Don Vicente

by F. Sionil Jose

  It had been a significant year for the magazine, and the signs were clear that it would soon be able to stand alone and would not have to depend on financial assistance from the other Dantes publications, although the magazine had already displeased influential people and business leaders with its satirical and irreverent lampooning of their personalities. That they did not make good their threats pleased Dantes very much. Like Luis, he had correctly argued that if it were known that they were bringing pressure on the magazine, it would have confirmed not only their lack of humor but their vulnerability as well.

  Luis had really intended to see Ester again, but the opportunity did not come until one afternoon shortly after school had opened. She came to the office with Trining and two other classmates.

  “Our first term paper has already been assigned,” she said after the niceties were done. She wore no lipstick. Looking at her finely molded face, Luis could see her personality shining through. This afternoon there was something efficient and businesslike about her. “We came to you for advice, really. We do not know anything about the agrarian problem that you have been writing about—and labor, too—and our understanding of our sociology is rather poor. We didn’t know that our professor had written for you.”

  Luis liked the unintended compliment. “Well, for a start,” he said, “suppose you tell me if you have been in a picket line—any of you.”

  All four shook their heads.

  “I haven’t either,” Luis said with a smile. “So this makes all of us students of some sort. The picket line is where you should really go if you want information about labor unions. You will be surprised how crooked the labor leaders are.”

  “But our teachers—when we talked about this,” Ester said, “gave us the impression that you’d be an expert.”

  Luis snorted. He never liked being called an expert on anything, and his humility was real. “I would suppose that being an editor should qualify me as a jack-of-all-trades, but I really know little about labor problems. A bit about the agrarian problem, particularly sugar—” He paused, suddenly remembering that Dantes was in sugar, too, but Ester would notice this; so he went on. “Politics, the sacadas, and sugar colonialism. All these aren’t new—you can get more from the files than by talking with me.”

  “Give us some pointers on how to begin,” Trining said. It was a simple suggestion and he was grateful to her, for now he could speak a little from his own point of view. Looking at Ester seated, eagerly waiting, he became ill at ease, and he began to ramble vaguely about the nature of man, the value of labor, and the Marxist interpretation of surplus value; then he shifted to the encyclicals of the popes, the Rerum Novarum and the Quadragessimo Anno, and homing in, he spoke briefly about the class structure of Filipino society, the agrarian origins of the revolution of 1896, the peasant uprisings of the country, and now the rebellion in central Luzon.

  He did not know that he had taken so long. Dusk was falling, but the girls did not seem to mind and Ester, particularly, seemed entranced. “It’s cleared up a lot,” she said when he was through. “I think I know how to go about mine. Why don’t you write what you just told us and use it in your magazine? I would like to see it before it goes to print.”

  He agreed, and as they filed out, most of their questions finally answered, Trining tugged at him and whispered, “You would do anything Ester tells you to do. Now you must write my term paper for me.”

  A week later Ester dropped by alone and made Luis very happy. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but the article—it’s all finished—is at home. I did it two nights ago, and I just forgot to bring it here. You should have called first, but if you are in a hurry, let us go home and get it.” His tone was tentative. He foresaw her indecision, so he added, “I think I will just bring it here tomorrow and give it to your father.”

  The implicit challenge had been made, and Ester picked it up. “We will go to your place,” she said, “any time you are ready.”

  It was not even five, but Luis stood up, and before she could say another word he was guiding her out of his office. Outside, the heat of the late afternoon claimed them. The Dantes building was in the congested heart of the city, and driving out was a problem. By five, however, they were on the boulevard, which was still sun-drenched. To his right, the sea glinted and the waves collapsed with a murmur against the concrete seawall. The breeze whipped her hair close to his face occasionally, and he could smell her fragrance. Her nearness evoked thoughts and imaginings of the kind of life she and her friends lived, of Trining, too, and all the others who had seemed to him immersed in staleness and boredom, mulling over their sins, keeping all their holy days of obligation, living day to day in the exasperating desire to keep their chastity as the most valuable thing that they would present to those who would become their husbands. It was really quite a shame that Trining had not even put up a token fight. He wondered how it would be with Ester, if she would—after it was all over and done with—go to confession so that she could take communion, or just stop taking communion altogether.

  When they were almost home he turned to her and saw her looking at him intently. She turned away, embarrassed. “How is your guinea pig?” he asked. An uneasy laugh escaped her.

  “Looking at you,” she said, “makes me feel you are sometimes just playacting. You have a driver, a fine home, and yet you sound bitter and discontented—and very proletarian.”

  He smiled benignly at her. “Don’t tell me you don’t have a single frustration in the world.”

  “I do,” she said.

  “It’s all a matter of degree,” he said. “Besides, I do not consider myself embittered. Why should I be when I have right now a very pretty girl with me?”

  “You are a rogue,” she said, smiling. “You will do anything to steer the discussion away and make a compliment on the side. You are a liar, too. You said that you would come and see me, but it is I who makes all sorts of excuses to come and see you.”

  Her outright confession touched him. “I’m sorry, Ester, but we really had so much to do. Besides, we still have years ahead of us.”

