Francisco Jose - Don Vicente - Two Novels

“I am so happy, Luis,” his mother was saying, “I am so happy …”

He sidled close to her and held her hand; her palm was calloused, and a wave of guilt swept over him again. In their moments of need, which were many, he had helped them little. His work and his friends were not that much of a distraction; he had simply forgotten them, and realizing this, he now saw the futility of his coming here, the hypocrisy of it all, but he said without conviction, “I need you. I am so far away, and I cannot come here as often as I want. I will just send you money then, and write to you more often …”

They were silent.

“What is it that you need? Mother, is there any way you can come and see me in Manila, too? I’d like to give you as much of my own money as I can. The little that you have saved, what are you doing with it?”

The old man stirred and looked at his daughter. “Tell him, Nena,” he said.

“What we saved,” his mother said, “we gave to our leaders. You don’t know who they are, but you must know now. Someday, son, we will get back the land your grandfather lost. Then you won’t have to worry about sending us money.”

“Who are these leaders?” His interest was aroused.

“Fine men,” his mother said, “and it won’t be long now before we will succeed. You will see.”

“You may be fooled again — if you are not careful,” he warned them.

“Who knows?” the old man asked, rising from his seat. He inserted the shuttle into a loose fold of the buri wall, lighted his pipe from the lamp, and sat on the floor. “The drowning man clutches at the water lily, hoping that a leaf will save him. Maybe it is the same with us, but this time we are holding on to something bigger — a sturdy raft, not a leaf.”

Luis walked to the window. The night was still, and he could hear the river rushing through the shallows.

“Soon, life here won’t be all darkness,” the old man mused. “We have the right leaders now, Luis — not the way it was.”

“Don’t believe everything your grandfather says,” his mother said. She was spreading the sleeping mat on the bamboo floor. “But something has to be done. Children are born and there is not enough food for them — and you know why.”

This, then, was what they hankered for. How elemental their needs and how little did he heed them. All that he remembered was the greenness of leaves, the taunting face of his father, who by one snap of the finger could dispossess them. Where, then, lay their hope and salvation from years of drudgery? His grandfather’s words came again: “Our leaders are different now. They are not after money. We hold meetings and they tell us how we have been slaves, not just here but in other places, other countries. The only strength we have is in our numbers — the poor are much more numerous than the rich. And someday we will triumph.”

The old man rambled on, but Luis was no longer listening. The sounds of evening, the howling of a dog, and the stray wisps of laughter in Tio Joven’s store came to him.

His mother tugged at his arm. “You will sleep here — in the sipi , where Vic and you used to sleep?”

He shook his head. “I have to go back, Mother.”

“So it must be,” the old man said. “Don’t hold Luis back. I think he belongs there now.”

“I’d like to stay,” Luis said, avoiding the old man’s eyes, “but I have to leave early tomorrow.”

“So soon?” his mother asked. “I thought you would stay here for the vacation.”

“My work, Mother,” he said simply.

They accompanied him down the path, beyond the squat cogon houses. The store was being closed when they passed, and his Tio Joven called out to him again, asking when he would come back, and Luis shouted, “Soon! Surely!”

They paused at the foot of the dike, and they would have talked some more but he bade them good night, and after kissing their hands, he went up the path.

The walk back to the camino , where Simeon waited, seemed unusually long. It was all wrong — his coming here, his going back to Rosales, to a father as impersonal as his caryatids with archaic smiles.

They drove back in silence. Only when the car purred up the driveway did Luis speak. “We go back to the city tomorrow,” he told his driver.

Simeon turned to his master: “So soon, Apo? But we have just gotten here.”

He did not have to explain, but he did. “I have work to do,” he said lamely. “In my kind of work, Simeon, one does not have vacations.” Then his tone became jocular: “Don’t you want to go back to your wife? From the looks of it, you would rather be away from her!”

Trining was in his room, reading the manuscripts in his portfolio. “I didn’t misplace any of these,” she said, turning away from the writing table. “I was waiting. I’m anxious to find out.”

Luis sighed. He removed his shoes and dragged a chair to the door that opened to the azotea , where a breeze and the scent of the garden flowed in. Trining followed him and caressed his nape. “You stayed quite a long time,” she said. “I was beginning to worry.”

“Nothing will happen to me.” He held her, pressing her to him. “Do you think the Huks are all over the place? Even if they are, they know who I am. What if I didn’t return?”

The girl did not speak.

“We had so many things to talk about. After all — all these years …” He rose, looking into her eyes, soft and waiting. “This you won’t tell Father,” he said.

“What is it?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow. In the afternoon, when he will be napping.”

Her reaction was quick. She drew away. “No,” she cried. “You can’t. You said we would stay here two weeks — or even a month!”

He held her shoulders and said solemnly, “Mr. Dantes’s silver anniversary, Trining …”

She brushed him away. “You are lying,” she flung at him. “At least you can be frank with me. I’ve known you all my life, Luis. What secret is there between us?”

But how can I tell her, how can I say that I am now a stranger among my own people ? “You won’t understand,” he said softly. “You just won’t understand.”

“But I do,” she flared again. She crossed the room and stepped out into the azotea . Above, in the cloudless sky, the stars were luminous. He followed her to the ledge. She turned to him. “I won’t tell him, of course, if that is what you want, but when he learns that you have gone without telling him he will be very hurt. And what will I tell him then? Will I lie for you again?”

He nodded.

“Will I tell him that you did not want to hurt him by leaving so soon? The Dantes party is important, and Ester invited me, too. But this is not the reason. What you really feel is nothing but loathing for this house, for where you came from. Luis, we must learn to live with all this — you and I. I am alone, too, and I have no one but Tio and you now. All the way home I was thinking of the wonderful vacation we would have — how we would go to the river and swim, perhaps. You don’t know how it is to be shut up here or in that convent school.”

“I will write to you,” he promised. He took her hand and guided her back to the room. “I will try to write to you every day …” But he doubted if she heard his last words, for she had wrenched away and ran, her slippers thumping across the silent hall.

Don Vicente did not join them for breakfast. Trining and Luis had the long table to themselves. The chocolate was very hot, and the pan de sal , since it was baked at home, was much bigger than they got in Manila. Mangoes were in season, and the silver tray was full. How was it in Sipnget then? One fruit had to be divided among the four of them, and the seed was always for him. He would savor it by sucking and licking it till it was dry, then he would slip the seed into the eaves of the kitchen roof and it would stay there, dried and waiting. He never got to planting them.