A brush with royalty

It was spring and the birds were singing. I was living in a small room in a hotel run by Filipinos in Nevern Square, London. It was the break from the school term, and so I took a 14-hour journey by Scotrail to visit London.

That day I went to Saint Paul’s Cathedral, its tall and beautiful spires reaching for the sky. I also finally saw the red tulips opening their smooth petals to the sun.

A crowd had gathered in front of the cathedral. The police were even there, in their red uniforms, carrying only their wooden sticks. To my left, two Latin Americans were French-kissing. After six months here, I had been used to such public displays of affection. The day I arrived, I was walking on Charing Cross Road looking for its famous bookstore when I saw one, then two, then three couples kissing. I told myself, I better stop counting at the number of people who kiss each other on the streets, you barrio boy.

Suddenly, the huge wooden doors of the cathedral opened. Out came the Archbishop of the Church of England, followed by people in finery, and finally, the Queen.

Queen Elizabeth walked down the stone stairs regally. She wore a lovely cream-coloured hat and an elegant pink suit. My only touchstone for royalty was still the First Lady of the Philippines, our Queen who grew up in poverty before she married the young senator who would become the dictator of my country. Once, I saw the First Lady at the Cultural Center of the Philippines, which she had built on reclaimed land near Manila Bay. On her hands coiled bracelets made of the brightest gold; the rings on her fingers shone with small fires more stunning than Joseph’s amazing coat of dreams.

But here was the Queen of England, a former imperial power and owner of a world where the sun never set, wearing just a strand of pearls. A single strand of pearls. She did not have to project anything: her breeding exuded from her, like fragrance rising from her skin.

The people just clapped politely but the two Latin Americans beside me broke from their fierce embrace. I folded the map I had been studying. And then the three of us, as if on cue, began waving. Not only that, we also squealed with delight as the Queen passed before us. We must have startled her because her head jerked perceptibly, then her smile widened at us, the Latin Americans and this Latin Asian, the flamboyant Latino vibe in our souls.

But when I told this incident to my Irish and Scottish friends in the smoky Barnton Bistro pub a fortnight later, they refused to comment. They just looked away, drank their Guinness, and smoked their fags. Instead they talked about Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, whom they hated with a passion. They even invited me to attend a protest rally against her to be held in Edinburgh at the end of the month. I told them I would just help them make protest banners and placards, which is the speciality of Filipinos.

But aside from this uncomfortable silence when I mentioned the name of the Queen, my classmates were generally friendly. When winter set in, announced by a chill that hung in the air for months, I followed all their suggestions to fend off the cold. I wore woolen longjohns and several layers of clothes, thick gray gloves, and a bright blue bonnet that made my classmates smile. Then, I draped myself with my thick, yellow overcoat, an expensive Gucci coat lent to me by a rich Chinese Filipino friend. When I first wore it my classmates laughed, saying that people “over there” dressed according to the weather. Cotton and flower-printed textiles in summer, orange and red clothes aflame in autumn, and then the colour tones muted in winter: grey and black overcoats, with a dash of colour coming from a scarf made of wool.

But I answered, “Don’t you want to see a spot of sun, a bright blob, walking on campus in the midst of all these British gloom?”

They would just smile and laugh, my bright and friendly cohort. I continued going out with them to Barnton Bistro. Every night, we drank and talked endlessly until the last calls for drinks were announced at ten minutes to midnight. Until the Christmas break came, I was sampling every kind of drink offered in the bar. I liked it so much that one day, I wrote to my father who was still working in Saudi Arabia that “I had discovered the many pleasures of drinking here.” But my father, who could be roaring drunk at times but not in the Middle East where alcohol was forbidden, simply ignored my letter.

I just went ahead and drank – whiskey distilled and bottled in Scotland, red wines from the finest vineyards of France, and that old reliable, Guinness Beer, truly dark and truly potent. I needed to fortify myself from the arctic wind that blasted at me the moment I stepped out of Barnton Bistro to hail a cab that would bring me back to the university.

*

The above is an excerpt from Riverrun which will be published by Penguin SEA on 14 April 2020. Comments can be sent to [email protected]

Comments can be sent to [email protected]