Francisco Jose - Don Vicente - Two Novels

A shallow curve, then the Asperri house comes into view, fortresslike, surrounded by a brick wall covered with dying strands of cadena de amor , which would turn lush and green with the first rains of May. As a little boy, he had seen another house, of brick, paned with colored glass as this house was now paned, overlooking the whole town, higher than the church steeple, taller than the coconut palm but not as high as the balete tree. Before the war, as with the municipio , this house was burned by a small band of men — fanatics who professed an implacable hatred for the Asperris, members of some native religion that enshrined Bonifacio and Rizal and the whole phalanx of heroes who had fought the Spaniards. He had read about them, heard about them from his grandfather and his mother, and secretly he had shared the sentiments that had propelled them to violence. There were even times when Luis had mused how it would have turned out if they had chanced upon his father in the old house and killed him, too, as they had killed his uncle and his aunt. Then he would not have been born — a wish that came to him in those moments of anguished self-doubt that were far more frequent now that he was secure and never in want than in the days when he was sunburned, barefoot, and perpetually hungry in that godforsaken corner called Sipnget.

A new house had been built — a replica of what had been destroyed in one night of fury, but sturdier of foundation and with the latest accoutrements, for his father loved comfort, ease, and of course, the power that his lands and other forms of wealth had brought him. He had lived in Europe and in Manila indulging in his pleasures; he had not intended to go back to Rosales to manage a hacienda and those simple Ilokanos and live like a hermit as his brother had done; he had gone through that experience already, had loathed Rosales and would have found the small town unlivable — but there was duty, not just to what his forebears had carved, but to his young niece, who had survived that indescribable night.

This was home, this was the repository of the past, and every boy in town regarded it with awe. It was as secret as the sacristy, for very few had been inside it and hardly anybody knew what moved within its caverns.

In its yard were the ancient trees that had been spared by the fire. From a distance they looked like green mounds from which the battlements rose, dull red and white, their glass windows reflecting bits of sun. Wooden caryatids of buxom women naked from the waist up adorned the corners that faced the street. Although the house was not old, the original red paint had not been renewed and the cracked red walls gave the house an ancient, medieval look.

It was just as well, for Luis had once likened the house to a storybook castle, sinister with dungeons — but dungeons in which the prisoners had a beautiful time, served as they were with bread and water. In Sipnget, where Luis had grown up, he had tasted bread only on Sundays, when his mother went to town to sell a few greens and came back with her rattan basket half-filled with soap, matches, salt, sugar, and a couple of pan de sal for her two boys.

He had lived part of his boyhood in this house, but he had never regarded it as home, not as he did that poor hut in Sipnget. This huge house was nothing but slabs of stone, solid pieces of wood, and polished floors, and servants who flitted about at his slightest whim, barefoot and nameless, although he knew where they came from. They were his people once upon a time, but he was an Asperri now and that made all the difference.

“I did not really expect you to come,” Santos said quietly.

“And why not?” Luis felt badgered again, for Santos was right. Luis had been transparent to persons other than himself and his cousin. “It’s vacation time, isn’t it?” He did not care to hear Santos’s reply, and he did not hear him mumble it. They were nearing home, and they slowed down as they passed the Chinese accesorias his father owned, the bootblacks, and the travelers at the bus station. They paused once as Simeon let a caromata pass, then he swerved to the right, to the wide-open driveway lines with well-tended azucena plots and potted roses. The car stopped on the broad tile landing of the marble stairway.

A young man he had never seen before, in faded khaki, a pistol tucked on his hip, appeared from behind the stairway, opened the door, and saluted. At first Luis took him for one of the soldiers who manned the outpost they had passed and who must somehow have strayed into the house. Beyond the driveway, at the door of the storehouse, were more men in khaki, armed with Garands and carbines.

“Who are they?” Luis pointed to the armed men.

Simeon turned to him. “Our civilian guards,” he said matter-of-factly. It suddenly became clear that Rosales was like the rest of the country — in turmoil — and it was here, right in this very house, that the turmoil was perhaps keenest and deepest.

“Shall I go tell him now that you are here?” Santos asked, turning to Luis and Trining as he stepped out of the car.

“No,” Trining said, “you may go.”

Luis got out. He had not driven such a distance in a long time, and a sense of relief filled him. He greeted the servants who had emerged from the shadows and were now around them, vying with one another for the leather luggage in the trunk. Luis went up with his cousin. The stuffiness converged upon them — the mustiness, the meticulous polish of the woodwork, the stifling opulence, the magnificent pink chandelier from Venice in the center of the hall, which his father had brought back from one of his trips to the Continent before Luis was born, and the bronze statue of the farmer with the plow at the end of the hall, fashioned by a nameless sculptor from Manila.

Trining led Luis to his father’s bedroom. On the carved narra door he rapped twice. The voice from within — hollow and expectant — told them to enter. All the blinds of the room were down and it was almost dark, but Luis saw Don Vicente Asperri at once on the high-canopied bed. The old man was propped up by a stack of pillows. He was in pajamas, and his huge body seemed to melt into the thick slab of mattress. His eyes were squinting now, and his thick lips were half open, as if in a smile.

Luis went to him and held his father’s big hand to his forehead. As he and Trining withdrew to sit on two wrought-iron chairs near the window, Don Vicente beckoned to them, his voice soft but firm. “Come nearer, I can’t see you well.”

“Luis, so you have finished college,” he said after they had drawn their chairs close to the bed. Luis turned to Trining briefly, but her expression was noncommittal. “In a way, Papa. But I have no diploma yet.”

Luis watched his father’s face. Don Vicente grunted, but whether his reaction meant displeasure or plain indifference Luis was not able to fathom. The old man turned to the girl: “And how’s college?”

Trining sighed. “Fine, Tio, but don’t ask me about my grades. Those nuns, they are never satisfied with my term papers.” Don Vicente shook his head, and the loose folds of fat on his chin trembled. His countenance was happy. “What do you intend to do now, Luis?” he asked, blinking.

“I hope you won’t object, Father,” Luis said hesitantly. He had grown familiar with the dimness, and looking at his father’s face, at his red misty eyes for any sign of disapproval, he continued, “I have found a job.”

“You are working?” Don Vicente asked in disbelief.

Trining nodded. “At least it will keep him out of mischief. He will no longer go around fighting priests.”

“Luis — fighting priests?” Don Vicente asked in alarm. He stretched himself upon his pile of pillows and stared at his son.