“We in it shall be remembered; We few, we happy few, we band of sisters.” (Shakespeare, Henry V)

I spotted him hanging in the shadows of the convent on the other side of Governor Forbes Street. He was about twelve. He had the dark skin and black hair of a Mestizo, and his eyes reflected every streetwise trick a Filipino urchin needed to survive.

He had a burro with him. It was a little animal. Perhaps three-and-a-half feet tall at the shoulders. The kid called it Ranúnculo, which means Buttercup in English - it was an odd name. Still, the creature seemed just as larcenous as its owner.

The boy hung back innocently as we Anglos gathered at the wrought iron fence. I gave him a slight nod, and he detached himself from the shadows and strolled to join the gaggle of Filipinos on the other side. The Japs had hung bamboo mats on the fence to block the interaction between our two groups. Which worked for perhaps a day before convenient holes began to appear.

The heat was getting oppressive, meaning it was a typical June day in Manila. The humidity hovered around one hundred percent, and my ratty shirt was soaked. A little bit of time passed. Then, the kid abruptly turned toward me and said, “Senor?” The coast was clear.

I looked around furtively. Nobody on either side of the fence was watching. So, I poked a genuine American dollar bill through the fence. It was wrapped around a rolled-up piece of paper. I said, “Make sure this gets to Mr. Adevoso personally.”

He gave me a slight nod, which was far too adult, and strolled back to where Buttercup was grazing on the grass growing between the cracks in the pavement. He mounted the little beast bareback, legs dangling, and clip-clopped off down the street toward the Pasig Bridge.

I was sure that my note would get to the right person. The Japanese occupiers might be vigilant. But the Filipino resistance was everywhere. My only worry was that someday the Japs might figure out who’d been writing the notes.

Grandpa arrived in the Philippines as a private with the First Nebraska Infantry. That was in 1898. He served under Otis and then McArthur, Senior, while we “persuaded” the Spanish to vacate the premises and the native Tagalogs to let us stay. I had Tagalog friends who saw that as more of a conquest.

Gramps decided he preferred Manila’s heat and humidity to Ogalala’s blizzards. So, when he mustered out, he used his Army connections to set up an import/export business. That business grew as the Philippines became the lynchpin of America’s Far East strategy. Thus, by the time my dad took over in ‘29 ... Grayson & Son was the leading importer of materials for the U.S. military - and we had the mansion up on Makati to prove it.

I got an MD from the University of the Philippines in 1938. So, I was technically a medical doctor. But I never intended to practice medicine. What did I care? My family was filthy rich. The only reason I’d spent all those years in school was to keep my dad off my back.

He’d wanted me to join the firm right out of prepping at the Colegio de San Juan de Letran school. But that would require me to show up at work every day, which would have gotten in the way of my fun. So I became a professional student.

Yes – I’ll admit it ... I might have been smart, but I was extremely shallow. On the other hand, the rest of my peers were just as bad as I was. In fact, we were universally useless, an over-entitled, spoiled-rotten bunch of rich kids with more money than brains or morals. Still, we were having one hell of a good time.

Manila was an exciting place in the 1930s. They called it the “Pearl of the Orient.” It was more like Havana than the other Western-owned places in Asia like Hong Kong, Singapore, or Shanghai because it had been Spanish for over 350 years. So, the young crowd lived for events at the exclusive clubs, betting the Jai Lai and the big bashes they held at the Manila Hotel.

The Santa Ana cabaret was the place to be on a hot Manila night. It was divided in half by a picket fence stretching the width of its cavernous interior. You could get a decent supper in one half, served on white linen table cloths by elegantly dressed Filipino waiters. The other side was reserved for dancing. The music from the twenty-piece orchestra filled both sides with the latest songs.

I was sitting on the dancing side when a couple arrived at a table across from me. The guy was a fellow I’d seen around the Army and Navy club. His name was Giles “something.” Like me, he was a legacy from one of the soldiers who’d put down the insurrection two generations earlier, not an actual veteran.

He didn’t have my kind of money. But he was a legendary swordsman. I could see where he got his reputation. He was a handsome fellow. But the woman he was with was out of this world.

