“This is Rocco’s building,” he said. “Everyone wants a place here.”

“And you have one,” I said.

Chet nodded. “It needs a little work. I just put the floor in. This is all reclaimed parquet I bought in Vigan. I found some old carpenteros in Pampanga and they worked on it for weeks.” The floor was made of exquisitely composed Versailles panels of a rich mahogany color contrasted with brighter brandy-colored pieces. It seemed to undulate in the light. “It’s the old way, you know, Ting. People don’t know how to do it anymore. They put in carpet. Carpet, can you imagine? The person next door has his place all done in white.” Chet shook his head. “But this floor, this is the Philippines. Smooth as glass, not a splinter, not a nail, not a gap between the pieces.”

“Very nice,” I said.

“Nice?”

“A work of art,” I added, and this seemed to satisfy him.

“I have more ideas for this place.” He smiled as if we were conspirators and headed down the hallway. I followed at a distance. Inside the first room, one of three doors that opened beyond the kitchen, Chet hit the switch that illumined a bare bulb. “Haven’t done anything in here but the walls were yellow, so I painted them white so I could make a decision. What color do you think will work here?” he asked.

“Me?”

“I know you know how things should look. You always did.” He pulled up a sheet that had been covering something leaning against the wall. Paintings. There were four of them. “Don’t be nice. Give me your opinion.”

He took the paintings and arranged them one by one against the far wall. The first was a Rembrandt, which made me laugh, but then I saw a drip of bright yellow and a bullet in the canvas. I drew closer to get a better look.

“Doesn’t matter if you don’t like that one. That’s Luke Alarcon and it’s a good investment.”

“But you want to know my opinion?”

“I want to know what you like.”

“I like this one.” I took a different canvas and set it apart against the wall, then stepped back to better assess its merits. The painting was of a wolf’s head facing a dog’s head, both done in exquisite realism against a wallpaper of explosive graffiti elements. A comic book “bang” obscured where the wolf’s eye should be, while the eye itself was embedded in its neck.

“Ronald Ventura,” said Chet. “Predictable.”

“You knew I’d like this? I thought I was being risqué. It’s very edgy.”

“But you have a soft spot for dogs.” Chet gave the painting a quick appraisal. “It is also a good investment.”

The other two paintings were also oils: one an impressionistic landscape, the other a portrait of a woman in traditional Bulaceña dress that might have dated from the Spanish era.