Francisco Jose - Don Vicente - Two Novels

“I understand, Father,” Luis said. He had wanted to ask, of what use is power when it is coveted just by one man, or one group, without the consent of those who are ruled? How long can it last? But the question did not need to be asked, for he knew, too, what the old man would say — that there are those who are destined to rule, to hold power, not because it is their blood but because they are created to rule, to manipulate, in the same way that there are men who are destined to work, to be slaves, to be patronized, to be cared for like children. History is like that, and the Philippines and the Filipinos are no exceptions.

His father was being redundant again. “It is obvious, of course, particularly to those of us who know. The Dantes family — you know Dantes is not in politics, but his brothers and relatives are. They have the whole of the Visayas — perhaps I exaggerate — but Negros and Panay are in their hands. They have intermarried with one another. Not all of Dantes’s papers are making money, but they are forms of investment. Look how scared the politicians are of him. I read in the columns that even the president does not dare cross his path. And why? He has political power, and he can also manipulate public opinion. Do not forget, I may be shut off here, but I read — and think — and remember. I knew the Dantes family when they had nothing but a couple of bancas . Now look at their shipping, their transport system, their bank, their publishing — and the politicians they control. Do you know that they could be hurt if the Philippine Bank, which they think they own, were to foreclose their loans? The bank, of course, will not do such a thing …”

Luis knew of the vast political and economic power that the Danteses, as the country’s leading sugar family, wielded. He also knew that to work for Dantes meant giving him not only one’s loyalty, sweat, and blood, et cetera, but also, as the boys in the Press Club often said, “giving him your balls.”

But Dantes was an ideal employer. When he traveled, which was twice a year, he always brought six or more of the staffers — first class, of course. For his particular pets he bought cars, homes, vacations — and when they became too old or too unwieldy in his publications he kicked them upstairs as vice presidents or consultants in his other enterprises.

It was common knowledge on newspaper row that his editorial writers and columnists, like Abelardo Cruz and Etang Papel, were reduced to lackeys and wrote according to rote, but Luis did not have to go through such an ordeal.

In his one and only job interview, the publisher had told him, “I will give you complete freedom, not only in the way you run your magazine but in picking your staff. I know of your quarrel with your father rector. I admire your independence; just remember that my interest is in this country’s progress — if the country progresses, we progress, too.”

“All the big papers are owned by powerful Filipinos, Father,” Luis said. “Dantes is no exception.”

“Which simply buttresses my position,” Don Vicente said. “But the sugar industry is not good for the country, Luis. I can see that now. We are not even producing enough rice. You often write about exploitation of the poor. Someday you should go to Negros. I have some friends there. Spaniards. And talk about exploitation! They rape the prettiest daughters of their workers. They horsewhip their people when they catch them chewing cane. It’s like a thirsty man in a brewery, sipping just a little! And the sacadas —this is 1950. They were exploited in 1930 and in 1940. Someday you should write an article on the sugar quota and you will find many interesting things … and they say the hacenderos of Luzon are the exploiters. All these Visayans, with their easygoing ways, their effeminate intonation — they are the most vicious of landlords.”

The drone of traffic drifted to the room — the provincial bus screeching to a stop to disgorge its passengers at the junction, the creak of unoiled bull-cart wheels going through the gate, away from the warehouse at the rear, and toward the open field. His father again, this time with pronounced seriousness: “But more than anything, can’t you see? I am no more than an old bundle of bones. I am no longer healthy. I cannot look after the land as well anymore as I should.” He coughed slightly, then shook his head and pressed his pudgy hands to his chest. “It hurts, but not as much as when I think of what they are doing to me. These accursed peasants — they lie and cheat and get away with everything because I can no longer ride out there. God knows the hacienda was once the best in this part of the country, better than the one in Santa Maria, Tayug, or San Miguel. Did you know that once upon a time this town was the hub of the rice trade, that we could supply all of the rice needs of the province and even of Tarlac if we wanted to? Hard work — not just mine but also that of your ancestors, my grandfather, your great grandfather …”

The same old story again — Luis knew it by heart and was bored by it. His eyes wandered to the spiral iron staircase at the foot of his father’s bed, and once more he mused about the tower room he and Trining had never entered. Once, when he was new in the house and had thought he could go anywhere, he had asked permission from his father, who was then propped in bed as he was now, having his tray of coffee, but Don Vicente had told him brusquely that the tower room was private and no one — absolutely no one — ever went up there. Once, when he and Trining were left in the house, since his father had gone to Cabugawan to visit the tenants there, they had, like conspirators, decided to invade his father’s eyrie. They had gone gingerly up the spiral staircase, and at the top they rammed themselves against the door. It was securely locked and refused to yield. He wondered, but only for an instant, about the secrets the tower room held; and when he was past his teens he mused that perhaps that was where his old man stored his dirty pictures.

“… This is a great place to live in, Luis, but one must be strong to live here — and practical; one must know how to deal with the weakness in oneself as with those in others.”

Luis bowed, as if in thought, and his gaze wandered to the fine polished planks of narra that made up the floor — long, wide, and shiny, the grain pulsing through. It was almost impossible to get this kind of wood now, for the big trees that once stood in this part of the country had been cut down. Indeed, this house, though a replica of what was burned, was the handiwork of his forebears, the Asperris. It could well be the vaulting monument of their perseverance and their cunning. He knew the story by rote, as his own people in Sipnget had told him — how the Americans came with their transits and their measuring rods, how the Spaniards worked with the Americans, and how with no more than scraps of paper they made binding and permanent the bondage of those who had from the beginning felled the trees, cut the grass, killed the snakes, and dammed the creeks, so that this inhospitable land could be made gracious and fecund.

History is written by the strong? Where had he read that before? Was it Vic, his half-brother, who had quoted it to him, or one of his radical friends in the university? Again the old anger was brought to life and with it the sense of futility that he could do nothing, nothing, for it was not in him to do battle with the wind, not with his puny body, not with his shallow intellect, least of all with his poetry. He cringed again at having to listen to his father’s fears, his expectations, and he listened to the old man as one would hearken to a knell.

“I will go as most men must go, but I want honesty between us. You are my son, my blood is in your veins, my sinews …”