Did it always look this way? I thought, jogging my memory from the last time I was here, as I ascended the stone-paved inclined driveway of the Marcos mansion in San Juan, past the gates trimmed on both sides with giant red posters bearing the image not of the birthday celebrant but of her daughter, Sen. Imee Marcos. I thought I had crashed a campaign sortie.
It was Imelda Marcos’ 95th birthday—and also her father Vicente Orestes Romualdez’s 139th birth anniversary, we were later told—and her eldest child was hosting a merienda cena and a mass in the house where the Marcos couple lived before Ferdinand Senior became president.
Two women at the reception were handing out glossy red cardboard fans, again bearing the visage of the host with a hashtag (campaign slogan?), and a list of all her social media channels.
So much has indeed happened in the 13 years since I was here last, as a younger reporter, with the rest of this paper’s Lifestyle team for a no-holds-barred interview with the former first lady.
Timeworn grandeur
But it was as if time has stood still in that house, its timeworn grandeur—Imeldific—exactly as I remembered it. It’s a museum of sorts littered with Marcos memorabilia. There were Imelda’s signature ternos on mannequins, a spooky 4-foot carved likeness of a barong-clad Ferdinand by a doorway, floor-to-ceiling portraits of Ferdinand and Imelda and countless framed photos where guests posed. (“Is Borgy’s Bench calendar still there?” my colleague Pam asked in jest, referring to Imee’s son who used to model.)
In 2011, in that same house, the energetic and still sprightly Imelda, just weeks after her 82nd birthday, held court, our Lifestyle team a captive audience for some five hours, until we were “a bunch of wilting asparagus,” as our former colleague Tino Tejero aptly put it in the intro to that Playtime interview.
In 2011, Noynoy Aquino was president, Imelda a congresswoman—a lifetime away from another Marcos presidency.
On Wednesday, it was a different Imelda from how we remembered her who arrived at the mansion, accompanied by her eldest daughter.
Dressed in royal blue satin coords with a peacock sequined embroidery on the bodice and shod in metallic gold sandals (“step-in,” as she referred to them in our 2011 interview), the characteristically neatly coiffed matriarch was wheeled into the house, followed by white-uniformed carers.
On her lacquered fingers—her signature half-moons—she wore rings with large rocks, two on the left hand, and one on the right, the latter heart-shaped ones that matched her earrings. I’d hazard a guess that they’re not from 168 in Divisoria, as she had claimed her 2011 jewelry was.
She was brought briefly into the air-conditioned VIP room, where crystal chandeliers sparkled majestically above a rather overwrought banquet table with plush high-back chairs laid out for 18—the only room with AC on a 41-degree-Celsius day, it seemed.
From within these cool confines, through the French windows, one could see the party that was set up outside, in the estate’s covered courtyard, where loyalists (are they still called that?), many dressed in Marcos red, furiously fanned themselves with the Imee cardboard fans. There were ceiling fans, but they hung stagnant, lifeless ornaments overhead.
A buffet station was laid out and a dirty ice cream cart set up in front of the Our Lady of the Rosary grotto, opposite a man who was roasting a whole cow in one corner.
INQUIRER PHOTO / GRIG C. MONTEGRANDE
‘Our nanay’
While the early birds were being served bright-orange Ilocos empanadas, Imelda was wheeled around once more, with Imee showing her and a handful of guests, including Sen. Cynthia Villar, the mini photo exhibits around the house celebrating Imelda’s life. A large digital screen bore an image of a younger Imelda declaring what was being celebrated that day, a replica of the digital invite.
The former first lady hardly spoke, only nodding from time to time, as Imee bent and leaned close to speak to her. Still, Imelda looked plump and well, her skin as clear as I remembered it, surely looking better than most—any—95-year-old we know.
“Did anybody take after her singing?” Villar asked, looking at a photo of a singing Imelda.
“Irene,” Imee replied. “Also Bongbong, he sings well. Ako lang naman ang hindi (I’m the only one who can’t sing).”
Imee, who fussed over where they placed a list of her mother’s projects in the exhibit, rebuffed reporters who tried to get an interview. (The list was on the back of the Imelda notebooks that were given to guests as keepsake.)
The day before, on Imelda’s actual birthday, her son the President and first lady Liza Marcos hosted a party at Malacañang attended by the whole family. Imelda even delivered a speech, with videos of it shared on social media by socialite guests.
In contrast, at the San Juan event, there was only Imee, her son Michael Manotoc, and a retinue of officials from the provinces and a few business owners who came to greet “our nanay,” as the emcee announced. The President, insiders said, would come, but he was a no-show. There were no speeches.
The only high-profile politicians present were the Villars, who came in full force, with former senator Manny Villar, daughter Camille and son Paolo in tow, soon joining his wife in greeting Imelda. A handful of artistas—Ruffa Gutierrez, Cesar Montano, Cristine Reyes, Diego Loyzaga—were also present.