I Fought The Law . . .

by Jose Mari Ugarte

(Editor’s Note: This is the first of a series on the life of Rene Knecht, a millionaire playboy who was regarded as the most desirable man of the 60s and 70s. When het started picking fights with some very powerful people, his life went into a vicious tailspin of brutal court battles, gradual impoverishment, and hard jail time. Jose Mari Ugarte checks up on the 70-year-old Knecht and recounts the swinging highs and desolate lows of a genuine Philippine character.)

If Rene Knecht had hit rock bottom, like so many people said he had, you couldn’t tell by the way he first spoke to me — with the sophisticated and slightly effeminate Spanglish drawl of an old money mestizo gentleman. And, as in any ice-breaking, cross-generational confrontation between two Spaniards in Manila, he attempted to make a connection by asking me who my parents were. Of course, he knew them well, and launched into the ensuing four-hour conversation by telling me how sweet the santols were in my grandparents’ old house in San Juan, and how my maternal grandfather was a samurai baron from Japan.

“You know when the Spaniards first came to the Philippines,“ he announced with the velvety voice of a wise old hipster, “they called it islas ladronas . . . because in most countries it’s the men who keep a harem—but here it was the women. They used to swim over to the Spanish Galleons, steal nails and hide ‘em in their body parts—that’s historically recorded. . . . Oma, the Japanese commander had a querida who had four Nescafe jars full of solitaryo diamonds given to her by women who didn’t want their sons, husbands, or boyfriends killed by the Japs. . . .“

Our talk meandered like a babbling brook from one story to another, and each one was either quirky, strange, amusing, or sad—none were dull—and, as I listened, I began to clearly understand what people I had spoken to meant when they repeatedly said, “You should do a story on Rene Knecht. He’s had a very interesting life, a genuinely weird riches to rags cautionary tale involving guns, broads, drugs, gold, and all the other props that set the stage for a primetime drama about a glamorous life gone awry.“ Listening to him talk was like listening to an audio book or a special Discovery Channel documentary about the bald-faced absurdity of living in a zoo like Manila, because, after the first half-hour or so of energized banter, it was obvious he possessed a wealth of experience—from sailing trimarans off the coast of the Cote d’Azur to being supposedly poisoned in the greasy mess hall of an Antipolo jail house. “This guy’s a real character,“ I heard Mauro Prieto say at a recent dinner party Rene attended. He would hopsctotch through seven different topics without skipping a beat, and the more he spoke, the more twisted his sense of humor would turn, dishing out sleazy historical gossip from pre-war Manila about old sex-crazed Spanish families and referring to certain women of influence as “that china chongga de kubeta.” By the end of our conversation, I had heard many strange things, including the theory that all families in the Philippines with names that began with “De la” came from priests who fornicated (he is a Dela Riva), and how to properly say, “Suck my cock” in Fookien Chinese. It was impossible to remember everything he said, so I asked if I could come to his house and pick his brain. “Sure,” he said. “Come over tomorrow and I’ll poison your mind.”

“You should do a story on Rene Knecht. He’s had a very interesting life, a genuinely weird riches to rags cautionary tale involving guns, broads, drugs, and gold.“

Seventy-year-old Rene Knecht, who for almost three decades was the envied toast of Manila’s social elite, now lives literally on the fringes of society, on the industrial edge of Fort Bonifacio in a forgotten village full of dead-end streets, where the first U.S. Cavalry Troop was stationed in the early 1900s. Signs are missing, so I have to call him for directions and he leads me to an unglamorous little townhouse at the far end of a street with an empty garage and a rusty padlocked gate. He stands outside waiting for me in the shade of a guava tree, tall and rickety, like an old scarecrow wearing a long-sleeved YSL dress shirt with an elegant insignia on its breast pocket.

[to be continued]