“Almost at the Koridor de López. Await the signal.”
The boy sat swinging his feet, as he stared off into the distance. The tram swayed from side to side, while his mama slept soundly. His papa Li sat in the opposite seat and watched the busy streets pass by.
Tram cars passed by, every few minutes. Some passengers waved to each other as they rode the rails. Others just sat in silence, reading books. Some even played board games, or cards.
The boy looked at the other passengers and sighed. In the rows in front and behind them, were people in suits and ties.
"We should've taken a buggy." Li looked at the boy's mama sleeping next to him. "Yaya, we're late. The meeting at the hôtel's at two."
His papa pulled down his feodora and rubbed his forehead.
"But if you wanted to show Escaramanga the scenic ride, maybe it isn't so bad."
Clean sandstone tables. The scent of Buhang cuisine in the air. The clinking of silverware and plates. Jorge felt a sudden chill run down his spine. He peeked his head and noticed a long line of diners waiting for their turn to be seated.
"Can I have a table for two?" The young lady nodded as she led him to one of the empty tables.
They sat alone in the tables overlooking the streets of the Luzokapital. People bustled past them. Traffic lights blinked blue and yellow, while he watched the trams rumble by. Jorge looked at the menu and scanned the dishes available. He couldn't believe it. He was in a restaurant.
"Borja... I did it..."
"Borja?"
"Ah, sorry. He's a cat." He looked off at the menu for a second, and saw the young lady's light skin complexion. "You're a Z̆ongren?"
"I am not a Z̆ongren, but a Sillasaram." She glanced at him while reading her menu. "What of it?"
“Silla? The kingdom from way back when?-”
“Yes, Silla. Even though we’re under Z̆ongren rule, we are still Sillasaram.”
"I see…” His eyes darted around. There was something that he’d always wanted to do if he met an Azu or Z̆ongren. “Can I touch your hand?"
The lady hesitated, before seeing no malice in his words. She stretched out her hand towards him, and he touched it gently. The rumors were true. As he felt her skin, it was smooth as silk. It contrasted against his callus-ridden hands.
After a couple moments of silence, she retracted her arm. "Is there something strange on my hand?"
"No, no. It's just... no Azu or Z̆ongren, or Sillasaram ever comes to Buhanggilog. People like you are treated like kings and queens here."
The waiter came, and they placed their orders. While they waited, she turned to him.
"What is your name?"
"... Jorge Tarique."
"Jorge. So would you care to tell me why those delinquents attacked you?"
“I’m… in a gang.”
“Gang?”
“Y’know, the three pillars of Buhanggilog. The Kamaong Batikan, Bakal, and the Occident,” He motioned with his hands, while his tongue stuttered. Jorge actually talked normally to another person? “The three currently hate each other, and that’s why the Bakalitos are hunting for Kamaos.”
The lady folded her legs, and rested her head on her hand. “Hoh, sounds interesting. But why did you hold back?”
“Huh?”
“I saw you before. You knew they were behind you. But you chose not to do anything. When one of them started to punch you right in the stomach, you did nothing. So tell me, why aren’t you fighting back as much as you should?”
Jorge paused, and remembered. "I guess I deserve to be beaten up. Bangkaños have no place here anyways."
Their food order arrived, and Jorge drooled in all of its glory. His eyes sparkled. When he and Borja planned out what dishes to order, they wanted something that they both could enjoy. A large plate of adobo stood in front of him, waiting to be eaten. Jorge took a couple of pieces and stuffed them into a plastic bag.
Jorge and the Sillasaram ate silently. He himself didn’t want to represent the Buhang people as sloppy, even though he was a Bangkaño. When they finished, they thanked for the meal. Although he wanted to talk more, today was something of importance.
“Thank you for saving and treating me to a meal.” Jorge stood up and bowed. “But now I must go.”
“To where?”
Even though the other Kamaos told him that it was confidential, he just scratched his head. “To a Kamaong Batikan meetup.”
