Mangals

By Chris Korman

Thomas Hermann is a disorientated young man in his early twenties. He travels to a Far-East island on a strange errand, to meet his father, whom he last saw when he was a little child.
His journey into the unknown turns into a quest for identity, revealing his bisexuality and unquenchable thirst for love and belonging, amidst a series of events over which he has little control.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Korman
• Release date: Jun 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310519499

Chris Korman

I was born in Alsace, France, in 1960.As a young man, I served for the French equivalent of the Peace Corps for two years in the Philippines. Needless to say I fell in love with the country and with South East Asia in general.The novel grew on me very slowly over the years. Originally it was to be the story of the White Rajah, but as time passed, it developed into that of Thomas Hermann.(By the way, I recommend reading Tom William's 'The White Rajah' and 'Voyage East' about the 'real' White Rajah, James Brooke. It was actually reading his books which convinced me to publish mine in two parts)I have been teaching English as a foreign language for thirty years, and when I decided to stop fantasizing about this story and actually start writing it (that was three years ago), I set myself the challenge of writing in English and not in French, to see if I was able to do it. It has been a long and arduous process (mostly writing at night, when my day's work was done and my family obligations were fulfilled - I have a wonderful wife and two absolutely marvelous children-). I hope my book will pass muster.I am currently living in Reunion Island, a tiny French territory in the Indian Ocean.Chris Korman

Book preview

1. The arrival

2. The old fort, Tom meets Ishmael

3. At the harbor

4. At the pawnshop

5. Upstream in the mangal

6. Mangal

7. Tom meets his father

8. They sail out to Palawasi.

9. The attack

10. The blast

11. The storm

12 Muddy waters

13. Tom's musings

14. Free-diving

15. Jun's story

16. Yellow Sony walkman

17. Tom dreams of sperm whales

18. The rescue

19. Jun leaves on the Ymob Kid

20. Maya

21. The blue hole

22. Blind cigarette vendor

23. They are married

Appendix.

1. Snippets from Maya's diary

2. Maya's book. The White Rajah of Palawasi

3. About the author

The Arrival

Then the heat hit him like an inescapable, steamy landslide. Thick, heavy and sweltering. He had to gasp. Oh my! Oh my! he exclaimed, choking, as it dawned on him that this would be his world from then on. The smell of hot humid air, as if he were stepping into a hot sauna bath, suffocated him. He could feel the film of moisture spreading over his back snake-like, soaking his shirt, enfolding his body. Feeling dizzy after eighteen hours in the cold air-conditioned atmosphere of the cabin he walked out of the plane into that shockingly new reality. That peculiar smell wouldn't leave thenceforth. In time he would get used to it. He had to steady himself. The first people he saw were soldiers, armed to the teeth and edgy, lined up in the gangway, swarming all over the airport in fact. Then it came back to him: the historic opposition leader back from his political exile, forced down the service stairway upon landing, then shot point blank on the tarmac, his assassin, a convicted murderer released from jail just to do the job, immediately killed by police. Martial law, unrest, arrests, curfew. Not the best of times to come. But then he hadn't really had a choice. Or had he? Anyway there was no turning back now. The in-flight film: Apocalypse Now, didn't help to cheer him up. On the contrary, it added a little more dread to his first steps in this unknown country. South-East Asia. The land of Europe's darkest fantasies. He was coming here on a strange errand. Sent for by his estranged father, a man he hardly knew. He only had vague childhood memories, probably made up from washed out snapshots in the family album and the few stories his mother had told him and then had stopped telling him.

An overzealous pock-marked customs officer was inspecting his suitcase, looking for what? He wondered. He was leafing through the documents it contained, the said family album, his family record book, birth certificates, a certified family tree reaching back to the nineteenth century – what on earth did André need all this for? – He hadn't told him anything. A terse letter, scribbled half-hearted sympathies for the loss of his mother, whom he wrote he’d never stopped loving after all that had happened (did he really expect him to believe that crap?) and that inept request for these papers. What's more he had wanted him to sell their family house and bring as much cash with him as he could. This is where he stood now. At first he had been stunned by the letter, then, revolted, had thrown it away, only to retrieve it from the trash can a few days later and ponder over it, intrigued. What could it all mean? What did André have in mind?