Back then, there were still pure Spanish “aristocracia” living off the plunder from almost four hundred years of occupation. They mainly resided in the plantations outside of town. The woman was clearly one of those. She had long black hair and deep mysterious dark eyes that radiated roiling sensuality.

Her face was a perfect oval with a tiny, pointed chin beneath a wide sensual mouth. Her nose was as thin and straight as a Conquistador’s nasal helmet guard. But her most stunning feature was a hard little body with a fabulous pair of legs. The red cocktail dress emphasized her dark eyes, and it embraced her incredible curves like it was painted on. The round boobies in her scooped cleavage were so full and luscious that you were tempted to take a bite.

I was sitting with Vincente and Skipper at our usual table near the outskirts of the dance crowd, eyeing our prospects for the night. I looked over to see who was seating themselves next to us. The woman and I locked eyes, and something inexpressible passed between us. I was lost.

She appeared to be as dismayed as I felt. But just then, Giles said something to her, and she turned her attention back to enchanting him. I could tell that Giles was just as mesmerized as I was. I had to meet this woman. But I didn’t know her name.

They had a policy about cigars inside the cabaret, and Giles had one sticking out of the front pocket of his blazer, just above the Army and Navy Club patch. So, I waited until they finished dinner, knowing he would go out onto the patio to have a smoke while his date lingered over her crème de menthe.

Right on schedule, Giles arose and said something to her. She gave him a dismissive wave, and he sauntered out into the warm night air. Manila gets an average of eighty inches of rain a year. That’s almost seven feet for the mathematically challenged. Of course, all the rain’s a pain in the ass during the monsoon season. But it also produces some of the lushest and most exotic vegetation on the planet.

The terrace had broad flagstones and thick stone balustrades, ideal for somebody who wanted to enjoy an excellent hand-rolled Cuban. Giles was puffing away when I joined him with my own expensive stick. We nodded because we’d seen each other around, and I took a perch near him, leaning on the balustrade.

We smoked in silence for a while. Then I said, casually, “I say old boy, that’s a smashing lady you’re with tonight.”

I knew he would have to brag. Guys like him always have to boast about their conquests.

He gave me a smug chuckle and said, “You have no idea. She’s the hottest woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of being with, and I’ve been with them all.”

Now that was a chivalrous way to describe your date.

I said, continuing to sound disinterested, “Looks Spanish. They’re all hot-blooded.”

He laughed aloud and said, “Hot-blooded doesn’t begin to describe her. Margarita Santos-Marquez is legendary. I’d almost give up philandering if she agreed to make it permanent. But she says I’m not right for her.”

I thought, “And she’s a good judge of character too.”

So, my mystery woman was from THAT family. Naturally, we all knew each other. The Santos-Marquez’s were almost as wealthy as mine, and they lived in Makati too ... how convenient.

I said, “Well, good luck, old chap.”

He said condescendingly, “Luck doesn’t have anything to do with it. We’re headed for the Manila Hotel after this. That woman can’t get enough of me.”

I thought, “Tres Galant!” But I just nodded and walked away. I now had all the information I needed.

I went back into the cabaret. Margarita was leaving with Giles. Did she glance in my direction? I plopped down next to Skipper. Rumor had it that he occasionally batted from the left side of the wicket, but that was no business of mine. He was fat and jolly and knew all the gossip. I said, “What can you tell me about Margarita Santos-Marquez?”

He laughed and said, “Ah, the legendary Margarita. So, you’ve fallen under her spell too.”

I said, irritated, “What are you talking about? Who IS she?”

Skipper said, “Margarita’s beauty has been legendary among the Spanish planter set since her Quinceanera. But you know how closely the Spanish Plantadors protect the virtue of their marriageable girls. So, she was locked away at St. Scholastica’s until her eighteenth birthday.”

He chuckled lecherously and added, “Now that she’s past eighteen and out of the clutches of the nuns, she’s been cutting quite a swath among the eligible Plantador elite. She was with Giles Pemberton tonight. So, I see she’s branched out to Anglos too. He’d be the obvious first choice.

I said, “Do you know where she lives, where she likes to spend her time?” Both Skipper and Vincente laughed and said singsong, “He’s got it baaaaad!!”

