It was true. Great-grandfather Benjamin Klein had come over in 1898. In an odd circumstance, my name too was Klein, as I’d regained it through marriage after spending the majority of my life, courtesy of my father, as “Christina Johnson.” I now wondered if this had been part of my husband’s appeal.

“The Old American mestizos,” Inchoy continued, “slid into the same category as the Konyos.”

“Well, the Konyos wouldn’t say that. Some of these people trace their roots back to the fifteen hundreds.”

“True, but to look at you”—he indicated me with a head-to-toe gesture—“you could be one of them. The origins of white privilege become less important over time.” Inchoy considered and went on. “Because of the American thing, you get conflated with the Fil-Ams, but much of the time Fil-Ams aren’t mestizo at all. They are simply the children of Filipino workers and sailors seeking to improve their lot in a less arcane culture. They’re raised as Americans.”

“Americans who are raised by Filipinos. Laird, for example.” Laird had, of course, been invited to the party. He was now standing by the kalesa driver, chatting with him, and the kalesa driver, in broken English, was trying to chat back, intrigued by the attention. “He might not be plugged in to the culture, but I don’t think he’d be very happy that you’re calling him an American.”

“I don’t know about Laird,” said Inchoy.

Together we regarded him.

Inchoy said, “We should ask him.”

“Oh, God, please don’t call him over.”

“Why not?” asked Inchoy.

“He makes me uncomfortable. I always say things that I can’t believe I’ve said, things that aren’t so much what I meant to say but what I think he thinks I’ll say. He brings it out in me.”

“Why is he still here?” asked Inchoy.

“I don’t know.” I had also been wondering about this. “He’s supposed to be getting married in the States.”

“When’s the wedding?”

“I can’t remember.” I watched as Laird patted the horse, listening to the fascinating kalesa driver. “I saw him talking to Rocco Basilang when I was with Chet in Rockwell. Apparently, Laird’s really into improving the roads. And the LRT.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” said Inchoy.

Right then a car entered the drive. The gates had been left open, ostensibly to facilitate the circling of the kalesa. The car moved quickly, braking just short of the horse, who didn’t seem to mind, as if he’d accepted the possible collision as just another reminder of his general defeatedness. I knew this car. It was Chet’s.

“What the hell is Chet doing here?” I asked. I waited for Inchoy to make some equally outraged statement, but Inchoy was silent. “Did you invite him?”