“Cha Cha told me. No. It was Carmi. Carmi heard from someone.”

“Regardless, it has nothing to do with me.”

“Doesn’t it?” She was studying my face, which I was trying to compose into a look of blankness. “Ting, why would you involve yourself with another man? Isn’t one husband enough?”

“More than enough.” My aunt, a widow, had never remarried.

She continued to watch me, growing suspicious. “If you’re sick of staying with Rosa, come live with me. There’s a room.”

On the far side of the restaurant, the musicians, who had been orbiting the tables, had launched into a rendition of the theme song from Titanic. I looked down at Morato, where the traffic inched along, like pork in an alimentary canal. Across the street were business offices, the headquarters of the Philippine Telegraph, and in between a honking, walking, vending mess of humanity, but my aunt was following the singers, who were circling closer.

“Do you think they know ‘Send In the Clowns’?” she asked.

“Do you really want them here singing ‘Send In The Clowns’?” I responded.

She was laughing at this when I saw him get out of the car. He stood briefly on the sidewalk in his pastel sport shirt and jeans, looking around as if he were worried he was being watched. “Tita!” I said. “Look. It’s Laird.”

“Oh, Ting. You’re right. What’s he doing?”

He swung open the door to the Philippine Telegraph and entered.

“Why’s he there?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s writing something for the paper? But why him?”

“Is that suspicious? Because you’re making it seem like it’s suspicious.” She laughed. “Wow, Laird is so exciting! I wonder what he’s up to.”

We waited for him to come out, but it must have been a long meeting, because we were done with our meal and on our way home before he reemerged.

There was something suspicious about it. Whatever Laird’s credentials as a writer, there were dozens of people more capable of writing on Philippine issues than he. Gumboc was now back from Israel and I wondered if Laird had managed to get an American outlet to commission an article. I wondered if some of my antipathy toward him was actually jealousy. If I hadn’t been so at sea with my own project, I might have been friendlier, more curious about Laird’s activities, and less derisive. If we had encountered each other in the States as writers or people with an interest in Philippine history, it would also have been different. Laird would have met me on even ground, not as we connected here, me with my clan, he a fringe relation who had nothing to offer, who was at the edge of every gathering, saying little and always watching.