“Ay naku, Ting. The tenant. Yoren is the tenant.”

My aunt had a few words for the guard, who appeared drunk, slurring and unsteady as he opened the gate. She told him we would be back shortly. We crossed the street, empty at this hour, although the sounds of traffic on E. Rodriguez echoed from the end of the block. The security guard in the apartment building recognized my aunt and was very polite, insisting on getting the elevator and punching in the floor number. As we ascended, I wondered how Yoren would greet our visit, my thoughts of Laird momentarily displaced as I looked at Beng, who was considering the bowl of atis with complacent confusion. My aunt pressed the buzzer at my cousin’s apartment. When the door swung open revealing a shirtless, sarong-wearing white man somewhere in his sixties, she was nonplussed.

“Yoren,” she said. “Good evening. This is my niece, Christina Klein. And I think you know Beng. We brought you atis, the first of the season.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Rivera,” he said politely. I didn’t know why he was wearing a sarong. People in the Philippines, even the Dutch, did not wear sarongs. He must have been one of those Europeans who were posted all around Asia and picked up this sort of habit in Malaysia or Indonesia.

“Yoren, we are imposing, but we need to use your internet.”

Tita Rosa dragged me around him and into the apartment. Beng followed with the fruit. Baby’s apartment was furnished with the cast-offs of a number of my relatives. I recognized the chrome-and-plush beige dining chairs from my mother’s house and a rocker that had, at one stage, been my tita Dom’s.

“And Yoren,” said my aunt, “we need to use your computer. Where is it?”

Yoren gestured to the table, where he had clearly been working.

“Ting, give him the link.”

Yoren was sensing the importance of the situation and to his credit was making it seem suddenly normal. I remembered my aunt telling me that he was a diplomat. He sat by his computer and gestured for my aunt to sit, which she did. I pulled out my phone. “Can I send you the link?” I asked.

“Yes, of course,” he said.

He gave me his phone number and I sent a text, which he picked up on his laptop. We waited for the video to come up.

“Ladies,” he said, suddenly grave. “Where did you get this link?”

“A friend of mine,” I said. “A journalist.”

“I’ve already seen the video. I don’t think you should watch this.”

“Let me be the judge of that, if you would be so kind,” I said coolly. “If I wasn’t supposed to see it, my friend wouldn’t have sent it to me.” I went to stand behind him.