“Would you mind if I go with you?” She stood up and patted her clothes.
He looked at her with disdain. “Señora, but you aren’t a Kamao. If they see you they might kick you out.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not affiliated with anything in Buhanggilog.” The señora kept her back straight, and held her head high. She wasn't someone to mess with.
“If you say so.” Jorge stared at the ground, wondering what he should do. No matter what, he felt as if she would follow him anyway. “But I gotta go back to my place to change.”
Jorge and her went back to his old tent in a secluded area, seeing Borja the cat await him. Inside the tent, he took out a bag that revealed a full tuxedo. It was the standard issue for Kamao formalities. When Jorge opened the flap to exit, it was as if he transformed from a homeless man into a socialite. He had his hair brushed back, as if it had gel. Buhanggilog wasn’t the creator of chemical agents for nothing.
“Borja, you enjoying the adobo?” He grinned, fixing his collar and tie. Borja meowed in response.
The sun had slept already, and the stars awakened brightly in the sky. Street vendors took to the streets, and people hung decorations for the upcoming Piyesta of 1980. Jorge went to the main road, watching as buggies passed by. A few people talked amongst themselves. The sound of laughter echoed from the bars and restaurants.
“If you don’t mind me asking, but what is your name?” Jorge stared into the sky while the Sillasaram walked beside him.
“Hojun. Just Hojun.”
“Hojun, huh…” The name seemed familiar, as if he heard it somewhere on the radio.
“The Piyesta de Kadayawan is almost here.” Hojun looked at the festive décor over the awnings and street lights. “Looking forward to it?”
“... It’s a waste of time.”
She looked at him, while he turned his face away. “I understand that festivals are but a trivial matter. I wouldn’t dare press into your reasoning.”
“But… I want to press your reasoning,” He stopped walking for a moment, while the crowds continued on. “Why are you nice to me, a homeless Kamao?”
In a heartbeat she stopped as well. “It’s a Z̆ongren and Sillasaram tradition to treat someone.”
But the Laoyuang and Al-Qarakh Houses were the ones that practiced noblesse oblige, he thought. He tightened his fist.
“Then you might as well treat everyone you see here in the Luzokapital. I can’t believe you treated me, a Bangkaño to a meal.”
“That’s three times.” She held out three fingers. “It seems you like to self-deprecate yourself a lot, and it doesn’t suit you. Keep on doing that and you’ll only fulfill the worst wishes.”
He thought about it. Maybe she was right. He tried to speak, but his voice cracked.
“Sorry."
As they walked through the crowded streets, people smiled at them. Some tipped their hats to him. He noticed his own attire and how clean he looked compared to the ruffians and thugs that lived in the favelas. Not to mention, how rare it was to see a foreigner like Hojun.
The place was a dead end neighborhood. The place hadn’t been approved for gentrification, thus the buildings groaned with age compared to the newer buildings of the business district. A small alleyway led to a warehouse that made up the rear of the barangay.
A group of five men were drinking at one of the tables, and they called out to him. Others hung around, squatting or leaning on the wall. Jorge glanced at them, before seeing their faces were covered in bandanas and sashes. They wore the same style of suit that he wore, showing the uniformity of all Kamaos.
"You're just on time, Jorge!" A man stood up from one of the tables, raising a glass bottle.
"What time were you supposed to be here?" Hojun leaned and whispered to Jorge.
"Seven o'clock, señora," He answered back, covering his mouth.
"But it's already eight..."
He tried to explain to her. "Is this your first time in Buhanggilog? Everyone always arrives one hour late."
“Oh, I see…” She coughed while fixing her tie.
As everyone gathered near, all of them were not in a healthy state. Some had bruises and bandages over their faces, and others limped and used crutches. Ever since their leader, José Pérez died in the Dineh Kazaàd. No one spoke, unable to find a common man within themselves.
“Jorge… Who is the girl next to you?” A shorter man coughed, pulling down his hat. Soon enough, everyone encircled Jorge and Hojun, curious about the young woman.
