Francisco Jose - Don Vicente - Two Novels

Breakfast was waiting. I took a small cup of chocolate, then went down to the street. Day was clear, and the sky was swept clean and blue with but wisps of clouds pressed flat against its rim. The banabas along the road seemed greener maybe because my eyes had so long been dulled by the dirty browns and grays of the city. Housewives were hanging their wash in their yards, and their half-naked children played in the street, their runny noses outlined in dirt. The day smelled good with the witchery of October, the tingling sun. Tomorrow, it would probably rain.

It was a long walk to the cemetery. The morning etched clearly all the white crosses and the gumamela shrubs that the grave watchers tended. I walked through narrow paths between the tombs, past the small chapel in the center of the cemetery, beyond which was Mother’s tomb, and now Father’s, too.

A woman was bent before the white slab of stone, and, as she turned I caught a view of her face. I was not mistaken — it was Father’s woman. When she saw me, she stood up and walked swiftly away. I followed her with my eyes, until she disappeared behind a sprout of cogon that hid the road.

I went to the tomb and picked up the bouquet she had left — a simple bundle of sampaguitas — then placed it back on the slab. It was not yet completely dry, and the gray cement that the masons had left unleavened still cluttered the base.

I remembered my first visit, Father’s quavering voice again: Nena, I’ve brought your son to you now that he is old enough.

I must see her, tell her it’s useless harboring ill will. I hurried from the warren of white crosses and headed for the river, down a gully, and along the riverbed until I came to another gully beyond where she lived.

The footpath was widened by carabaos that went down to the river to bathe, and beyond the bank was her house. It looked shabby from the outside, with its grass roof and buri walls already bleached and battered. A bamboo gate was at the end of the narrow path. I pushed it open.

Within the yard, I called: “Man. There’s a man. Good morning.”

No answer. I went up the bamboo stairs. From the half-open door I could see the narrow living room furnished with three rattan chairs, a coffee table with crocheted doilies, and some magazines. A Coleman lamp dangled from the beam above the room. In a corner was a table clock and a sewing machine. A vase with wilted gumamelas was on a mahogany dresser near the open window.

“Man. There’s a man,” I repeated. Still no answer.

In the room that adjoined the sala , someone stirred.

“Please,” I said, rapping on the bamboo post by the door, “I have to see you. I wanted to talk with you at the cemetery, but you left so quickly.”

A shuffle of feet, then she flung the door open and I saw her — not she who was gay and laughing but a tired and unhappy woman, her eyes swollen from crying. Her hair, which would have looked elegant if it were combed, cascaded down her shoulders. She was dressed in a dark shapeless blouse. From her neck dangled a red bead necklace whose medallion of polished gold rested in the valley of her bosom.

“What do you want?” she asked, glaring at me. Then recognition came, and the annoyance in her face vanished.

“You are his son,” she said simply.

“I want to talk with you,” I said.

She came to me. “Why did you come? You don’t have to. It is not necessary.”

“I have to,” I said. “Maybe, because we both lost someone. Maybe …”

“But you didn’t love him,” she said, looking straight at me.

I was too surprised to answer.

“I suspected it all along,” she said sadly. “Many did not like him, and I wouldn’t blame his only son for feeling the same way. Sometimes blood isn’t really enough.”

“You are wrong,” I said. Coherent speech was mine again. “I respected him.”

“Respected him! What a difference!”

I did not know how to argue with her; she did not give me a chance.

“Let me tell you,” she said hastily. “He was not good and he was not kind, and that is why they killed him. But he had virtues, and he was really good in his own way. Not many understood, but I did, and that’s why—” She brought the handkerchief to her eyes and started sobbing. She slumped on one of the chairs, her body shaking with her sobs.

“Please don’t cry,” I said.

She dropped the handkerchief on her lap and turned to me. “He loved you,” she said. “He used to talk so much about you.”

“That’s not true,” I said, unable to hold it back any longer. “That’s not true at all!”

“Ay!” She sighed. She rose and walked to the window. “If only we know the things that are hidden in the hearts of others, the world wouldn’t be such a sad place.” Outside, the sunshine was a silver flood. The birds on the grass roof twittered.

“He never cared for me,” I said plainly. “He tried to but—”

“But he did! And you call him Father! You didn’t even understand him!” she exclaimed. “You were very close to him, and you didn’t even know how he felt! And here I was, seeing him only once or twice a week, and I knew so many things. But maybe it’s because I’m a woman. I do know! You have to believe it now that he’s dead. We could have gotten married, lived together. He loved you, and he said he failed you because of me and many other things that he had to do, although he didn’t want to. The death of this Baldo, his helplessness before your Don Vicente. All these he told me and blamed himself. How will you ever understand? You have to be a man …”

There was nothing for me to say.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Seventeen.”

“So young,” she said, “so very young!”

I gazed out of the window, at the caved banks of the river. “I’ll be leaving, maybe tomorrow,” I said.

She came to me again and held my arm lightly. We walked to the door. A breeze stirred the tall cogon grass that surrounded the house.

“What will you do now?” I asked.

She bit her lower lip, and when she looked at me, resignation was on her face. “What can I do?”

“You’ll stay here?”

Her voice was dry: “Yes. Where will I go? To the city, like you? I’ve been there. You are thinking perhaps that if I leave I can start anew? I ask you: what for?”

She left me at the door and walked to her dresser. Before the oval mirror she examined her face, her swollen eyes. She was beautiful, even though grief had distorted her face.

“If there is anything you need, you can go to the house, to my Cousin Marcelo. I’ll tell him to give you everything you need.”

She turned quickly to me. “No,” she said sharply. “No, thank you. I don’t think I’ll ever go there. I’ve some pride, you know.”

“I want to help.”

“You can’t,” she said, trying to smile. “Thank you for the thought. I am ashamed, that’s all. But not with him. Only in the beginning. Then I wasn’t ashamed anymore, even when I felt a hundred eyes stab me in the market, in church; one gets used to it. The skin thickens with the years.” Fresh tears welled in her eyes. “But believe me, with him I was not ashamed. Never. Maybe I loved him deeply, although that didn’t seem possible.”

“Please, don’t cry,” I said.

She daubed her eyes. “Well, you see me crying now, but I will stop. I’ll powder my face and comb my hair, then go out. And should another man come up that path, do you expect me to shut the door?”

I did not answer. I turned and stepped down the stairs into the blinding sunlight.

So it must be; I left Rosales, relegating that town to a sweet oblivion in the mind. I left behind people who should not intrude into the peace that, I thought, I could build and reinforce with a wealth of means that is mine by inheritance.