His mother's death had deeply grieved him and left him numb and dismayed. She had been his main landmark while growing up, through thick and thin, beyond their bickering and later fights. Her fight against the crab. The chemo, the false hopes of remission and the horrendous, emaciating, ineluctable life-sucking descent into the final days had been a nightmare he still couldn't shake off, try as he may.

So, at least, here was something for him to do, not like someone reaching out to him, but something to hold on to, sort of. A fresh start. A return to his roots and, though he did not quite admit it to himself, an opportunity to make up for lost time and renew ties with his fathe, hopefully.

Besides the mystery which surrounded the whole thing somehow appealed to him.

The customs officer pulled out of a manila envelope the yellowing pictures of his grandparents, great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents, people he had never known but whose photos André had insisted he bring along and which he had found, together with the family tree in the same envelope on his mother’s desk. As if...

And after all what was holding him back? Apart from André, he had no family left. He had a few friends but the one who mattered most, Thomas, his best friend, had died in a car accident six months before. Another loss. And Louise, his girlfriend had walked out on him a couple of weeks ago. Another rejection. Loss and rejection. They seemed to be the staples of his life. But he had no time for self-pity.

… The sweaty official now showed him one, a jeering look on his face as if to say What’s this doing in your case?, that of a long-bearded man of a bygone era proudly posing in a weird uniform (which Tom knew was that of the Zouave regiment): his great-great-grandfather he had learned. Feeling embarrassed for not knowing himself why the picture was there, he managed a weak smile while shrugging his shoulders.

... Louise, sweet Louise, wild and cruel Louise. Louise brooked, had brooked no weakness, and he had been faint-hearted... Yet she had opened a whole new world of emotions to him. He had loved her body and soul. At times exuberant to a fault, at times withdrawn, at war with her own demons, she had been inaccessible no matter how hard he had reached out to her. Sure he had agreed to their unwritten covenant of free love and had played along at first, willing himself to suffer her other lovers, while trying hard to love others himself, to put up a front really, for his heart hadn't been in it. It had seemed to work out for a while, but his love for her had been so passionate, so intense, so overwhelming, that the green poison of jealousy had seeped into his heart and soon he hadn't been able to take it any more. She had been his everything and he had failed her. He hadn't been up to the challenge, had been no match for her ebullience. That was his fault. Eventually he hadn't felt loved in return though she professed to the contrary. So they had drifted apart, slowly but surely. For months he had lived in limbo, a lost soul, a shadow among the living. The last he'd heard of her she had changed her name for Mina and had hooked up with a scenic designer. Then he had chosen exile, had preferred escape to a life of suffering and self-loathing, watching her in other people's arms. He had dropped out of college and enrolled in the navy, burying his love for her in the deepest recess of his heart, putting a concrete lid on it and hoping time would heal his pain...

Obviously disappointed by the contents of his suitcase – Tom was to learn that customs officers had to check arriving passengers’ luggage for erotic or porn magazines which they systematically confiscated and (supposedly) destroyed to protect the population from western corruption, a concession made by the dictator to the Church, who, in return, turned a blind or myopic eye on some of his blatant abuses – the man shoved Tom’s stuff back into his suitcase and moved him on looking frustrated but added out of the blue: Did they ever tell you you looked like Alain Delon? Surprised by this remark, Tom couldn’t help feeling both flattered by the comparison – an image of the then young actor in Plein Soleil flashed through his mind – and amused by the official’s total lack of discrimination, for though he was brown-haired and blue-eyed and knew himself to be good-looking, he didn’t have the same physiognomy at all. But then maybe for most Asians, all Europeans looked the same.