I ran into Margarita and Giles several times in the succeeding weeks. He looked enthralled. She looked bored. Margarita gave me a longing look whenever we ran into each other. It was like she was wondering when I would make my move.

I was planning it. But I’d decided to take a different tack from the rest of the slavering dog pack. Margarita’s father was Don Carlos Santos-Marquez, whose ancestors had ensured that the family would never be poor by appropriating a few hundred square miles of fertile land around Mount Natib, above Balanga on the Bataan peninsula. Don Carlos was the patriarch.

That didn’t mean the family lived there. On the contrary, Bataan was far too rustic for any civilized person’s taste. That was why the family home was not far from us in Makati. I called on the Don at his company’s office in Rizal. He took the meeting because he knew my family name. But he didn’t know who I was.

Don Carlos was a courtly fifty-one-year-old Spaniard with perfect Latin features and impeccable grooming. It’s what you get with ten generations of superior breeding ... all-in-all, an intimidating fellow.

He gestured to a chair and said, “How may I help you, Senor?”

I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “I met your daughter a couple of weeks ago, and she enchanted me. But still, I know that I need your permission to court her. So, I am calling on you today to ask you for it.”

That was pure unadulterated bull feathers. The Don’s daughter was probably humping Giles Pemberton’s eyeballs out as we spoke. But he didn’t know that - and being an old-fashioned Plantador, he believed the man must always ask the father’s permission before wooing the daughter.

My approach had impressed him. He gave me a gracious smile and said, “I appreciate any young person who follows the rules. There are so few of them in your generation. I know that you come from a good family. So, you have my permission. When would you care to visit?”

The first date was always a family affair. It usually involved dinner so the parents could confirm that you were a gentleman. I said, “At your convenience Don Santos-Marquez.”

He said, “You may call tonight if that fits your schedule.” I said, “Perfect!!” and nodded in genteel acknowledgment.

Naturally, I wasn’t planning to show up with just a smile on my face and a bottle of wine under my arm. I wore the appropriate dining costume: white linen planter suit with a white silk shirt and club tie. There was a formal introduction to the parents at the entrance. Then I was led in by the butler to take my seat at the family table. That’s how things were done back then.

Margarita was sitting with her two younger sisters, carefully sequestered at the far end of the table. That was to ensure against any hanky-panky between the woman and her suitor. I know that sounds ridiculous, given Margarita’s real-life adventures. But conventions had to be obeyed, and the parents never really knew.

Margarita looked startled when I walked in. She knew a “gentleman caller” was coming, but she didn’t know who. Then her expression changed to one of cunning respect. She knew EXACTLY what I was up to, and she played along like the blushing virgin that she wasn’t.

Formal introductions were made. I handed Margarita my card, gloved hand, of course, and gave her sisters a dashing smile as I said, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, girls.” They all tittered shyly as their older sister gave me a surreptitious look that nearly made my socks burst into flame.

The dining was delightful, as it always was in the better families in Manila. That evening’s main course was a Pancit Guisado that perfectly blended Spanish and Filipino cultures, reminiscent of paella and Tagalog sisig. We ate and drank wine and chatted about the trivialities that ruled life amongst the uber-wealthy. Then Margarita and I were allowed to get to know each other.

It isn’t what you’re thinking. A duenna was sitting with us – of course. But she was Margarita’s old nurse and fabulously hard of hearing. So, we could talk in whispers and still obey all the conventions. Thus, I said earnestly, “I saw you at the Santa Ana, and I simply had to meet you. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on.”

She gave me a secret smile and said, “I was hoping you would ask me out. But this is the cleverest ploy any man has ever attempted. My parents and sisters are infatuated with you.”

I said, “So, Giles didn’t ask your father’s permission?”

She said dismissively, “Giles is a blockhead. But he has his uses. I have a tough time getting nice guys to approach me, so I have to settle for those who are too self-centered to know better.”

I said confidently, “Can we meet again?”

She said, “It’s what I was hoping. I’ll meet you tomorrow at the Santa Ana.” She stood, extended her hand, and said loudly enough for the nurse to hear, “Thank you for visiting me. You may call on me again next week.” Then she gave me a lascivious wink and swept back into the house, with the nurse trailing in her wake.

