Francisco Jose - Don Vicente - Two Novels

It was a long-distance call from Trining, and her voice was urgent: “Luis, what will I do? You must help me. I don’t know what to do.”

“Take hold of yourself, and slowly, slowly tell me what the matter is.”

“Hurry home, I mean to Rosales — now, as fast as you can.”

“Is that all?”

“I don’t know, but I think it’s serious — and besides, Luis, I want to see you, too. It’s been so long now that you have not been here. You can come, can’t you? Tio says today — and you need not stay for more than two days.”

“What does he want to see me about?”

“He won’t say — but if you want a hint, a heart specialist from Manila is staying in the house. He’s been here for a week now.”

“He isn’t dying, is he?”

“I don’t know, but a heart attack is often sudden, isn’t it?” She sounded frightened. “And suppose he dies, what will I do, Luis?”

“Father is like a bull. He will live to be a hundred.”

“It is serious, Luis. Please believe me.”

“I’ll try my very best to be there this afternoon, then. I have to rush to the office first and fix things up. Tell him that.”

It was early afternoon when Luis reached Rosales. The sun was warm, and in its white glaze the town dozed. No change was apparent in the town except for the presence of Army trucks in the plaza. Soldiers in olive uniforms loafed in the shops, on street corners, and in the barong-barong refreshment parlors.

Two civilian guards were posted at the gate to the house. They had strung across the gate a barricade of barbed wire, which they swung aside when he arrived. It annoyed him immensely to think that he must live in a fort, but it was, perhaps, for the best. Trining ran down the marble stairs to greet him. She was pale, and because she wore no lipstick, she looked as if she were convalescing from an illness.

“Luis,” she said, holding his hand tightly, “I have something important to tell you.”

He pinched her chin. “You’d better tell me something really important. It was no pleasure getting here — all those damned checkpoints.”

They went up to the house, and when Luis started for his father’s sickroom, Trining held him back. “Please,” she implored, “it won’t be long.”

He followed her to her room, its doors always open to him since they were young. Now she locked it after they had gone inside. The drapes had been changed — the heavy purple brocade had become white damask, and on the gray walls were Navarro sketches that the artist had not bothered to frame. On her wide steel bed and on her narra dresser were the coverlets that she had patiently worked on in high school—“to keep from getting bored because you didn’t take me out.”

“I just don’t want any interruption,” she explained as she latched the door securely and pulled him to the rattan sofa. As an afterthought, she said, “Do you want a Coke? I baked a cake this morning.”

He nodded, sitting back and yielding to the comfort of the sofa. Trining wheeled around and unlatched the door again. Although Simeon was a good driver, the trip had wearied Luis, who had dozed between Angeles and San Fernando. In the hypnotic heat of the straight and glistening road, they had to stop at a shabby roadside restaurant for a cup of coffee and to douse their faces with iced water. Luis felt that he could go to sleep now and forget everything, but Trining returned with Coke and a piece of chocolate cake. Again she latched the door.

“What was it you wanted to tell me?” The cake was very good, just like the ones she baked for him in Manila.

“You eat first.” She sat beside him and ran her fingers through his dry mop of hair, then gently massaged his nape and shoulders. When he was through, he asked again.

“Tio is dying,” Trining said. “That is what the doctor told me. Tio knows. That is what makes it so sad.”

Luis stood up and paced the floor. The news did not jolt him, really. He had somehow expected it, the inevitability of it all. He walked to the window. Tents were all over the school yard, and soldiers were either playing volleyball or lolling about. Trucks, jeeps, and armored cars were parked, too, under the acacia trees, and by the gate was a machine gun behind a protective pile of sandbags.

“If he dies,” Trining said softly behind him, “we will be alone. We are all he has. Do you know what that means?”

Luis did not answer. “What are the soldiers doing here, and how long have they been here?”

“The soldiers?” Trining was momentarily baffled. “Oh, they were here when I arrived. There is Huk trouble in the villages and in the mountains.”

Luis shook his head and turned to her. “If Tio dies,” Trining continued, “will you let me stay in this house, Luis?”

Luis could not help laughing. “Of course,” he said. “It’s more yours than mine.” He walked toward the door, but Trining held him back. “Please, that was not what I wanted to tell you.”

“Father is waiting.”

“Please.” Her eyes were pleading. “There is one thing he wants to see before — before he goes,” she said tremulously. “He told me so only a while ago, after I called you. He wants to see you get married, Luis — now, this week.”

So this is destiny — he wants an heir, his name imprinted forever upon the land . Luis cupped his cousin’s face. “Now, isn’t that just like Father?” He smiled. “Always telling me what to do. And who does he want my bride to be? Perhaps he has also made up his mind about that.”

“He has,” Trining whispered. In spite of her pallor she was blushing. She could not stand his gaze, and she embraced him, saying in a voice that trembled, “Oh, Luis, he wants me to be your wife.”

He held her away, gazed at her expectant face, her pleading eyes, her lips quivering and parted, her heaving bosom — all of her which he had already possessed. Then he drew her close again and kissed her. It was a kiss of affection — not passion — and she sighed, holding him tightly as if she were afraid this was the last moment they would be together.

Presently, he drew away. He unlatched the door and, looking back, saw that she had started to cry.

He did not knock, for the door of his father’s room was ajar. Don Vicente was awake. He lay on his high-canopied bed. A massive bulk, he had his head propped up by pillows. The sheets were freshly ironed, and the room smelled of cologne and sunlight, for the shades were up. A silver fruit tray filled with grapes and apples and the cut-glass vases filled with sprays of azucena on the side table brightened the room. His father had grown thinner, but he still looked as solid as ever.

“I heard your car,” he said, raising himself with effort.

Don Vicente introduced his son to the doctor, who was swarthy, with a calm professional air. He grinned, rolled up the old man’s pajama sleeves, then jabbed a needle into the bulging arm. The old man winced. “That will keep his blood pressure down,” the doctor explained to Luis.

“I want to talk with my son.” Don Vicente waved the doctor away.

“But don’t forget what I told you,” the doctor said. “Don’t talk too much. Avoid intense discussions.” Smiling politely at Luis, he stepped out.

“Did it hurt, Father?”

Don Vicente sank back and said, grumbling, “I get that injection every two days. He keeps changing the place, both arms and”—indicating his buttocks—“down here. No, they don’t hurt as much as the thought of what is happening to Rosales, to the land. And I am going to die soon — I can feel it. I don’t know when. That doesn’t hurt, Luis.” He looked at his son. “Please don’t make it hurt.”

“You will live to be a hundred, Father,” Luis said.