  “I hope you’ll change a little,” she said, “acquire a more pleasant disposition—in what you write, at least.”

  “For you,” he said, “I will.” Sure of himself, he took her hand. It was cold. “But you must like me as I am.”

  They were home. He let go of her hand as Simeon swung the car to the left. In the driveway, as soon as he got out, he asked her to come up with him and have a Coke and a piece of cake. He noticed her brief indecision, so he added hastily, “No, don’t bother. I can run upstairs and bring the manuscript down.”

  She stepped out quickly and without another word followed him up to the house.

  The blinds were raised and the sun flooded the hall. As he went to his study Ester drifted around the room and out to the trellised azotea, where the wind from the sea was coolest. She came back and gazed at his father’s Amorsolos on the walls.

  “It’s lovely here,” she said when he came out with the manuscript.

  “I’m glad you like it,” he said. “As you know, I live alone. I love the privacy and the independence.”

  She walked to the piano, which seemed to bask in the glow of the afternoon, opened the cover, and drew her hand across the keys.

  “Do play,” he said, “while I fix up something to drink.”

  In the kitchen, as he sliced the chocolate cake and prepared the glasses, he heard snatches of Mozart, sentimental and melodious. When he went back to the living room with the tray, however, she stopped and pulled the lid down.

  “You play very well,” he said.

  “Tell that to my mother.”

  Ester left at dusk. She had asked him not to bother seeing her home, but he had Simeon drive her to San Juan just the same. They had sat in the azotea and watched the sun go down and paint the horizon, the clouds in resplendent ochres, browns, and indigos. They had talked about her paper, classmates, and Trining’s new admirer—a
basketball player (Trining had told Luis about him). To this last one he had listened with a mixture of contempt and interest. Ester had also talked about her brothers, who seemed to drift, not knowing what to do. Finally she had voiced her disappointment with her own school, the emptiness of it all, the superficiality of the friendships, the senselessness of girl talk, and how most of her friends were looking forward to nothing but sweet domesticity.

  As he watched her get into the car and finally drive away, a strange, dull ache filled him. It was not love, he was sure of that. It was something akin to compassion. He worked until past midnight, and although he was tired, sleep seemed far away. He could not quite forget Ester on the azotea with him—her smile and the way she spoke earnestly, plaintively. She was not like Trining, who was sensual and all woman, who was direct and who knew what she wanted. It was quite clear—and his knowledge of it made him apprehensive—that he was really interested in Ester, now that the wall of indifference with which he had surrounded himself as far as she and her kind were concerned was crumbling. He was kindred to the emotional beast, he was not immune to the feelings that blighted the poor in spirit, but he was also sure that it was not love.

  After Marta had done the dishes and Simeon had checked the locks, Luis was alone again. Marta had thoughtfully, as always, filled the thermos jug near his desk with coffee, and listlessly he poured himself a cup. It took him some time to finish it. Traffic on the boulevard was almost gone except for those leaving the nightclubs farther up the street. When he finally lay down he remembered Ester again, her beautiful body, and he was sure that someday he would have her.

  As he closed his eyes, however, in the reddish consciousness that flooded his brain he saw an endless array of wailing babies with his features in each shrieking face. He shuddered.

  CHAPTER

  24

  By Christmas talk was rife that the Huks were already in the outskirts of the city, that they could now attack Manila at will. Many provincial capitals in central Luzon had been raided and occupied for at least one night before the constabulary could retake them. Luis was certain that the propaganda arm of the movement was working in Manila. He learned from some of his old college friends that a few of their acquaintances in the interuniversity cultural and press groups had joined the Huks. The tension that was reflected in the press and in the government hierarchy was not, however, the kind that tormented him. He had continued his poetry, but it was to him too prosaic, too pallid, and it did not tally with the realities. He could see the greater contradiction within himself as he helped Dantes become richer, at the same time making himself safe from the cares of living, unlike those whom he sincerely felt he championed. There was freedom, yes, but for whom did it work? Certainly it was working for him but not for Sipnget and his people there, for his grandfather and his mother, to whom he threw occasional crumbs.

  He did not drink except socially, but now, in the evenings when he could not sleep, he would fix himself a glass of bourbon and toy with it until it was empty. One evening it came as a surprise even to himself that he took not one but three glasses before he could sleep. I must stop this, he told himself, and he got to writing more poetry. He read Mayakovsky and reread Whitman and even tried experimenting in Tagalog and Ilokano with the kind of poetry that he felt the lower classes would understand. It was all a sham, a mistake, that he was writing in English—a language that was for him and the elite—when there should be no barrier between him and the greater masses. Why should the language of science and culture be denied them? Much as he would have wanted to pursue this line of thinking, however, at the same time he felt secure and superior with the fact that he had mastered English and that he would continue writing in it—if only for his ego and for self-justification. It was not the language, after all, that really mattered—it was the heart of it, the art of it. This contradiction was of course an inanity. What really tormented him, as always, was the past, his past, and his recreance to it.