I was standing underneath the portico of the cabaret when Margarita’s taxi pulled up. She was in another one of her red dresses with plenty of succulent cleavage and gorgeous legs on display. She glided up to me, put her hand on the side of my cheek, and said in her husky, seductive voice, “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

I would have stood there for as long as it took to have a moment in time like this. But I had to be a wise-ass or lose my cred. So, I said with implication in my voice, “I can be patient.”

What I meant by that remark was clear to both of us. Margarita tapped me lightly on the cheek and said, “It won’t be long.” Her dark eyes pulled me down a long, slippery slope to a valley of endless carnal delight.

She seized my arm possessively, and we strolled into the club. As we were seated, I glanced over to the other side of the house to see if Skipper and Vicente were there. But, instead, I locked eyes with a thoroughly pissed-off Giles Pemberton.

He rose from his seat, walked around to the dining side of the room, said something to the Maître d’, and chuffed up to our table, snorting fire.

My standing to meet him would give his indignation more status than it deserved. So, I decided to play it cool. I looked at him with bored contempt and said, “Yes??”

He was standing over me threateningly as he said, “I say, old chap. That’s horrible form trying to steal my girl!!!”

I glanced casually at Margarita and said, “What about it, Margarita? Am I stealing HIS girl?” But of course, I knew what her answer would be. She was NOBODY’S girl.

Pemberton had pissed her off. She turned her head slowly and looked at him as if trying to decide. Pemberton did everything but spread his tail feathers like a peacock. Then she said in a bored voice, “Go away, Giles. I’m with Erik tonight. Get in my date book if you want to go out with me.”

I couldn’t resist a smirk. I knew I’d made an enemy for life, but what did I care. I was rich. I was with the hottest woman in Manila, and tonight ... I was going to have epic sex.

There’s so much late-night traffic in the palatial lobby of the Manila hotel that they have extra desk clerks just to check in the people who’ve suddenly developed the urge to experience the finest hotel living in the Far East.

I’d gotten my room key before going over to the Santa Ana. So, I handed my silver BMW 328 roadster off to the valet and breezed across the lobby to the lift. Our passing turned heads. Needless to say, I was an object of envy for every straight male in the place and a few of the more questionable females.

Men are sighthounds by nature, and Margarita is not a woman we can ignore. You stare at that fabulous heart-shaped ass and those perfect breasts, and you get that little twinge. It’s no doubt genetic, tied to our survival as a species. And yes, I agree ... No woman would mate with us if they knew what was going on in our primitive brains.

Our room was expensive, even by Manila Hotel standards, bayside view, with tall French doors leading to a substantial balcony and a massive bed. I’d played my hand masterfully to this point, and I wasn’t going to blow it now by grabbing her and ripping off her expensive evening gown. These things take patience and class.

So, I smiled and said, “I have some bubbly chilling on the veranda, darling. Shall we take a glass?” She acknowledged the gambit with a sultry, secret smile – that told me, “Well played!”

Manila Bay was as romantic as ever, with myriads ships and a silvery moon cutting across it. I could see the lights on the far-off Bataan peninsula and Corregidor at the mouth of the bay. I popped, poured, and handed her a flute. She was looking at me with her mystical dark eyes shining.

The breeze was fragrant with hibiscus as the gentle onshore breeze ruffled the lace curtains. The humidity was down, and the night was warm and embracing. Of course, there were ship noises immediately in front of us and the sound of traffic on Dewey Boulevard behind us. But it was calm and peaceful up there on our balcony.

Margarita’s stunning beauty begins with her gorgeous perfectly arranged features. But the passion in her huge dark eyes promotes her appearance from something merely special to exceptional. Those eyes were looking at me with an equal measure of appraisal and desire. It was like she’d made a preliminary decision, but there was something she needed to find out before she made it permanent.

I put my arms around her and gently pulled her to me. My left hand was decorously at her waist, and my right hand was on the skin of her bare back. Then I bent her over in a kiss like something out of a romantic storybook. She hesitated, confused for a second. Then she made a slight noise and began to kiss me back enthusiastically. It was finally time for the endgame. I took Margarita’s hand and led her gently toward the bed. She looked a little dazed – good!

