, in an Indian seat sitting close to the television, duking it out on the PlayStation 4. They didn’t see me or refused to see me. I tossed my briefcase on the couch, lifted my foot on the stool, and sat on the lounge.

"You got yourselves a Ps4?"

"I sold the watch and bought this secondhand," he said, while I loosened my tie.

He noticed I was having trouble with my tie. He rose and sat on my lap, untying the knot. "You planned this?" I asked.

He nodded. "The kid looked bored following me all day. I thought he needed something to pass the time."

He then gazed at me and kissed my cheek. I asked, "So, did you have a good day?"

"Yes, we did. Thank you for that." He smiled and said, "Welcome home, darling."

"Where did that come from?" I wondered as I stared at him, dumbstruck and grinning up at my ears. "You’ve never said that to me before. This is new."

"Seems about right. I’ve never seen you wear anything formal either. You coming home after a hard day’s work just seemed normal. Right, darling?"

"Stop," I said, covering my ears. My heart was about to burst when he said it.

"Darling, darling, darling, darling… you, sir, are my chosen darling."

I was holding his feet and playing with his toes when I asked, "So what do you want me to call you then? How about babe?"

"Unscrupulously generic."

"That’s harsh. Ok. How about, sweety?"

"I’m not ten, darling."

"Alright. Calm down. No angry darling, ok." I bopped his nose and suggested, "How about buddy?"

He was fondling the hairs that stuck out of my polo shirt and said, "Can I… punch your face? Why not go all the way and call me bro, or bruv."

"Maybe not that. But what if I call you with something that I can’t live without?"

"What is it?"

"Mon coeur."

"What does it mean?"

"My heart. Cause you’re my heart."

As our eyes were locked in a gaze, his mouth pushed forward. I was waiting for him to land the prize in my mouth so I could lap up my victory and enjoy the moment. But tonight wasn’t that night. He pulled back, half-smiled, held my face, then said, "I would like that. I would really like that."

"Tu sens le paradis, mon coeur."

"Bloody hell… this French is making me feel all kinds of things in my stomach." I could take a shot of that smile, have it printed, and store it in a picture frame in my office. "What does it say?"

"I’m not telling. Je veux t'embrasser mon coeur."

"Ok. I give up. This is too much romance in one night." He stood up and went to the kitchen to fix my dinner.

"Quitter," I said, with the thought of kissing him still lingering in my mind.