Francisco Jose - Don Vicente - Two Novels

“I am not, but — Ester, play just the same. I will sing to your tune. Isn’t it time we sang something not just to honor Christ but also to those who are in the hills? Let’s sing a hymn also for those fighting a private war — those who are now in whorehouses, driven there by decent women.”

“You are really drunk.” Eddie turned to the girl. “Ester, I think we should go.”

“You will do nothing of the kind,” Luis said. “In fact, if anyone should go home, it is I. Do you know where home is? It is not in this house or that atrocious feudal castle in Rosales. It is out there, in them thar hills — only there’s no yellow gold …”

“What’s come over you?” Eddie asked. “You just had a most wonderful party, surrounded by the nicest people in the world. What are you beefing about?” He headed for the door. “I’m leaving before I change my mind and call this a lousy party.”

“I wish I were dead,” Luis said, meaning it. But Eddie had already gone down the stairs. Ester walked over to him and, holding his clammy hand, led him to the azotea . From the near distance there came an explosion of firecrackers. It was cooler out in the open, and the sea breeze helped clear his mind a little. He was, however, aware of everything that he had said, and he hoarsely repeated, “I wish I were dead.”

“That is not a nice thing to say on Christmas Eve, Luis,” Ester said.

“Perhaps I will feel differently tomorrow. I have something for you. It’s not wrapped up — it couldn’t be wrapped up. It’s my heart and I can’t take it out. And what is more, it is fouled up, I think. You will not want it that way, would you?”

“I hope this is not the liquor at work,” Ester said softly. “We say so many things that we don’t mean afterward. And when this happens, it is all wrong. It sours relationships.”

Luis listened attentively for the first time during the hectic evening. This was not party talk; they were really alone now. The world had slipped by, and stars swarmed over the sky.

He held her hand and pressed it. “I mean what I say, Ester,” he said, looking at her serene face.

“I have friends, many friends,” she continued barely above a whisper. “But the relationships are empty. It is not that there is no trust — I trust them as I trust you now, and I hope that they trust me, too. But how can I express it? What I want? What I’m looking for? It is not something that money can buy, else I would have gotten it a long time ago. Do you understand, Louie, what I am trying to say?”

He nodded, for she was now saying something that he had always felt himself; she was giving shape to thoughts that had bedeviled him but that he had not been able to express.

“You want peace,” he said simply. “You want happiness, fulfillment — all those wonderful things that come to the yogi, the enlightenment. You want a way out.”

She looked at him and nodded.

“There is no way out, Ester,” he said. “Not for you. Not for me.”

“Yes, there is, for me,” she said. “For you, I have doubts. You thrive on conflict. On anger. You are alive when you are angry. I cannot see you in a world where there is peace and harmony.”

He shook his head, not because he disagreed with her but because he did not want to believe what she said; it was true, he would be a misfit in a world without anger. Did he really believe in justice, or was he not just rebelling against a past that had injured him? Did he really love the poor, or in professing love for the poor was he doing what was easy, addressing himself to man — amorphous, unreal, without identity — rather than be committed to one individual in need of sympathy, which he could give but would not? And if he loved the poor, would he give them the wealth that was going to be his? Would he be willing to let go of the comforts that he enjoyed so that they — his people in Sipnget — would have something better on their table? He loved Ester, but now he also resented her for pushing him against the wall, for flailing at him with the truth, for forcing him to be honest with himself. But he also knew that to lose her would be to lose his conscience.

“We have to live with ourselves,” he said contritely. “That is difficult to do. And the peace that we seek, I suppose, is the peace of the grave.”

Her face lighted up, the smile bloomed again. “I have often thought of it that way,” she said, rising, a sudden lift in her being. “Then the burden would be lifted, and finally we would be free.”

“You agree with me, then, death isn’t so tragic after all. And I do wish sometimes that I were dead.”

He walked with her to the gate, where her car was waiting, and before he turned to go he pulled her to him and gently, ever so gently, kissed her, murmuring, “Ester, don’t hate me for my alcoholic histrionics. In vino, Veritas! ”

She held him and kissed him, then quickly got into the car. Luis walked slowly back to the azotea . Along the boulevard the houses were brightly lighted with red, white, and blue star lanterns, with colored bulbs strung across their fronts and the trees in the yards. From the direction of Ermita and Malate came more firecracker explosions. At times the voices of children singing carols and the brash music of cumbancheros came through, clear and sharp.

The party had actually tired him, and he was most riled by the hypocrites among his own crowd — Abelardo Cruz, Etang Papel — those who prattled about their vaunted love for humanity and understanding of the country’s social malaise. There they were, all dolled up, their perfumed hands never having known the brutal hardness of a plow handle. His starveling friends were no different. They banded together as if they belonged to a touted though impoverished aristocracy, and they regarded the masses — the masses, how contemptible, how hopeless they are! Of course, he also used the phrase occasionally — but only when he wanted to make the point that revolution could start not only with the peasantry but also with the middle class, the enlightened bourgeoisie, himself among them. Why isn’t there more honesty in this world? Perhaps it is only in art that we can be totally honest. Again, he tried to exculpate himself from the inadequacy of his response. But of what use is art? He was not even sure that the poetry he had written was art. It sounded so effete, maybe because he was looking for the innate music of words or maybe because he was searching deeply for the symbolic meanings of words when there were no symbols at all — just words strung together in order to evoke ideas, images, and the total whole of aesthetic experience. He was becoming an aesthete, incapable of translating his ideas into action. Indeed, he was beginning to wither as he sometimes wished he would.

He went back to the house and wandered about. In the kitchen Simeon and Marta were tucking away the bowls and the wineglasses. The two waiters had gone home, and the rubbish was now in the garbage cans, but the house still looked dirty and the floor was a mess. Marta would have to spend the whole morning cleaning up. “Simeon,” he said, “you and Marta go to Rosales for a week. Just be sure you are back by New Year’s, for you must drive me to Rosales. Right now I can be alone by myself. And if I forget, do not fail to remind me about your bonus — both of you — tomorrow.”

Their faces lit up, and he told them to leave the work — it was late; they could always do it in the morning before taking the bus or train home.

He went back to his room as their footsteps died down on the stone staircase. Slowly removing his red bow tie and his jacket, he sank into his bed. The phone jangled, and half rising, he took it.

It was Ester and her voice was warm: “How are you feeling now? I should have made you a cup of coffee before I left.”