Francisco Jose - Don Vicente - Two Novels

Cousin Andring beckoned to the old man. “David,” he called pointedly, “don’t tell me you were drunk again and forgot.”

The old man mumbled something about the horse being slow, but Cousin Andring went on: “Hurry with the bags.” Three pieces of baggage lay at his feet. David picked up one — a leather valise, the biggest of the three, and sagged under its weight.

“Careful!” Tia Antonia hissed. “My thermos bottle and medicines are in there.”

Old David smiled as he picked up the bag and walked away. Cousin Andring called him back and told him to take one more bag, but the old man walked on.

“The old lazy drunk!” Cousin Andring swore. “I cannot understand why Tio tolerates him. He is late, and now he is also insolent.”

He picked up the two bags and, overtaking the old man, dumped one on his shoulder. Old David momentarily staggered, but he balanced the bag and carried it to the back of the calesa .

“It is about time Tio bought a car,” Cousin Andring said as we joggled up the dirt road to town. “I don’t see why he doesn’t. He has the money.”

“Whip the horse, David,” Tia Antonia said irritably. “I’m hungry.”

Old David whacked the reins on the back of the animal, but its pace did not change. Cousin Andring grabbed the rattan whip slung on the brace beside the old man. He moved to the front and sat beside me on the front seat, then leaning forward, he lashed at the horse. Our speed did not pick up, so he gave up after a while. “The servants and the horses Tio keeps,” Cousin Andring said in disgust, “they are all impossible.”

Father met us at the gate. After they had alighted, Old David took the calesa to the stable. He carried the bags upstairs and let me take the heavy leather harness off the horse.

I led the animal to its watering trough and watched it take long draughts. Old David came to my side and, breathing heavily, told me to go up to the house, where they were waiting for me at lunch.

“I’m not hungry,” I said.

Old David shook his head, then scrubbed the moist, steaming hide of the animal. “All morning you have been bringing rice and vegetables from Carmay,” he spoke softly to the horse’s ear. “Then you are whipped and cursed.” He laughed mirthlessly. “ Ay! It’s the life of a horse for you.”

From the kitchen window Sepa called me; Father would be angry if I did not eat my lunch on time. I turned and left Old David.

The kitchen hummed that night; the stove fires burned bright, and the servants moved briskly about. In the wide yard, under the balete tree, Father’s tenants butchered a carabao , several pigs, and a goat. The activity in the house, the boisterous laughter of Cousin Andring in the sala , where he told stories to Father and the other arrivals, made sleep difficult.

A light flickered in the stable — an old squat building with a rusty tin roof at one end of the yard. It was strange that a light should still be on there, so I went down to look. The door was bolted from the inside. I peeped through a crack and saw the horse prostrate on the sawdust, and Old David sitting on an empty can beside it. He let me in.

“He is very sick,” he explained. He watched the beast’s dilated nostrils, its dull, rasping breath. He had covered the animal with jute sacks soaked in warm water.

“Will it die?”

He lifted the storm lamp on the ground and looked at me. “There is a limit even to the strength of a horse,” he said.

I stayed with him for some time and helped drive away the flies that crawled on the horse’s head. He carried pails of boiling water from where the tenants were heating water in big iron vats, and when the water was no longer very warm, he poured it on the jute sacks that covered the animal.

Soon the roosters perched on the guava trees crowed. It was past eleven. “Go to sleep now,” Old David told me. “Tomorrow is a big day, and don’t let a sick horse worry you.” He thanked me and walked with me to the stairs.

Sleep was long in coming. The laughter in the hall, the incessant hammering in the yard, the scurrying feet of servants persisted all through the night. Between brief lapses of sleep I thought I heard the insistent neighing of the horse.

In the morning more of Father’s tenants and their wives and children trooped to town. Under the balete tree a long table made of loose planks and bamboo stands was set. Big chunks of carabao meat and pork with green papayas steamed in cauldrons for them. I passed the drinks — gin and basi —and played no favorites. To each I gave only a cup.

The tenants never went up to the house where Father’s relatives and friends gathered in the sala around a big round table laden with our food, fat rolls of morcon, caldereta, dinardaraan, lechon , and, from La Granja, tinto dulce , sherry, anisado .

Before the food was served to the tenants Old David came to me with a big bottle.

“Fill it up,” he pleaded.

“You’ll get drunk again,” I said, knowing I already had given him three cups of gin.

“It’s for the horse,” he said. “A little alcohol might help it.”

I could not refuse the old man.

Before noon, when the food was about to be served to the tenants, the five demijohns under my care were empty. I went to the stable to see how the horse was. It will be better in the morning, Old David had told me the night before. He was still in the stable. His withered face was red, and the bottle of gin I had given him was on the ground, half empty.

“Old David, you drank the wine,” I said, angered by his lie.

He nodded and grinned foolishly, his black teeth showing. “It’s no use,” he said, pointing to the horse that now lay still on the sawdust, its eyes wide open. Several flies were feasting on its eyes, on the streams of saliva that had dried on its mouth. The jute sacks that had covered its brown hide were scattered around.

“Only a while ago,” Old David explained, shaking his head.

“Father must know,” I said.

“No, not on a day like this. All these people. What will he say?”

“It is his horse,” I said. “Tell him.”

“It’s an old horse, and it was more mine than his,” Old David whined. “He never liked it. He had no need for it.”

“If I tell him myself, it will not be good for you,” I told him.

He stood up and, with wobbly steps, followed me to the house. In the sala Father and his guests were already eating. I went to him and told him Old David had something important to say. He beckoned to the old man, who remained standing at the top of the stairs where I had left him. He walked to the table and whispered the news in Father’s ear.

“No!” Father exclaimed. He turned to the startled assemblage. “Of all things to happen on my birthday!”

Cousin Andring, who sat near him, bent over and asked, “Not bad news, is it?”

“It is,” Father said, but there was no trace of grief in his voice. “My old horse is dead. All the rest the Japanese took. But this. Now it’s dead.” He turned to the old man. “What did it die of?”

“I don’t really know, Apo. Maybe exhaustion.”

“I always knew that horse couldn’t endure it,” Cousin Andring said. “You should have hitched another yesterday, David.”

“There is none other,” Old David said. He turned to Father. “What shall we do now, Apo?”

Father stroked his chin, exaggerating the gesture. “Well, inasmuch as no one wants to eat the meat of a dead horse, there is only one alternative left. David, you bury the horse.”

Father’s guests roared.

“Tell us,” Father went on when the laughter subsided, “when did it die?”