Francisco Jose - Don Vicente - Two Novels

Now it was evident why she felt lighthearted the whole day, and suddenly it struck me as wonderful — her singing on a stage. From bits of talk in the school, I gleaned that she had studied voice once, but never during the past few weeks that she had stayed with us had she raised her voice in a full-bodied song.

As for Mr. Sanchez, our mathematics teacher, he made not the slightest effort to hide his rich baritone as big as himself, and he could best any male teacher in the school, I am sure, not only in hog-calling but in wrestling.

Miss Santillan turned around and looked at the piano in the hall — a relic that had belonged to my mother. It was more of a prop whose presence was a status necessity in all big houses. Its dark mahogany shone dully through the red shawllike cover that ran down the keyboard and almost hid the rectangular stool. It sulked in the west corner, flanked by two wrought-iron pedestals that supported palmetto fronds. Its stage was elevated a step high, and surrounding it, lining the curving wall, were square glass plates that reflected bits of light. Though constantly cleaned by Sepa, its thin casing had started to crack and peel. I could knock out a tune with one finger, but I never heard it played properly; its only complaint against the obscurity to which it had been flung was a disconcerting jangle of the chords when Sepa ran a rag over the keyboard to wipe off the dust.

“I think I will yet play a tune on that,” Miss Santillan suddenly said, moving toward it.

Sepa dropped the magazine.

“Why doesn’t someone play it, anyway?” Miss Santillan asked me. “It’s easy to learn, you know. Was it never intended to be played?”

“It is, ma’am,” I said.

A cryptic smile crossed her face, then she strode toward it. Before she could lift the cover, Sepa ran to her side and clamped a firm hand on the piano cover.

“No, maestra ,” the aghast housekeeper said.

“Don’t be foolish,” Miss Santillan reproached her.

“But Apo — he might know. No one has touched it in a long, long time.”

“It’s all right,” Miss Santillan assured her. “I’ll play softly. Besides,” she turned to me, “your father won’t be back till midnight.”

Sepa backed helplessly away. “I’ll explain it to him,” the teacher said. She eased herself onto the stool and cracked her knuckles. “I haven’t touched a piano in ages.”

She played a folk song and occasionally struck a broken string. She did not step on the pedals because they did not respond, and with the piano lid closed, the music was muffled, distant. She did not complete a piece; she just rippled through snatches of melody.

She turned to me afterward to ask what song I wanted to hear. She would play a complete piece. Her question lost urgency, and her face quickly darkened.

“Play a mazurka. Any mazurka,” Father answered for me; he had returned much earlier than we had expected and had perhaps stood by the door, for how long we did not know.

“Sepa told me not to touch it,” Miss Santillan explained. “I thought I might still be able to play … it was such a long time …”

Father did not listen to her blurted explanation. “I should have known that you play well — with fire, with emotion.” He was euphoric. He brushed aside the housekeeper, who had gone to him with a mouthful of excuses.

“We didn’t expect you to come home so soon,” Miss Santillan said, stepping down from the platform.

Father was still grinning. “Chan Hai has had too much cerveza , and his moves weren’t wise. But go on. Play.”

Miss Santillan reluctantly returned to the piano. Her long housedress swished against her legs. “Some of the keys are out of tune,” she said, and struck one to emphasize her point. “And a few strings are broken.” She struck a few keys again.

“I know,” Father said, “but go on. Play.”

He turned and went to his rocking chair in the azotea , wheeled the chair around so he would face us, and digging a pouch from his shirt pocket, filled his pipe and lighted it. In the cool light of the Aladdin lamp Miss Santillan looked very pretty. Her hair was brushed up and tied with a blue ribbon at her nape. Her forehead, her cheeks were smooth. As she played, her lips were half open as if in a smile. Father’s eyes were on her hands.

Mr. Sanchez visited us the following afternoon. It was the first time he or any other teacher came to the house. Only the principal visited us; even Miss Santillan’s female coteachers waited at the gate when they wanted something from her. We walked from the schoolhouse with Miss Santillan. Mr. Sanchez was short and dark, with a fleshy face and wavy hair. He wore a white shirt loudly printed with red and green birds. Though he was seldom jovial in school, all the way to the house he teased Miss Santillan on the prospects of their forthcoming stage appearance. What they did not know was that the entire school already shared their secret. He did not want to come up to the house, but when I told him that Father was not home and would not be in until evening, he went up with us. It was not long before he was at ease and Miss Santillan had him sitting beside her on the piano stool as they played “Chopsticks.” It seemed to be the only tune the mathematics teacher could play.

“I haven’t done that in years,” Mr. Sanchez gushed, and Miss Santillan’s eyes shone. They sang a little, Miss Santillan softly, while most of the time Mr. Sanchez’s baritone boomed. After the Angelus had pealed, he said he was going home. Since our supper was not ready yet, would Miss Santillan care for halo-halo in the refreshment parlor by the bus station, and would I please come along as Miss Santillan’s chaperon?

Father returned early, and we met him at the gate. He rattled the iron bars of the fence with his cane. The two teachers greeted him. Father did not ask where we were headed, but Mr. Sanchez felt he had to explain, his baritone changing into a squeaky stammer.

On our way back, the night was black and the balete tree was crowned with fireflies. Mr. Sanchez walked close to Miss Santillan, and sometimes they talked in whispers punctuated by Miss Santillan’s soft laughter.

Roosters perched on the acacia trees along the street crowed. At our gate, I saw Father smoking in the azotea . He rose when we approached. “Your supper is cold,” Father said as he opened the door for us. Without listening to Miss Santillan’s greeting, he hied back to his seat.

After supper, Miss Santillan took her lesson plan and went to the table in the sala where I also did my homework. There Father joined us, his unlighted pipe in his hand. “Aren’t you going to play tonight?” he asked.

“I am tired,” she said politely, “and, really, I don’t know any other piece except those that you’ve already heard.”

Father struck a match.

“Besides, the piano is …”

Father snuffed the light out without kindling his pipe. “I know.” He sounded sorry. “The piano is no good.”

Before Miss Santillan could speak again, he went back to his rocking chair. When we left the table after some time, he was still there, neither smoking nor rocking, the quiet night all around him.

I was not asleep when the familiar scrape of his slippers came down the hall. He paused before my door, then came in, his pipe still unlighted in his hand.

“You went very far this afternoon,” he said.

“No, Father,” I said, trying to make out his face in the dark. “We just had halo-halo at the bus station.”

“With that teacher?”

“Yes.”

He nodded and left.

The following week, Father spent little time in the fields. He came home early; at five he was already in the house, and he always asked Miss Santillan to play after supper. In spite of the repeated invitations of Chan Hai and the new priest, Father paid little attention to chess. One afternoon, four days before the high school concert, a man from Dagupan arrived. He brought the piano to the azotea , where he dismantled it, and it lay, a heap of strings and pieces of anonymous wood, its many felt-covered hammers scattered on the stone floor.