Don Vicente

by F. Sionil Jose

  “Luis, will you be honest with me? In my own way I have been honest with you.”

  “You are asking too much. You don’t only want me defenseless, you also want me emasculated.”

  “Luis, that’s not what I want—you have misunderstood. I am committed to you. You must trust me as you would yourself. We are the same, Luis; it’s so very clear to me now.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Why do you work for my father?”

  It was a question he had not expected, and it startled him. Yes, why did he work for Dantes? “Why do you hate your father?” Luis asked instead.

  “I could ask you the same question, Luis. Please answer me now.”

  “Well, it is a compromise with what I believe in and what I can really do,” Luis said. “I know that your father is no angel, but I need his paper so that I can air my views. That is one reason.”

  “And the other?”

  “I am human, Ester.”

  “Thank you for admitting it, but I know my father as you have never known him—and I know, too, why you accepted his offer.”

  “Tell me.”

  “No, you tell me.”

  “He said I could do whatever I wanted—and he meant it.”

  “You missed the point, Luis. How could you have missed it! He was flattering you, and you fell for it.”

  For a while he did not speak, and when he finally did he could not bring himself to be angry with her. He asked instead, “Why do you humiliate me? You are so good at it, you will reduce me to nothing.”

  She held his hand tightly and brought it to her lips, kissed the lean fingers one by one and then pressed his palm to her cheek. “I love you,” she said. “I am just trying to help you see how things really are—how my father really is—my family, even me. Can’t you see how humble I am before you?”

  “I can’t,” he said but without conviction. The barrier between them was beginning to crumble.

  She let go his hand. “You must see it,” she said. “It is not easy for me to talk like this, to hurt myself and my family. We are very proud. My father, he would rather lose all his money than surrender, but I—I would have come back to you crawling if I had to do it. Now, let me tell you why Father got you. He said you were one of us, that you would understand and would not make any trouble, like forming a union and that sort of thing.”

  “I find it extremely uncomplimentary, even insulting, that I was not taken for my own talent,” Luis said. “I am not humble and I know I have a little.”

  She pressed his hand but did not look at him. “I am sorry, darling, I have to tell you this. Papa said the magazine was not making money and could use someone courageous and enterprising, but the first editor did something Father would never condone—form a union—and that was why he had to go.”

  It all came back to him—his first day in the office, the dirty looks of some of the boys in Editorial at this young whelp of a mestizo, this hacendero’s son who was going to run a liberal, leftist magazine. He was a scab, and he knew it now.

  “Please do not be angry with me,” she begged him. Tentatively he held her by the shoulder—this woman who loved him and understood him—and slowly drew her to him.

  “I felt funny at first, reading you. Then I thought maybe you were blind or that you had your own reasons, but I look at myself and I am so unhappy. With you there is a way out, but not for me—I will always be a Dantes. I live the good life, I go to Europe every vacation, wherever my fancy takes me, but I also live in Negros where I grew up, knowing how my family—all my father’s friends—make their living. I know some of our workers’ children. I played with them.” She paused and seemed to choke on her words. “I know poverty, Luis—the most terrible and degrading form. It is right in our hacienda, behind our house, in the cuartels of the sacadas, in the villages of our plantation workers. And I am eating so well and enjoying it and loving the stage in London and the museums in Paris. I cannot live with myself like this.”

  “You were born to it,” Luis said, “but you know, Ester—and wisdom is the beginning of sadness.”

  “No,” she said. “Love is the beginning of sadness.” She turned and kissed him on the chin. “Did it ever occur to you,” she asked, “that you were not the first?” She looked at him, and in the soft dark he could feel her eyes probe into him deeply, passionately.

  “It does not matter really,” he said, relieved and also sad that what he had suspected all along was finally confirmed. “But why tell me?”