And that was how Margarita Santos-Marquez and Erik Grayson became an item. I’m not sure you would call it love. It was more like we shared the same superficial values and qualities. We were beautiful people who were uber-wealthy, over-entitled, and wholly self-absorbed.

Our duty was to show the less remarkable members of the species what cultural superiority looked like. We went to all the best parties and did all the expected things. Margarita’s stunning beauty was as much an accessory as my expensive clothing and hot sports car. It was proof that I was the top dog.

I did the same thing for her. Having a filthy rich, and handsome lover with impeccable family pedigree and the accompanying sense of upper-class sophistication validated her status as the woman who every other woman wanted to be.

Of course, in those ridiculously egotistical days, my pride was justification alone for spending all my time and money entertaining her. I was the envy of my peers. But something else was also beginning to happen - I was getting to know Margarita, and I liked her.

She had a role to play as a society femme-fatale and played it well. But there was an elemental freshness about her, a sense of humor and joy-de-Vivre that made her a great companion for day drives out to Nagsasa Cove and Malabrigo Point or just sitting and talking on a hot Manila night on the porch of the mansion.

I wouldn’t call it love. That’s because I only had room in my heart for one person – myself!! And I know that was also the case with Margarita. So, in effect, it was more like two selfish people who enjoyed spending time with each other. But we were constantly together, and that familiarity brought us closer in ways neither of us had experienced before. We might have eventually married and lived the moneyed life of our parents and ancestors ... social climbing, discreet affairs, and all. But then the Japanese arrived and changed that.

Not that we’d have ever noticed it, but the world around us was evolving in profound ways. There was a war in Europe, and Japan was having its way with the Chinese. The United States was still sitting on the sidelines, but the question was ... when would we be dealt into the game?

The papers said not to worry. Japan would never attack the Philippines because Manila Bay was the home of the mighty U.S. Asiatic Fleet – a line of defense that our enemies could never cross. The problem was that Isoroku Yamamoto was a daring poker player, as he’d proven over and over during his student days at Harvard, and he was about to deal us in to the game.

It was another hot and humid night in early December. Margarita and I were attending a crazy-wild party at the Manila Hotel’s Fiesta Pavilion. The 27th Bomb Group threw it. They had recently arrived from the U.S.

It was typical for the era, marked by raucous laughter, off-key singing, the tinkling of glasses, and squealing girls. Margarita and I were sitting under a cascade of scarlet bougainvillea in the Hotel’s Bamboo Bar when I wittily remarked, “I hope they can fly better than they can sing.”

I’m such a comedian. I just kill myself...

One of the women sitting with the aforementioned flyers sniffed and gave me a disdainful look. I said under my breath, “Stuck Up Bitch!!” Margarita dissolved in laughter. The party went on into the wee hours of the morning.

I remember it well because it marked the last fragile moments of my happiness. The war began promptly at 03:00 on December 8th. Since we were on the other side of the international date line, it was 08:00 Sunday, December 7th, at Pearl Harbor.

The following day we were sipping coffee on the balcony, both terminally hungover, when waves of planes swept low over Dewey Boulevard. They were beautiful and silver in the bright sunlight. We both thought they were American. Then we heard the anti-aircraft fire and the loud crunch of bombs coming from the direction of Clark Field. I rushed to turn on our little Bakelite Crosley, only to find out that the U.S. was now in a state of war with the Empire of Japan. That put a distinct damper on Monday morning’s fun.

I did one smart thing, though. I immediately hustled down to the Bank of the Philippines in Intramuros and withdrew a sizable chunk of cash in gold double eagles and bills. It was pure instinct. But I figured the bank would run out of money if the Japanese invaded, and I wanted all the liquidity I could get.

It was the best thing I could have done as conditions evolved. I stashed the money at the bottom of a fine leather Gladstone bag that I pretended to carry in my capacity as a not-quite doctor. The few actual instruments, wrappings, and medicines covered the fortune stuffed in the bottom.

Now, there was nothing to do but wait. Air raid sirens sounded constantly throughout the day, and anxious guards shot at any light source all night. The sound of one nervous volley would set off a spatter of firing all over the city.