  At Christmas he gave his first real party. Our Time had already piled up a steady circulation, and advertisements were coming in. More important to him, however, was that the magazine had become credible and prestigious, even to those whose views he disagreed with. It was politically left, but the writers of the right recognized it nevertheless for its liberal outlook, its fairness, and this was not lost on Dantes, who was a businessman before anything else. Dantes had suggested that the party be held in his house, which Luis had recently been frequenting because of Ester. Luis said, however, that it would be better in his own house, which, although smaller, had a wide garden and was more accessible. He knew that many of his friends on the left, particularly the college crowd, would never feel at ease in such surroundings as those of the Dantes residence.

  Luis had expected only a few guests, but a riot descended upon him and he was very pleased. It was almost like a reunion with the old college crowd. There were also members of the cosmopolitan set, friends of Dantes, editors from the other Dantes publications, and the inseparable Abelardo Cruz and Etang Papel. Most important of all, Ester was there with some of her friends.

  Luis was sorry that Trining was not coming. It would have been an experience for her to know people other than those to whom she was exposed in school, but a week earlier she had gone back to Rosales for the Christmas vacation as well as to look after Don Vicente, whose condition had worsened. She had tried convincing Luis to go with her, even for just a week, not only so that his mind would clear a little but also so that he would be able to see his mother. Luis, however, loathed the idea of staying in Rosales for more than a day, and he had decided that spending New Year’s Day at home would be more than enough for him not only to fulfill his filial obligations but also to confront his other self again.

  The buffet started at seven, but Luis had started to drink much earlier. By eleven most of his guests had already left in search of nightclubs that were not crowded and churches where they might catch the midnight mass. He was the perfect host, slightly inebriated but gracious, waving heartily, making wry comments once in a while, in keeping with his character, and always saying, “And do come again—if there’s going to be another time!”

  He had broken into a heated discussion on the azotea between Abelardo Cruz, Etang Papel, and a couple of new Ph.D.’s from the university who had just returned from Harvard, brimming with American wisdom and enthusiasm. He had never been apologetic about not having finished his B.A., and particularly after he had read a doctoral dissertation on social change in a Nueva Ecija village. He had been infuriated by the trivia that had come to pass for scholarship.

  Papel was huge and homely and had a spongelike mind that soured everything it absorbed; she would have been dismissed as someone’s fat old-maid aunt, which, of course, she was not, for in spite of her plain features, she had had a string of men, some of them foreigners who had, perhaps, fantasized about her looks. She was saying that the true nationalist commitment was not freedom from America’s apron strings but freedom of the people from their own rich exploiters.

  Luis had always agreed with such a statement, but for tonight, he was simply, wearily tired. “Thank God for the poor,” he had said, “otherwise, we would have fewer Ph.D.’s and columnists as well.”

  Papel did not like it and had retorted, “Thank God for the rich, then, for it is they who made the poor!”

  His was still the last word: “And thank God again for the poor, for they will make some writers rich writing about poverty!”

  Etang Papel left shortly afterward, followed by her coterie. Soon it was only Eddie and Ester in the house with Simeon and Marta, who had come to tidy up the place. Eddie was trying “Silent Night” on the piano with one finger, and beside him Ester sang in a cool pleasant voice, sipping iced tea from a tall glass. Luis joined them, half dragging his feet on the floor, which was now dusty and littered with canapé picks and cigarette stubs.

  “Sing louder, Ester,” he said. “This is my happiest Christmas.”

 
Eddie stood up. “I have to go, too,” he said. “It’s been a nice party, Louie.”

  Luis held him by the shoulder. “And I thought you were my friend,” he said. “Stay awhile. You haven’t heard Ester play yet.” Then to Ester: “Please, boss, do play for us a hymn—any hymn.”

  “Now, what do you mean, calling me boss?” Ester asked.

  Luis laughed. “You are the publisher’s daughter, aren’t you? You are boss, too.”

  “That’s not funny,” Ester said coldly.

  “You are drunk,” Eddie said.

  “I am not, but—Ester, play just the same. I will sing to your tune. Isn’t it time we sang something not just to honor Christ but also to those who are in the hills? Let’s sing a hymn also for those fighting a private war—those who are now in whorehouses, driven there by decent women.”

  “You are really drunk.” Eddie turned to the girl. “Ester, I think we should go.”

  “You will do nothing of the kind,” Luis said. “In fact, if anyone should go home, it is I. Do you know where home is? It is not in this house or that atrocious feudal castle in Rosales. It is out there, in them thar hills—only there’s no yellow gold …”

  “What’s come over you?” Eddie asked. “You just had a most wonderful party, surrounded by the nicest people in the world. What are you beefing about?” He headed for the door. “I’m leaving before I change my mind and call this a lousy party.”

  “I wish I were dead,” Luis said, meaning it. But Eddie had already gone down the stairs. Ester walked over to him and, holding his clammy hand, led him to the azotea. From the near distance there came an explosion of firecrackers. It was cooler out in the open, and the sea breeze helped clear his mind a little. He was, however, aware of everything that he had said, and he hoarsely repeated, “I wish I were dead.”