  “I don’t really know,” she said humbly. “It was very easy to say that I did it to get at my father, to hurt him, but I love you, Luis. When I am not with you something happens to me. I am uneasy. I cannot sleep. I’m tense. Maybe because we are so much alike. Do you want to know—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said again and meant it.

  She did not mind him. “He was the son of one of our workers,” she said, pressing close to him. “I was fourteen, perhaps—and he must have been eighteen. He came to the house every morning to water the rose garden, and I used to wake up to his soft singing—you know, melodious Visayan songs. I would open my window—the garden was below—and watch him work, and although he knew that I was up there, watching, he never turned to me. It was a girlish crush—he was dark, he had good teeth, and his face was warm. I wanted to be near him. One afternoon I went to the group of shacks where he lived. He was there, playing a guitar, when I walked by. There was a duhat tree with fruit—it was not very high—and I asked him to get me some of the fruit. He wanted to climb the tree, but I wanted to feel his arms around me. I told him just to lift me up, so I could reach the fruit. He was strong and gentle, and I will never forget how it felt to have his arms holding me.”

  She paused, and in the darkness, when he looked at her, her face had become grim. “That was when Father came by on his horse, and he shouted at him to put me down, which he did immediately. There, in my presence, with his riding stick, Father lashed at him, at his head, his back, his chest, and he just stood there, taking everything, not whimpering, not warding off the blows. I screamed at Father, saying that I had asked him to lift me so that I could reach the fruit, and he told me, in Spanish, so he wouldn’t understand, ‘Go back to the house, you little harlot.’ ” She paused again, then said, “Perhaps I really am a harlot, Luis—but only to you now, only to you.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “It was a month later that I finally saw him for the last time. By then I had to leave Negros to come to Manila for school—the vacation was over. It was on my conscience—God, how it bothered me! I stole money from my mother, from my father—not much, maybe a thousand pesos, something they would not notice. Then I got my biggest diamond ring. Early one evening, when Father was in Bacolod with his mistress and I knew that he wouldn’t be back until dawn, I went to the cane field. He did not want to, he was afraid, but I—I am a little harlot. It hurt, but I didn’t mind. I gave him the money and the diamond ring and told him to run away, never to come back, and never to see me again.”

  “So I must run away, too,” Luis said sadly, “and never see you again.”

  “No!” she said emphatically. “You will do no such thing.”

  “We are both wiser now,” Luis said. “You cannot be my—”

  “Little harlot,” she finished the sentence with a nervous laugh. “No—not your fault, Louie. And don’t get ideas from all the novels you have read—that I am a nympho. I am not and will not be one. And more than this, remember that the Danteses are proud. Very proud.”

  “What will you prove?”

  She rose and brushed the wrinkles from her dress. “Nothing,” she said, her eyes shining. “I am not trying to prove anything. I just want to be able to live honestly—with myself.”

  She did not want him to drive her home, so he walked with her to the boulevard, where she hailed a taxi. And when she had gone, Luis went back to the porch, the darkness above studded with stars. In the tall leafy
acacias beyond the high, serrated wall, cicadas were lost in the city.

  Words, nothing but words, but they were Ester’s, and remembering them, he was filled with gratitude and humility; she had given him a gift of love, which, however she might define it or gloss over it or diminish it, would always be more than what he could give.

  CHAPTER

  29

  It was one of those cool January mornings. The sea breeze and the scent of roses blooming in the patch below his window flooded the room; the sun splashed on the floor and on the cream-colored walls; and the white voile curtains breathed in and out of the wide, bright frame of a window. Marta had switched on the radio in the hall at half volume, and it was playing a schmaltzy tune: “Stardust” again. Mayas twittered in the rubber trees in the yard, and cars hummed on the boulevard.

  Luis sat on his bed, then bent low, pressed his forehead to the mattress, and let the blood flow to his brain. After a while in this position, he rose and went to the bathroom. He let the shower run, and soon delicious slivers of cold tingled his nerves. When he came out Marta was already making his bed and fluffing up his pillows. “Are there tomatoes in the refrigerator?” he asked.