Margarita was in a different situation than I was. She was a Filipino, not an American. Hence, she was not a prospective prisoner of war. But I was facing uncertainty as an enemy civilian ... internment or even worse.

The city of Manila was declared open the day after Christmas, the bombing had stopped, and the transport system was back to running. I was on the balcony watching the smoke rise over the Bataan peninsula. You could hear the constant roar of a battle across Manila Bay. I was wondering uneasily what would happen next.

Margarita had been gone for a couple of weeks up in Makati, visiting her folks. She looked determined when she got back. I grabbed her and tried to kiss her. But she turned her head. That was a new element. I said, puzzled, “What’s the matter with YOU?”

She looked at me sympathetically and uttered those four fatal words, “We need to talk.” That didn’t sound promising.

Margarita used the exact tone you might employ to explain the adult world to a child. She said, “It’s been fun, Erik. But the Japanese are in charge now, and my Papa told me they plan to lock you Anglos up for the duration. It isn’t going to be pleasant whatever they choose to do to you. So, I’m leaving.”

Seriously??!! The little bitch was abandoning me. I suppose it shouldn’t have been surprised since that’s precisely what I would have done to her if the shoe had been on the other foot. But wait ... there’s more. She took a deep breath and added, “I can either stay here with my folks and take my chances with the Japanese, or I can leave for America today with Giles Pemberton.”

I said, outraged, “Pemberton??!!”

She said, “Yes, him ... he has a ticket on the last Pan Am Clipper out of the Philippines. It’s leaving tonight from down in Santa Cruz, and I plan to be on it with him.”

I was genuinely shocked. I thought that I was the center of Margarita’s universe. I snarled, “Why you little whore!! Have you been unfaithful to me?!”

She looked at me like she thought I was an idiot and said, “Not yet, darling. When would I have had the time? But you aren’t so utterly naive that you’d think I wouldn’t have to give Giles some kind of reward for getting me out of this hopeless situation?”

I had no response. Naturally, I hated losing out to Pemberton. But Miles could provide a way out of the current situation, and I couldn’t. That realization crushed me, but it was also my first step toward a tiny bit of self-awareness. I was finally getting the hint that the world didn’t revolve around me, as counterintuitive as that might’ve been at the time.

Margarita added lightly, “We had fun, my darling. But you have nothing to offer me now. So, you simply must accept that.” I continued to stand there in utter shock. How could I BE so stupid!!

She added blithely, “I won’t bother to kiss you goodbye. I’ll just say buena-suerte.” And she turned and exited the room, looking exactly like a woman with a plane to catch.

Even though it was a profound blow to my self-esteem, Margarita’s selling herself for a ticket on the Philippine Clipper never disillusioned me in the way that you might expect. Naturally, the little whore would throw her lot in with whoever was more beneficial to her. I knew that from the start. Still, it was a comfort that, in time, Pemberton would suffer the same fate as I had because a snake is always a snake.

I’m ashamed to admit I took Margarita’s abandoning me quite hard. It might have been because I missed the scintillating sex. Maybe it was because she’d beaten me at my own game. Anyhow, I spent the next two days in an intoxicated haze, throwing recently emptied liquor bottles at the framed picture of the two of us at Tagaytay. The frustrating part was that I was too drunk to hit the picture.

I thought that was the lowest point in my life. But of course, that just shows you how silly and naive I was back then. The Japanese entered Manila early the following day, Friday, January 2nd, 1942, less than one month after their sneak attack eliminated any chance of the U.S. reinforcing us.

I was sitting upstairs in the Manila Hotel playing cards - like I had been since the war began. We’d been going at it all night when somebody poked their head in and shouted, “They’re here!” And we all rushed out to the street to see our conquerors.

The Japs came up the boulevard in the predawn glow, riding on bicycles and tiny motorbikes. Their little flags with the one red ball looked like children’s pennants. They came without conversation, and in tight order, the ridiculous pop-popping of their one-cylinder engines rang loud in the silent city.

They were short and stocky, strutting along with closed cruel looks. As an Anglo, I had never really paid attention to the Asians around me. The sight of the endless waves of alien faces - people who were not like me - was chilling.