My mother was attending an interview for a position as a live-in maid at BGC, a district in Manila commonly occupied by well-off expats from the West. Their move to the Philippines is often work-related, imported by their international companies to manage or direct Asian-based offshore teams. Some however, have completely taken on the privileged expat lifestyle, with a brood of aspirant local women at their beck and call.
Under the sticky April heat, I accompanied Ma, as we walked for two hours from our home in the slums of Tondo, to the multi-million property, where the owner, Matt Thorne, had recently moved into. He had just arrived in the country by himself two days ago and had used my cousin Dennis -- my mom's brother's son -- as his agent to arrange everything for him, including hiring a maid. Thus, Dennis shortlisted Ma for the interview, only because she was ka-pamilya; a relative.
Just a few days earlier, Dennis relayed the details about Ma's potential gig over her cellphone. He had never been the kind to really dare visit us in the slums.
We had learned that Matt is a 35-year-old former advisor to the United Nations, who had paused his career for a temporary retirement. Apparently a true humanitarian at heart.
"Don't worry, he's completely chill. He's a bachelor so he has low expectations, you know the type." Dennis assured, his voice wiry over the cellphone's speaker. "...and wait till you see the house I picked for him. It's a new build -- modernist style by a German architect. Imagine the views living there, so don't fail it, I've already put in good word just for you, tita Evelyn."
*
"Come on in," Matt greeted warmly, shaking our hands as he let us inside. He eyed me with assessment, perhaps taken aback from not expecting Ma to bring a plus one. I did warn Ma that she should advise Dennis, but she simply shrugged, dismissively.
"Bahala na," she said, waving the air with her hands. Matt's forgiveness would be far simpler than getting permission from Dennis. We'd skip the 28 year-old's sermon too. It's intuitively true -- to us, expats are often more benevolent than our own countrymen, let alone distant kin.
Matt was wearing a light-blue business casual shirt paired with black trousers. He looked young, relative to the common white-haired expat anyway. Though he was visibly in his 30s, unlike the younger backpacking expat influencers often seen on Tiktok. With his brown tousled hair, one could say he was objectively handsome, and a little rugged, with his chiselled jaw and darkened shadow of stubble.
Past the white, sleek front door, we were led into the living room. Its interior looked like the kind I would imagine to see in a New York City skyscraper -- the ones I presumed would overlook Central Park.
"Sir, this is my son, Lou," Ma introduced, earning a curt nod from Matt. "He came with me, because he wanted to make sure I got here safely. We only walked. He's a good boy."
"Of course," Matt replied. He smiled at me in a brief, almost controlled way, without a smile in his eyes. "Gotta protect your women." His dimples lined his face well.
*
We stood looking around, admiring the framed paintings and pictures around the walls, the chandelier, the couch... Though we were unable to find words to say, too unsure and inexperienced to initiate a conversation. We didn't want to come across as too materialistic, by commenting on the furniture, nor inauthentic with generic compliments either. Dennis had instructed us to let Matt take the lead.
Matt stood by, his hands in his pockets, letting me and Ma absorb the surroundings. Both of us waited for him to say something, prolonging our stares at the ceiling, and the walls, even turning around twice.
After a minute, Ma then stared at him expectantly until she could no longer. "Umm, sir.." she stammered. Her words failed to take flight, despite her initiative.
Matt glanced sideways towards me, a little too brief, too sheepish, then broke the silence.
"Would you like to interview in my room?" he gestured towards the dimmed hallway, by the potted Monstera. "Only because I didn't know you were bringing someone."
"Your son... James, could wait here," he persisted, not breaking his smile. Ma and I glanced at each other, hesitant whether to agree, or to even correct his getting my name wrong.
"Ah pardon me, I forgot" Matt chuckled clumsily, as if feigning that he forgot something. He walked towards the tap, pouring himself a cup of water. "Well, before we begin with your interview, Evelyn, let me show you two around the house first. Just so you know the scope of the job."
*
Matt's new house had three levels; two floors and a basement. It also had its own garden and a swimming pool outside; its corner was separate, equipped with sleek buttons that indicated a jacuzzi.
The basement was bare and had no furniture. It spanned the entire floor plan, with no separating walls, making it as wide as a dance hall, upheld by cement columns sparsely spaced throughout the middle.
"I plan this to be my man cave," Matt commented. "or Matt-cave more like it." he added, chuckling to himself.
He toured us through his master bedroom, the various guestrooms, and the maids' quarters. The quarters were an underground studio, equipped with its own kitchenette. It was a space large enough for a bed, some furniture, and even had an ensuite attached. It apparently came extra with the house, unasked and unwanted, and that Matt preferred his would-be maid to occupy one of the bedrooms in the main house instead.
"Bruce had his Alfred, and he was practically family," Matt chuckled with a shrug. We nodded -- this we did no matter what, only half understanding his commentary throughout the tour. We presumed Bruce and Alfred were relatives or friends of his that may stay over at some point.
*
"Now what is your story, Evelyn? What is your experience? The agent has told me alot about you."
"Ah, I'm just [a] cleaner, Sir," Ma answered humbly, looking down to the floor.
"Hmm, impressively successful." he nodded dryly. "How old are you, Evelyn?"
"36, Sir."
"Wow you're much younger than I thought."
My mom could only chuckle, half understanding the intent of his amused reply.
"But hey, mea culpa. I shouldn't have assumed I'd have someone much older to clean up after me, right? It's not right" He looked into the distance, with that saccharine sweetness that we could only really mirror with our own polite chuckle.
It's like we were expecting him to be friendly, but we were too unfamiliar with Westerners to understand the subtext. He wasn't giving explicit friendliness that's for sure, but perhaps that's how interviews are.
"and how old is your son?"
Ma looked at me, which directed his piercing blue gaze also.