  “I’ll see, Apo,” Marta said, walking to the door.

  “Slice and sprinkle them with salt. If there are salted eggs, that’s more than enough for breakfast.”

  I am a woman conceiving—he was amused by the thought. Tomatoes, salted eggs. There’s nothing like starting the day with something salty. His body had awakened. Luis went to the dining room, his hair glistening with Vaseline. He ate the tomatoes with relish, and the hard golden yolk of the salted duck eggs was still in his mouth when he glanced at the hall and saw Simeon waiting for him in the foyer, twirling his khaki driver’s cap. “I’ll go down now,” Luis told him. The gold-numeraled clock in the hall indicated that it was past ten. He was late and mildly irritated. If Ester did not talk so much—and thinking of her kept him awake through most of the night—he would have gotten to bed earlier. He dressed quickly, threw his robe on the bed, and hurried down.

  Simeon drove fast, but as they neared his office the car got meshed up again in the morning traffic. “Any instructions, Apo?” Simeon asked as he parked.

  ‘Just leave the car and go back home,” he said. Ester might visit him again, and he could not tell her to leave. Now he needed her, not as a woman but as sustenance. She should leave him well enough alone, she could not go on fooling herself or him, but the compulsion to be with her was stronger now. “If Ester comes to the house,” he told the driver, “tell her to call me up in the office—that is, if I am not home yet.”

  The Dantes building was near the Escolta, flanked by office buildings and shops. It was one of the newest in the area, for most of the buildings were erected before the war and the Dantes building featured awnings and a marble foyer and was completely air-conditioned. In the back was a big parking area, but it was never really full, for most of the Dantes employees had no cars; Luis, with his big black Chrysler and uniformed driver, was an exception.

  He walked briskly through the back door, to the elevator, and pitched up to the fourth floor. As usual Eddie was already at his typewriter. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning, Eddie?” he said gaily as he flung his portfolio atop the low shelf of books behind the desk. Eddie paused and looked at him apprehensively. “Better hurry and see the Old Man. He was here quite early asking for you. I think he has been crying—his eyes were swollen and misty—or maybe he had too much drink last night.”

  “He doesn’t drink, you know that,” Luis said. He sat on his swivel chair and quickly pored over the mail. Already there was a letter from Trining. He recognized her pastel blue stationery and penmanship—the full loops, the exaggerated cross of her t’s. Contributions—he could discern that by the weight of the envelopes. He separated them from his personal mail and dumped them on Eddie’s desk.

  “See if you can hash one up to catch up with this issue.”

  Eddie nodded. Without looking up from his work, he said, “I really think you should go see the Old Man right away, Luis.”

  Luis pushed the green door, which bore his and Eddie’s names in gold script, and went out.

  Miss Vale, Dantes’s grim and antiseptic-looking secretary, told him to go straight into the publisher’s office. Eduardo Dantes was at his desk, his head bowed, his long bony hands folded on the glass top. His temples were graying, and the lines on his wide, sallow forehead were deep. He was fifty-five, but he looked much older and very tired. Having used a great amount of energy building not only his publishing house but also other businesses, he should retire now, but he had said in his characteristic soft-spoken swagger that he was good for another three decades, even if in the last he would have to go to work in a wheelchair, “for that’s the way the cookie crumbles.” He was always neatly dressed, in linen suits and alligator shoes, and his silk ties were from Paris. He wore no jewelry, unlike many other wealthy Filipinos, who plastered their shirts with diamond buttons and cuff links. He had a simple gold wedding band.

  In that particular Dantes manner, he did not look at Luis squarely. “Sit down,” he said, unfolding his hands. He started fidgeting with the gold cigarette lighter on the wide glass-topped desk. Luis sat on one of the green leather upholstered chairs that ringed the Old Man’s desk. Still without looking at him, Dantes stood up and proceeded to the window. He looked through the clear polished glass as if lost in thought. He brought out a Sobranie but did not offer Luis one. Yes, his eyes were quite swollen.