... from behind! he quipped and chuckled at his joke, which he must tell every French male tourist. Strangely it affected Tom more than it should have, probably because now as always he didn’t know where he stood.

Friends? He had some, but they were few and far between. He liked his job at the restaurant, but his heart hadn't been in it for some time, since his mother had been taken seriously ill. He could easily resign. Resignation... Yes, it was some kind of resignation, tinted with understandable curiosity, which prompted him to do as he was told...

Sticky with perspiration and quite phased out he picked up his case and let himself be led to a taxi that would bring him into town without even bothering to haggle for the ride, not caring if he was being ripped off, so glad was he to escape the bustle and noise of the arrival hall. The cab was air-conditioned and no sooner had he sat down than he started shivering. When the driver closed his door, all the outside sounds were instantly muffled which shot Tom’s woozy feeling still a notch higher. He saw the tropical landscape zoom past silently till they drove into the city, followed by the wild choreography of street life that spilled over from the sidewalks into the streets of the polluted ramshackle suburbs: a muted cacophony of reckless pedestrians and motorcyclists deftly picking their way through the dense mad traffic, hundreds of people plying their trades (whatever they were) on a few square inches of concrete, food stalls galore, fruit stands, diminutive chicken-wired convenience stores, kids playing pool under threadbare awnings, young men lathering up at a public fountain, older men with rolled up polo-shirts to fight off the heat, squatting on the curb, nonchalantly yet proudly stroking their game cocks – all this and more, dizzily played out as on a giant, subdued screen, an ephemeral stage, the lights being dimmed as night suddenly fell. He checked his watch: a quarter past five. Nightfall at quarter past five! All year round, more or less, he’d read. No proper seasons either. Just hotter and more humid three months a year and no European could really see the difference. No twilight to speak of, ever, just the dark pall of night falling heavily a few minutes after sunset. Only the natives could put up with it. They knew no better. But it was quite depressing for the newcomer for whom heat rhymed with summer and summer with longer days. Hence a feeling of being cheated. Hence the nightlife. Whooping it up till the early hours, drinking the night away as it were.

***

He couldn't sleep. This was surreal. Jet-lagged, he lay on his back, not his usual self, looking up at the ceiling, mesmerized by the ineffective fan chopping slices of stuffy air. He had declined the underage girl that came with the windowless room of this sleazy Ermita hotel the taxi driver had taken him to. For a commission no doubt. Images flashed through his mind: edgy soldiers peering into the cab at each check-point along the road from the airport. The smell of rum on their breath. Then the swarm of tourists, mostly men, some obscenely old, pub crawling from go-go bar to go-go bar, on the prowl, trailing a swirl of underage-looking girls in their wake. Drunken laughter and shouts, bustling noisy muggy streets. Jostling groups of people. Being approached: Hey Joe, give me piso Joe! He was in a daze. And oh! So hot! The tepid trickle of a shower hadn't helped much, he had started perspiring again as soon as he'd turned off the tap. Two mosquito coils stung his eyes and throat but didn't otherwise seem to affect the blood-sucking insects. He'd already swatted a dozen, smearing the palm of his hand with – his own? – blood. He'd taken his anti-malaria tablet unsure whether it would work.

The hotel was noisy, with couples screwing in the next rooms, headboards banging against the paper-thin walls. Moans and cries. If only he could get some sleep...

***

He dreams of Magellan's death in Mactan. How his men and himself, landing in the shallow slimy mangrove waters in armor were massacred by Lapu Lapu's half naked men. He feels himself going down, sucked in by the sea, mud filling his mouth, his lungs, and wakes up with a start, shouting, kicking at the wall next to his bed.

The old fort, Tom meets Ishmael

After a quick breakfast in the dilapidated restaurant of his seedy hotel he took a cab to the domestic airport and boarded a plane to the south of the archipelago, still jet-lagged and covered in mosquito bites. He had hardly slept and felt lousy. The steward ended the safety instructions with a hearty: Sit back and enjoy your fright!

