{"id":2654,"date":"2013-04-24T19:43:06","date_gmt":"2013-04-24T19:43:06","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=2654"},"modified":"2013-05-15T10:38:08","modified_gmt":"2013-05-15T10:38:08","slug":"itinerary","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=2654","title":{"rendered":"Itinerary"},"content":{"rendered":"

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You don’t really stay here; a hotel is a place at which you arrive and from which you depart. When the Americans built this place with reinforced concrete and Philippine hard wood, there were still no tastefully appointed hotels in Manila. One side of the hotel faces the walled city; the opposite side, the sea. Thinking thwarts the narrative. Steep tile roofs, wide eaves, whitewashed walls. Beneath arches, bellboys would stand in attention, assisting guests who would arrive, anticipating happiness, or depart, suitcases packed with souvenirs. The opposite of anticipation is a wall. The souvenir longs for a journey. Pillows, blankets, comforters. You don’t write a story; you allow its opposing sides<\/p>\n

 
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to be revealed\u2014wall, arch, artillery, souvenir. If wines come from Italy, the bedposts come from America, the chef comes from Switzerland, the architecture is California mission style, then what is so Manila about Manila Hotel. The Japanese fired artillery at parts of the hotel, thinking the general would be in this room, perhaps that. One side faces the sunset, the other side, people at leisure, walking along the promenade. It doesn\u2019t follow that the sleep caused by exhaustion results in happy dreams. The opposite of a wall is money. There are photographs depicting the arrival of film stars, presidents, prime ministers, musicians, but none showing their departures; there are photographs<\/p>\n

 
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that show a musician underneath the arches being welcomed by hotel managers and the musician\u2019s admirers, but none showing the musician leaving, his suitcases standing by the driveway, the taxi coming at any moment, his most loyal admirers talking with the bellboys about what a splendid time everyone had. Manile\u00f1os learned about the world; they were forbidden to be part of that world; once the guests left, Manile\u00f1os grew dizzy with immobility. There was great rejoicing when he and the wine arrived. We’ll take lots of walks and after the walks make love, at times facing the sunset, at times facing the wall. The opposite of money is silence. Capiz sunguards block the view of the sea. Distinctions thwart
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the narrative; planning thwarts possibilities. We’ll make love in my room, in a hotel room in the business district, in a room in a resort in the country. What makes a sentence luminous: the arrival of possibility\u00ad, as if it were a guest long\u00adawaited but denied passage, now finally walking through the door. The violinist looks at the pianist; notes rise up from the lobby and thwart the glint of chandeliers. I can’t settle here; I will show you the place from which I cannot depart. They blessed us with their arrival, they elevated the low roofs of our minds, so they say; we called it an invasion, the opposite of music. The bombed colonial buildings on one side, the gutted Spanish\u00ad-style houses on the other. We
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remember him because he is a statue, because he was the subject of a poster, because of his much\u00adawaited arrival following an unhappy departure. Kiss me in a room with a marker that says this place is a venue for big events and grand aspirations. The new is really the longing to be new. I cast a shadow in the corner of a mirror next to the chair near the dressing table by door, ajar, leading to another room: if you really loved me you would switch off the bedside lamp. A souvenir, a postcard, a photograph, hulls of sunken ships jutting out of water’s surface: relics of experience. The harsh sunlight softens after passing through capiz. This story arrived when I found time away
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from the demands of work. In the lobby are two staircases: one leads to the area for the ladies, another for the gentlemen. Thinking reinforces the narrative. A conversation is the body of the journey. In the dining room there is a statuette of a young couple dancing; the platform on which they dance turns them round and round: dizziness indistinguishable from immobility. The gentlemen\u2019s area has a haberdasher\u2019s shop, a cigar counter a smoking lounge, a reading room, a barber shop; the ladies\u2019 area has \u201cretiring and toilet rooms.\u201d Possibility of depend, interior of need. A chandelier is a monologue hanging from the ceiling: each capiz fragment is a word. After a long journey,
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the solace of bedcovers, the luggage waiting to be unpacked, the light from the television casting your shadow on the hotel wall. A photograph is what remains of a moment. This hotel was the first one in Asia to have elevators, the first to have an electronic communications system installed in all rooms. The opposite of absence is a souvenir. A window fails when it thwarts the light. The architect of the hotel also designed the General Hospital, but that is a place from which you can never depart. Manile\u00f1os were forbidden to be part of that world\u2014Americans were surprised when Filipinos had meals in the huge banquet room; weren’t they just waiters, busboys, a word is a limb of a thought, bellboys, elevator
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operators, a dream is the longing for sleep. We were forbidden to consider possibilities: they hung in the air like thwarted glints of chandeliers. Statue of a woman carrying a jar, reflection of a waiter carrying trays, shadow of a roomboy carrying luggage. Relics of history: the general’s field hat, his pipe, the chairs on which he sat, the desk on which he wrote, his inkwell. Artillery foreshadows bodies, one staircase leads to the gentlemen, another leads to the story. A photograph captures the arrival of shrapnel, the arrival of guests, the departure of ships from the bay, the arrival of the general. The hull of the pen sinking in the blue\u00adblack inkwell sea. To stay in one place means to be unable to
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distinguish between arrival and departure. A photograph reinforces the story. The opposite of a sentence is music. A story thwarts the photograph. Kiss me beneath the chandelier, before the bellboys look and thwart the possibility of desire. The children would climb up the trees to peep on the guests, who stayed in rooms on the second floor, as they made love. You don\u2019t end a story; you let its conclusion arrive like a guest anticipating happiness. Explosions make shrapnel arrive faster. Photographs of rooms we’ve never been in: a closet from which hang gowns made of parachute silk, a view of the bay from which hulls of sunken ships jut out, rattan chairs,
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canopies over beds, a solid state television set, a statue of a woman carrying a jar. Failure of a window: its inability to frame the sea. The architect of the hotel also designed the Paco station, where trains\u2014the opposite of carabaos\u2014arrive and depart. Looking at pictures of rooms, I reconstruct your absence. A souvenir frames the journey. Towels, bathrobes, mirrors. The rooms themselves don’t matter\u2014we were never there\u2014but by looking at the photographs as if they contained traces of their occupants, I infer, however faintly, your presence. Memories are possibilities longing for their bodies. An arrival contains its departure the way a suitcase contains its shadow. A plan thwarts the plot.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Author\u2019s note: \u201cItinerary\u201d is forthcoming\u2014in a slightly different form\u2014in Check-In Fiction
\n(ed. Angelo V. Suarez), an anthology commemorating the centenary of Manila Hotel.<\/h5>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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