Philippines President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. — called “Bongbong” — just met with Trump, America’s president. Trumps I know. Marcoses I’ve known.
1971, I met the Philippines’ then first lady. We were guests of Iran’s shah. It was a three-day celebration attended by 60 heads of state to celebrate the 2,500th birthday of his country’s birth city Persepolis.
I was then assistant to the Miss Universe president and brought the pageant to Manila. Not to be stopped, she built an entire new theater for it.
Later, in Imelda’s East 60s townhouse here in New York, she’d sit alongside a trunk of jewels playing with pearls. Preparing a party she wanted to give, I ordered food from Samir who had an East Side Asian restaurant. She told guests some king had sent it.
Then, it was living in the Waldorf’s huge General MacArthur Suite, she turned its living room into a church. Inviting guests like George Hamilton, Gloria Vanderbilt — plus pianist Van Cliburn — she’d stay up all night singing her favorite, “Yellow Rose of Texas.” New York City spoke of her. Hotelier Leona Helmsley — en route to jail — once asked me how much money Imelda had. Said Leona: “Makes no difference, I have more.” That interchange remains on my Ron Howard documentary.
Early days, I remember Imelda shopping for caviar in Hong Kong. But that was then. Came exile, in Hawaii. Indictment. Imelda told me then: “First I cried. Then I gardened because it was therapy. Even a star in the sky has a low point for every high point. I now receive visitors. I will survive.
“When we had no clothes supporters brought us money. Some only $1. One afternoon they raised $15,000. I kept a list. I’ll pay everyone back someday. Legal bills, 22 cases against us, came to half a million dollars a month. The US government doesn’t allow us to earn money. Nor travel. Hopes were pinned on our wonderful son, Bongbong.”
Volunteers staffed their Hawaii house. Their announcement became: “The first lady will receive you shortly.” She appeared in pearl earrings, pearl ring, simple sheath. I remembered bringing her privately — years before — to designer Pauline Trigère. This then first lady standing in bra and panty girdle tried on. For hours. Weeks later Trigère called me: “She hasn’t paid. Took 10 outfits. Sent no money.” I called Imelda. Within an hour came a messenger with an envelope. Thirty thousand dollars. Trigère became more cheerful.
Time came when she had to pay $5 million bail. She claimed she didn’t have it. Her friend from Hawaii, Doris Duke, came to Imelda’s Waldorf suite one day accompanied by two lawyers. They handed her that money. How do I know?
Because Imelda and I — friends — were told they were en route but that the money had to be a secret. Duke and her lawyers arrived. I was stashed in the living room’s locked bathroom. Could they see me? No. But I heard every word.
Imelda and I have spoken recently on the phone. She has her own home in Manila. She is well. She is thrilled for her son.