His slip of the tongue both amused Tom and made him wince. He couldn't help having misgivings though he knew those were mostly irrational. Yet it was a beautiful day, and from his window seat the sight of the endless string of islands below, small and big, many girdled by a coral reef embracing turquoise lagoon waters, entranced him. This was so beautiful! Now and again he was seized by a mild onset of panic: how could this big winged can of a plane he was sitting in remain airborne? He knew his fear of flying was unfounded – isn't air travel the safest way of traveling after all? – and what other fears did it hold? Besides he couldn't help wondering: What did the future have in store for him? Had he made the right choice by coming here?

After landing, he took another taxi straight to his hotel. Not an air-conditioned one this time, but a rickety matchbox Honda which hardly made it over the arched bridge to the main island – he even had to step down and walk alongside the cab for the driver to make it to the top! – Yet a further step away from the secure world he had been familiar with till then.

Just before reaching the Magellan hotel where he was booked, he noticed what seemed to be an open space beer garden strangely named Soul Parking. Funny name, who would want to park their souls while drinking beer? And what did it mean in the first place?

After checking in, he lounged by the swimming-pool, took a few dips, had a light meal, took a nap, woke up covered in sweat, had another swim to cool down, read brochures about the island's history and places of interest, and then, after the brief sunset, the dreadful curtain of the tropical five o'clock night fell on the city. Feeling restless, he dressed and went out for a walk. Outside the hotel, the Soul Parking, which had been almost deserted when he arrived, was now swarming with customers. They were the same crowd he had seen in the capital: loud foreigners surrounded by a bevy of alluring, coy young girls circling among them, some snuggling brazenly in their laps: an open-air brothel! He passed his way, vaguely disgusted, and stopped at one of the many, neon-lit food stalls round the corner that filled the street with their odorous smoke, a mix of burning charcoal and the smell of exotic food. He observed the bewildering array of skewers the vendor was broiling on a grill: apart from the regular chicken kebabs, there were skewered chicken heads, skewered chicken claws, offal and guts. It seemed they ate everything in the beast except the feathers. Poor people's fare. He bought a couple of regular kebabs which he picked at gingerly as he walked past the other stalls. It tasted good though. The street was animated, people strolling up and down the pavement, scores of colorful jeepneys loading and unloading their passengers anywhere they liked. Groups of people huddled in front of sari-sari stores to watch blaring TV shows. He was greeted by a few Hey Joe!’s: the name given to every Americano, namely every white person. He didn't mind, it was done in a friendly way. Yet the throngs of people, the smells, the noises, the sticky air made him feel dizzy again, so he decided to retrace his steps and go to bed.

That night he slept soundly. The room was air-conditioned which solved the mosquito issue, and though it was a bit loud, it muffled the sounds from the street and somehow lulled him to sleep.

He woke up refreshed and ready to meet his contact by the old fort.

So after a quick breakfast, he took a jeepney downtown in the already scorching morning air. Immediately a flurry of blurred memories unfolded before his eyes. Images came and went haphazardly. Like last night, all this was new, yet not new. Vague memories. Déjà-vu. And again this sense of unreality...

The ride was quite an experience in itself. You stepped into the gaudy multicolored, profusely chromed vehicle from the back, bending low in order not to bump your head against the roof. Then you threaded your way half crouching in the hot air between the two rows of passengers' legs until you found an empty space on one of the two plastic-covered upholstered benches on either side of the extended body, or rather until two passengers in the overcrowded truck moved slightly sideways to let you squeeze in, all the faces staring at you, smiling at your clumsiness. You heard a few predictable Hey Joes, you smiled back trying to preserve your balance clutching to the overhead rail with one hand, the other pressed nonchalantly you thought on your belt bag, while the driver, sitting askew to accommodate more passengers on his bench, zigzagged jerkily into the traffic, honking