Francisco Jose - Don Vicente - Two Novels

At eight-thirty Luis was ready. He could not make up his mind as to whether or not he should wear a tuxedo. The invitation had left the choice open between black tie and national costume, but it was so warm that he compromised by putting on a barong tagalog , with the collar buttoned, over his tuxedo pants.

The Dantes mansion — or compound — occupied a huge lot in San Juan, perhaps a full two hectares of choice land overlooking the city. It had been purchased by the Dantes clan before the war, when such mansions were comparatively cheap and there were still a few nipa houses in the area. The land was rocky, as were most of the environs of Manila, and people were not attracted to it, for nothing would grow on it except sturdy acacia and guava trees.

Five blocks away from the Dantes house, Luis was struck by the immensity of the party. The whole distance was lined with fat, glossy Cadillacs, Jaguars, and Rolls-Royces. Ubiquitous motorcycle policemen from San Juan and Manila directed traffic. It was the party of the year, perhaps of the decade or even the century, but nothing was said about it in any of the papers that belonged to Dantes. It was in the other papers that the event made a splash, for the three big publishers, in spite of their stiff competition for advertising, had formed an informal club where their social doings and good deeds were publicized but not in their own papers — an expression of urbanity that was somehow shallow and hypocritical. It was in the other papers, too, that Luis had read about Sydney oysters and Australian lamb being flown to Manila for this party, along with champagne by the gallon, truffles from France, Roquefort and Stilton cheeses, and other gourmet foods, about how the tables were decorated with tulips from Holland, and then, of course, about the guests — bank presidents from Wall Street, a couple of princesses and some dukes, and a dozen titled personages from Europe.

As he neared the Dantes mansion, a uniformed police colonel stopped his car at the gate and checked his invitation with the guest list, then a police captain gave his driver a card with a number and told him to park farther up the street. They drove into the compound, which smouldered with multicolored bulbs, and the door was opened by a doorman resplendent in the gala uniform of a police colonel. Like most of the big houses in the neighborhood, the Dantes residence was done in the ornate architecture of the twenties and thirties and surrounded by high adobe walls now covered with ivy. The acacia trees were strung with colored bulbs — green and blue and red — and in the carefully manicured gardens were huge candy-striped tents; in the tents were tables. There were four buffet tables at strategic places on the grounds, and beyond, on a stage before the tennis court that was not covered with Masonite, the American orchestra was playing “Autumn Leaves.” Luis listened briefly and concluded that the Bayside band was better.

The guests spilled all over, on the terraces, under the high bushy pergolas, and across the grassy lawn. Waiters in white barong tagalog , black pants, and white gloves flitted about balancing trays and carrying drinks, and all around was the happy sound of people at play.

The night was unusually cool, and the scent of sampaguitas hovered over everything. In the biggest tent, at the other end of the tennis court, Dantes was seated with his asthmatic wife, and beside them were the president and First Lady. Luis could see them clearly in spite of the distance.

He walked toward the tent, and midway he caught Ester’s eyes. She rushed to him, and together they went to her father and mother.

“Congratulations, sir, madame,” Luis said, shaking the couple’s hands, and Dantes, ever the impeccable host, asked, “I hope your father is well, Luis.”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Well,” Dantes said, “Ester, he is all yours.”

Luis took another look at the celebrants. Dantes looked older than his fifty-five years, his hair prematurely white and with bags under his eyes, which were perennially misty. His chin always quivered when he talked, and it was quivering now as he chatted with a couple who had just arrived. Luis became aware of Ester’s hand gripping his and keeping him from tarrying. “Oh, I’m so glad you came,” she said, gushing. “I asked Papa if you were coming, and he said that you had gone home to visit your ailing father. So you left Trining there. She should have come, too. I was allowed four guests, and she is, well, my best friend — but you are here and that is all that matters.”

“I wouldn’t miss this for all the world,” he said, “and not because it is your parents’ anniversary but because you are here; I really want to know you better.”

She squeezed his hand and said, “Flatterer! But I love it. Would you like to meet my friends, or would you rather join your crowd?” She pointed to a tent close to one of the buffet tables.

They were passing a floodlight that blazed upon a huge statue of ice — a swan in the middle of a big table of hors d’oeuvres — and drawing away from her, he saw how beautiful Ester was. He noted the difference between her uniform and this billowy fuchsia gown she was blooming in tonight. A dash of rouge, a bit of eye shadow — she had the fine features of the Danteses, the fair skin, the imperious chin. Gazing at her in the brightness, he said, “Ester, you are beautiful,” meaning every word of it.

She laughed: “If you keep this up the whole evening, I may yet become your girlfriend.”

He picked a cracker from the table and scooped caviar from a bowl.

“I’ll stay with you and serve you,” Ester said, “if you are hungry.”

“Starved,” Luis said. She guided him to a food-laden table beyond the court where a crowd was busy filling up their plates. She helped him choose his, then took him to a vacant table by the court. She was being the perfect hostess. “I’ve told my friends I may have a very eligible bachelor — I hope you will not disappoint them,” she said.

“I’ll stop the presses to see you,” he told her. She left him to bring her friends over. He was not really hungry. With a glass of Scotch he went up to the balcony, where he could have an unobstructed view of the garden, the guests rambling around in its great breadth. The orchestra played softly, and couples started moving toward the court. He was not aware that Ester had followed him and was hovering around him, a quizzical look on her face.

“I thought you would be down there,” she said solicitously. “I hope you are not angry with anyone.”

“Oh, no,” he said, laughing. “I was waiting for your gang, but where are they?”

“Dancing,” she said gaily, “but I will make up for it. I will be your partner the rest of the evening — if you want.”

She took the vacant chair beside him. “I wanted Trining to come — very much — but going to the province was more important. How is your father?”

“Not so well, but he will manage. Old people always do.” The orchestra started playing “Stardust.” “That’s one of my favorites,” Luis said. “Learned it during the war. The words are poetic.”

“I’ve read your poetry,” Ester said.

“My condolences.”

“I like it — but why is it always so sad and bitter? You must be terribly unhappy.”

“Are you a psychologist of sorts?”

“No, just trying to understand you.”

“I’m an open book. No deep dark secrets.”

She stood up. “Let’s not waste your favorite song,” she said, holding his hand.

They went down the stone steps. At the edge of the court he hesitated, suddenly awkward, knees watery, as if this were his first dance. She was already pressing close to him, however, so he held her narrow waist and her hand went up to rest on his shoulder, her cheek brushing against his chin. He felt the round, smooth, and silky nudging of her thighs, the warm softness of her breast, and all his senses became alive in response to her exalting nearness. He wanted to dance with her still, but the orchestra shifted to an abominable limbo and he said tersely, “There goes our poetry.” A young man whose face he did not bother to look at accosted them on their way back to their seats and asked Ester for a dance. Luis let her go.