  “How well did you know my daughter, Luis?” he asked distinctly.

  Luis was startled. “I wish you’d tell me first why you are asking me this question, sir,” he said, wondering what Ester had done. Had she finally gone to her father, just as he had gone to his, and confronted him?

  Dantes faced him, his eyes red and filmy. He stuck the cigarette into his thin mouth but did not light it, then he took it and squashed it on the ashtray on his desk. “You are always wary, always trying to walk out of traps,” he said. His countenance continued to be sullen.

  “That is not a fair observation, sir,” Luis said, feeling badgered. “I thought I was impulsive most of the time.”

  Dantes shook his head and went back to his desk. “This is not a business discussion, Luis, but it is important—perhaps more important than business.”

  “But I wouldn’t be able to know her more than you do,” Luis said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

  “You could have been in love with her,” Dantes suggested, looking away.

  Luis settled back in his chair and laughed hollowly. “You must be joking, sir. You know, of course, that I have just gotten married.”

  Dantes turned away, took another cigarette, and lighted it. He inhaled deeply. “That makes it simpler,” he said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Dantes sounded remote and his voice was raspy. “Ester is dead, Luis. I hope this means something to you.”

  Luis clutched the arms of his chair, half rose, then slumped back. “No—this cannot be. No!” he cried, but this was Ester’s father telling him that Ester was dead. “I am very sorry, sir,” he stammered, “but how—only last night—”

  “Suicide.”

  “No,” he cried again. “Why did she do it? It’s unthinkable—Ester!”

  “This morning,” Dantes continued calmly now, “she didn’t come down for breakfast. Her room was locked from the inside, so we forced it open. Sleeping tablets—one whole bottle.”

  Now, with sudden and vicious truculence, bits of Luis’s talk with her came back and clawed at him. “She was with me last night,” Luis said. “We went out for a drive, and she had dinner in the house. My cook prepared paella, and we talked. We talked. I wanted to drive her back, because I had picked her up. She said she would go home alone. I got her a cab at the boulevard—”

  “Was there anything to indicate that she would do this?” The publisher’s tone was demanding.

&nbs
p; He gripped the edge of the publisher’s desk. “I don’t know what you are driving at, sir,” Luis said grimly. “I liked your daughter very much—although we had arguments, too. I felt great affection for her. I do not deny this, but to imply that I am the cause—”

  “No,” Dantes cut him short. “I am not saying that, but did she confide anything? I must get to the bottom of it, can you not see?”

  Luis sat back and shook his head. “Am I to know everything?”

  “Do not misunderstand,” Dantes said, opening his drawer. “I have a letter for you from her. It was on her dresser. It surprised me very much that she wrote to you at all.”

  Luis felt a chill ride to the tips of his fingers. “I’d do anything to have her back,” he said with great feeling. “Ester—she is one of the most wonderful people I have ever met.”

  “She wrote only two notes,” Dantes said. His voice seemed about to break, and he paused for a while. “The other was for her mother and me.” He placed the sealed letter on his table. Luis took it and hastily opened it. It was, like the address on the envelope, in Ester’s hand. “Dear Luis [the greeting was so prosaic!]—Did you know that I once won the school hundred-meter dash? Please forgive me. Ester.”

  “There is not much here,” Luis lied, shoving the letter back.

  “Nothing?”

  “See for yourself.”

  Dantes fingered the note silently. “There’s nothing? But everything is here. Why should she ask for your forgiveness?”

  “She regarded me, I think, as her best friend. She knew that I would not approve of what she did. She was running away all the time—like me. Most of the time. Sir, this you will not understand.”

  “What was she running away from?”

  “I don’t know. It could be life itself, and she got tired of running. We talked about it.”

  Dantes was silent again. “May I keep this note?” he said after a while.

  “I’ve seen it,” Luis said simply.