Beyond the Noramania, the Ate Guy I knew

It was unusually calm and abnormally quiet that noontime in 1977 at Nora Aunor’s home in Valencia. She had called earlier with a lunch invitation.

“Ate Babes, lunch with me here,” it was Guy on a personal level — not the Superstar that the public owns. The garage was empty and as I walked towards the humongous kitchen, her back was turned to me. She’s cooking?

“Wala silang lahat, eh, tayong dalawa lang.” When I tried to help her prepare, she burst into laughter, “Naku, you don’t know how to cook. Ate Babes, sit ka na lang dyan, ako naman ang magsisilbi sa iyo. You have been so tired and stressed, always running to my rescue.”

Aba, may soup pa! The rice, still warm. And dya dya dyaang, “Heto na, I cooked laing for you. Teka, do you like tapa? Wala, eh! Nagtanong pa.” We were laughing.

How well do I know Bulilit (my term of endearment for The Superstar)?

I learned of her untimely death an hour after she breathed her last. I could not process it. I was thousands of miles away from her — how could I hug Bulilit for the last time?

Then my CP trembled, “Baby K!” he said. It’s Bobot (Edgar Mortiz) who was filming in Japan.  “The cinema died today. Wala na si Ate Guy!”

For a few seconds, we remained quiet.

Nora with the author, Canada-based journalist Baby K. Jimenez.

The crippling news brought me to several places, countless episodes, untold stories.

I sobbed. NOOOOOO! She cannot die! Fake news? SANA!

1983 at Hotel Intercon, May 21st when she turned 30. Nora advised me to invite everyone. I did. One of the early arrivals — FPJ (Fernando Poe Jr.) and Susan Roces. Bobby Vasquez pulled me to the dancefloor to boogie, Nora was dancing and half chatting with Hajji Alejandro. As we rocked and rolled, I saw FPJ trying to signal me.

“Baby, secret natin ito ha — give me the total bill later,” FPJ asked behind the bar. “Not a word to anyone (sorry, Kuya Ronnie, now I am printing it).”

Was it past 1 a.m.? “Your Ate Sue and I will also spend the night here. You and Guy should do the same.”

It was FPJ/SR’s generous birthday gift. Nora was in tears.

Was it 1970 when we were hounded by fans as we tried to get gas? We could hardly move. The driver forgot to fill up the tank.

’Twas the height of Noramania. A fever that enveloped the entertainment world like a cult. I remember what they were saying, “Nora could be merely reading names from a telephone directory on screen and still, it would spell box-office.”

How to get gas unnoticed without attracting attention in an untinted car? I suggested going somewhere farther — I tried to think how we could do it quietly then I saw the newspapers on my side. Nora was seated to my left.

There’s ‘no one like her,’ the author describes the late actress, whom she fondly calls ‘Bulilit.’

“Lie down here,” I asked her. “Lie on my lap.” Problem solved — she was inside the roll of the newspaper. “Do not move, do not laugh,” I added. We made it through.

It was almost similar when we did a big show in Lingayen. As the concert ended, the hundreds of fans refused to leave the venue. 2 a.m. and still, a waiting game. How could we leave? They were chanting in deafening proportions. Nora! Nora! Nora!

I remembered we had filming the following day and must return to Manila ASAP. I talked to the mayor. No chance we could escape the mob. Then the idea: a fire truck! Yes!!!

It was a different story when we went to the Cannes filmfest in 1981with direk Lino Brocka and company to exhibit “Bona.” We asked Lino if we both could do a little shopping before the presscon.

We entered a boutique and no saleslady wanted to assist. Nora wanted to purchase a jacket. No one spoke English. That was the time when French was strictly their means of communication. Besides, the two of us were too brown, petite, wearing not exactly stylish blue jeans. I was so pissed.

So, I asked Guy, “How much cash do you have right now?” She pulled out some, a thick envelope in US dollars. I said, take out all the crisp cash from the envelope and put it on top of the shelf near the jacket she wanted.

Baby K in 1977 with actresses Charo Santos and Helen Gamboa during the birthday party of Nora.

Photos courtesy of Baby K. Jimenez

“Dyahi,” she murmured. I said please do it, we’re pressed for time, Lino would kill us if we’re late — we’re being snubbed, too. That is, if she really wanted the jacket.

True enough, at the sight of the cash, three sales ladies outraced each other to approach us, now flashing a toothpaste-ad grin. And surprise, they’re trying to speak in broken English. Without words being said, Guy put back the cash in the envelope and we made a hurried exit. Goodbye, jacket. Outside the store, Nora laughed like a hyena and the sales girls tried to get us back in.

Nora said, “No!!!” The day after, we were at the Galleria and she was able to shop on better terms.

The curtains have now fallen. I am grieving just like everyone else. Pambansang pagluluksa. In my mind, a scene will continue to be played: That particular afternoon in Better Living subdivision where Nora laid asleep on her round bed unaware that some fans were allowed to get in, touching her head, cheeks, arms with their hankies and damping the same hankies on their own selves. A pilgrimage? A miraculous healing? I saw it all. No one like her. I feel my cheeks so damp as I type this last word.