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You are the champion!” The Girls are draped over him like it’s a Bond film. The whole scene is performed with a touch of vaudeville. Alan hams it up too, giving them each a big victory hug. I remember what Alan said about Olive being “the world’s biggest bullshitter”. She calls Alan “master of the universe” again. It makes me smile, because during the rugby that afternoon Alan told me that Tom Wolfe’s Bonfire of the Vanities is among his top five novels. I think of the central character, Wall Street raider Sherman McCoy, who constantly refers to himself as a “master of the universe”. Olive may be a bullshitter but she sure knows her stuff.
The pool games provide a glimpse of a more boisterous, social Alan xxxxx. Afterwards he sits down on the couch, and The Girls sit down too, taking to Alan’s toenails with white nail polish. There’s a flirtatious buzz to the conversation. Olive teases Ruby for being stupid. “She doesn’t even now her ABC. Ruby, say your ABC.”
Ruby flicks back her hair and starts with “Zzzzay”. Olive laughs. Alan gently teases Olive for being crass. His nails continue to get whiter, one by one. “This is a first for me. I’m not usually in the habit of painting my toenails.”
The Girls and I drink Baileys while Olive’s relatives rack up game after game of pool. Alan is still sipping iced coffee from his mini-thermos. He very rarely drinks alcohol at home, and as he almost never leaves home, he very rarely drinks at all. For no good reason – maybe it’s free association on the topic of nails – I ask him if he is a recluse like Howard Hughes.
“Certainly I am a bit of a recluse, given that I don’t go out very often. I tend to hate the heat. In the six months I’ve been living here I haven’t even been to the mall. How far away is it – 300 yards?”
Generally he leaves his apartment only to swim and to sunbake, which explains the trim torso and tanned legs that stretch out from his running shorts. Occasionally, however, Alan brings the world to him. “I have some of the most fantastic parties, totally inconceivable to most males. Anyway, they are assisted enormously by e. They wouldn’t happen without it in the same way at all … I do have a fondness for the drug. I don’t do it very often.”
Alan’s Manila parties are smallish affairs, but back in Hong Kong he and his friends hosted bashes that were nothing short of legendary. Invitations were handed out to anyone in the discos who he or his friends thought looked appealing. Often Alan would dodge the crowds at his own mega-dos, avoiding the heat and the hundreds and staying in his air-conditioned bedroom.
Eventually Olive and Ruby head off to get changed. We’re going out to the girlie bars in the Makati red-light district. Initially I’m surprised that The Girls are coming, and my surprise doubles when my host tells me that Olive, in particular, enjoys flirting with the dancers, helping to choose the ones to pick up, to take home. Alan tables cards that most interviewees would clutch firmly to their chest. I suspect it has something to do with his philosophies for living life. He is an avowed libertarian, a believer in free will, a loather of interference from governments and interest groups. His favourite book is Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. He dislikes wowsers, such as those on the Christian Right, and says the three principles he tried to teach his children – he has a son and a daughter from his first marriage – were to tell the truth, to have a positive outlook and to take a realistic view of themselves.
“I once asked a best friend how often he made love, and he said ‘once a month’. Once a month! This was bizarre to me. I suspect I have a much higher sexual desire, even at age 60, compared to guys aged 30. One of the differences is they go to work each day and so they come home at night and they’re tired, whereas I don’t have to go to work … Not having to go to work is a great libido-enhancer in terms of making love.”
We catch a taxi to the red-light district, stepping out of the air-conditioned cabin and into a corridor of neon. Apart from the odd stray convenience store, it’s very much a single-commodity strip: “Girls”, “Sexy Girls”, “Karaoke”. As soon as our feet hit the footpath, the clamour begins from the spruikers on the doors of the various bars.
“Alan xxxxx! Over here! Alan xxxxx!”
Alan ignores them and we walk into a place called Billboard. Inside, the gimmick is that some of the staff are wearing colourful, cotton, all-in-one construction suits. Further in, there’s another group who are not.