“Who’s not your husband?” I asked sleepily, standing at the door of my room.

Tita Rosa gestured at the floor where, sitting with a quizzical look on its face, there was a small white dog, a puppy, with sharp ears and a pink nose. “It is now weaned, and they want me to bring it in the house.”

“Why?”

“They say it’s your tito Iñigo, reincarnated.”

“Why would they think that?” I looked at the dog, who also seemed curious to know.

“Because he’s white, some sort of albino.”

Tita Rosa shook her head and gestured for me to follow her to the dining room. At the near end of a table that could seat twenty people, there was a plate of fried eggs, one of longanisa sausages, a bowl of pan de sal rolls, and two cut mangos. “There’s your breakfast. Eat.”

I chose a seat, ready to eat, but unsure of where to start. “Is there coffee?”

“Beng!” my aunt called. “Kapé!”

I took a roll and one of the mangos and put it on my plate. An ancient fan that looked like a propeller was set high in the crook of ceiling and room divider, grinding a circuit, creating a powerful punch of air as its orbit picked out spots around the table.

“Listen,” said Tita Rosa as she settled into a chair. “One of Remi’s granddaughters just got engaged and her fiancé is here for a visit.”

“Remi? In California?” This was my mother’s first cousin, who I’d met a few times in the Philippines but who had been a fixture of my mother’s childhood.

“Yes. Anyway, I’m hoping you can introduce him to some writing types. You know these people, don’t you?”

“He’s a writer? What’s his name?”

“Laird Bontotot.”

“Laird Bontotot? I’ve never heard of him.” There were many writers now. Anyone who managed to post an online article was now a writer, but had I seen that name, I would have remembered it. “What kind of name is Laird Bontotot?”

“Laird, isn’t that an American name?”

“I meant, what kind of name is Bontotot? Are they Manila people? Because it doesn’t sound like it.” I gestured for Beng to top up my coffee. “I don’t know any Bontotots. Do you?”

“No. Maybe it’s a Mindanao name,” said Tita Rosa. Mindanao, the largest southernmost island, was the scapegoat for anything unfamiliar.

“He’s not staying here, is he?”

“No,” said Tita Rosa. “He’ll be with your tita Remi, in Malate.”

“How long is he intending to be here?”

“It can’t be too long,” she said. “He’s getting married in August.”