Francisco Jose - Don Vicente - Two Novels

After Marta had done the dishes and Simeon had checked the locks, Luis was alone again. Marta had thoughtfully, as always, filled the thermos jug near his desk with coffee, and listlessly he poured himself a cup. It took him some time to finish it. Traffic on the boulevard was almost gone except for those leaving the nightclubs farther up the street. When he finally lay down he remembered Ester again, her beautiful body, and he was sure that someday he would have her.

As he closed his eyes, however, in the reddish consciousness that flooded his brain he saw an endless array of wailing babies with his features in each shrieking face. He shuddered.

By Christmas talk was rife that the Huks were already in the outskirts of the city, that they could now attack Manila at will. Many provincial capitals in central Luzon had been raided and occupied for at least one night before the constabulary could retake them. Luis was certain that the propaganda arm of the movement was working in Manila. He learned from some of his old college friends that a few of their acquaintances in the interuniversity cultural and press groups had joined the Huks. The tension that was reflected in the press and in the government hierarchy was not, however, the kind that tormented him. He had continued his poetry, but it was to him too prosaic, too pallid, and it did not tally with the realities. He could see the greater contradiction within himself as he helped Dantes become richer, at the same time making himself safe from the cares of living, unlike those whom he sincerely felt he championed. There was freedom, yes, but for whom did it work? Certainly it was working for him but not for Sipnget and his people there, for his grandfather and his mother, to whom he threw occasional crumbs.

He did not drink except socially, but now, in the evenings when he could not sleep, he would fix himself a glass of bourbon and toy with it until it was empty. One evening it came as a surprise even to himself that he took not one but three glasses before he could sleep. I must stop this, he told himself, and he got to writing more poetry. He read Mayakovsky and reread Whitman and even tried experimenting in Tagalog and Ilokano with the kind of poetry that he felt the lower classes would understand. It was all a sham, a mistake, that he was writing in English — a language that was for him and the elite — when there should be no barrier between him and the greater masses. Why should the language of science and culture be denied them? Much as he would have wanted to pursue this line of thinking, however, at the same time he felt secure and superior with the fact that he had mastered English and that he would continue writing in it — if only for his ego and for self-justification. It was not the language, after all, that really mattered — it was the heart of it, the art of it. This contradiction was of course an inanity. What really tormented him, as always, was the past, his past, and his recreance to it.

At Christmas he gave his first real party. Our Time had already piled up a steady circulation, and advertisements were coming in. More important to him, however, was that the magazine had become credible and prestigious, even to those whose views he disagreed with. It was politically left, but the writers of the right recognized it nevertheless for its liberal outlook, its fairness, and this was not lost on Dantes, who was a businessman before anything else. Dantes had suggested that the party be held in his house, which Luis had recently been frequenting because of Ester. Luis said, however, that it would be better in his own house, which, although smaller, had a wide garden and was more accessible. He knew that many of his friends on the left, particularly the college crowd, would never feel at ease in such surroundings as those of the Dantes residence.

Luis had expected only a few guests, but a riot descended upon him and he was very pleased. It was almost like a reunion with the old college crowd. There were also members of the cosmopolitan set, friends of Dantes, editors from the other Dantes publications, and the inseparable Abelardo Cruz and Etang Papel. Most important of all, Ester was there with some of her friends.

Luis was sorry that Trining was not coming. It would have been an experience for her to know people other than those to whom she was exposed in school, but a week earlier she had gone back to Rosales for the Christmas vacation as well as to look after Don Vicente, whose condition had worsened. She had tried convincing Luis to go with her, even for just a week, not only so that his mind would clear a little but also so that he would be able to see his mother. Luis, however, loathed the idea of staying in Rosales for more than a day, and he had decided that spending New Year’s Day at home would be more than enough for him not only to fulfill his filial obligations but also to confront his other self again.

The buffet started at seven, but Luis had started to drink much earlier. By eleven most of his guests had already left in search of nightclubs that were not crowded and churches where they might catch the midnight mass. He was the perfect host, slightly inebriated but gracious, waving heartily, making wry comments once in a while, in keeping with his character, and always saying, “And do come again — if there’s going to be another time!”

He had broken into a heated discussion on the azotea between Abelardo Cruz, Etang Papel, and a couple of new Ph.D.’s from the university who had just returned from Harvard, brimming with American wisdom and enthusiasm. He had never been apologetic about not having finished his B.A., and particularly after he had read a doctoral dissertation on social change in a Nueva Ecija village. He had been infuriated by the trivia that had come to pass for scholarship.

Papel was huge and homely and had a spongelike mind that soured everything it absorbed; she would have been dismissed as someone’s fat old-maid aunt, which, of course, she was not, for in spite of her plain features, she had had a string of men, some of them foreigners who had, perhaps, fantasized about her looks. She was saying that the true nationalist commitment was not freedom from America’s apron strings but freedom of the people from their own rich exploiters.

Luis had always agreed with such a statement, but for tonight, he was simply, wearily tired. “Thank God for the poor,” he had said, “otherwise, we would have fewer Ph.D.’s and columnists as well.”

Papel did not like it and had retorted, “Thank God for the rich, then, for it is they who made the poor!”

His was still the last word: “And thank God again for the poor, for they will make some writers rich writing about poverty!”

Etang Papel left shortly afterward, followed by her coterie. Soon it was only Eddie and Ester in the house with Simeon and Marta, who had come to tidy up the place. Eddie was trying “Silent Night” on the piano with one finger, and beside him Ester sang in a cool pleasant voice, sipping iced tea from a tall glass. Luis joined them, half dragging his feet on the floor, which was now dusty and littered with canapé picks and cigarette stubs.

“Sing louder, Ester,” he said. “This is my happiest Christmas.”

Eddie stood up. “I have to go, too,” he said. “It’s been a nice party, Louie.”

Luis held him by the shoulder. “And I thought you were my friend,” he said. “Stay awhile. You haven’t heard Ester play yet.” Then to Ester: “Please, boss, do play for us a hymn — any hymn.”

“Now, what do you mean, calling me boss?” Ester asked.

Luis laughed. “You are the publisher’s daughter, aren’t you? You are boss, too.”

“That’s not funny,” Ester said coldly.

“You are drunk,” Eddie said.