Francisco Jose - Don Vicente - Two Novels

The Dantes building was near the Escolta, flanked by office buildings and shops. It was one of the newest in the area, for most of the buildings were erected before the war and the Dantes building featured awnings and a marble foyer and was completely air-conditioned. In the back was a big parking area, but it was never really full, for most of the Dantes employees had no cars; Luis, with his big black Chrysler and uniformed driver, was an exception.

He walked briskly through the back door, to the elevator, and pitched up to the fourth floor. As usual Eddie was already at his typewriter. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning, Eddie?” he said gaily as he flung his portfolio atop the low shelf of books behind the desk. Eddie paused and looked at him apprehensively. “Better hurry and see the Old Man. He was here quite early asking for you. I think he has been crying — his eyes were swollen and misty — or maybe he had too much drink last night.”

“He doesn’t drink, you know that,” Luis said. He sat on his swivel chair and quickly pored over the mail. Already there was a letter from Trining. He recognized her pastel blue stationery and penmanship — the full loops, the exaggerated cross of her t ’s. Contributions — he could discern that by the weight of the envelopes. He separated them from his personal mail and dumped them on Eddie’s desk.

“See if you can hash one up to catch up with this issue.”

Eddie nodded. Without looking up from his work, he said, “I really think you should go see the Old Man right away, Luis.”

Luis pushed the green door, which bore his and Eddie’s names in gold script, and went out.

Miss Vale, Dantes’s grim and antiseptic-looking secretary, told him to go straight into the publisher’s office. Eduardo Dantes was at his desk, his head bowed, his long bony hands folded on the glass top. His temples were graying, and the lines on his wide, sallow forehead were deep. He was fifty-five, but he looked much older and very tired. Having used a great amount of energy building not only his publishing house but also other businesses, he should retire now, but he had said in his characteristic soft-spoken swagger that he was good for another three decades, even if in the last he would have to go to work in a wheelchair, “for that’s the way the cookie crumbles.” He was always neatly dressed, in linen suits and alligator shoes, and his silk ties were from Paris. He wore no jewelry, unlike many other wealthy Filipinos, who plastered their shirts with diamond buttons and cuff links. He had a simple gold wedding band.

In that particular Dantes manner, he did not look at Luis squarely. “Sit down,” he said, unfolding his hands. He started fidgeting with the gold cigarette lighter on the wide glass-topped desk. Luis sat on one of the green leather upholstered chairs that ringed the Old Man’s desk. Still without looking at him, Dantes stood up and proceeded to the window. He looked through the clear polished glass as if lost in thought. He brought out a Sobranie but did not offer Luis one. Yes, his eyes were quite swollen.

“How well did you know my daughter, Luis?” he asked distinctly.

Luis was startled. “I wish you’d tell me first why you are asking me this question, sir,” he said, wondering what Ester had done. Had she finally gone to her father, just as he had gone to his, and confronted him?

Dantes faced him, his eyes red and filmy. He stuck the cigarette into his thin mouth but did not light it, then he took it and squashed it on the ashtray on his desk. “You are always wary, always trying to walk out of traps,” he said. His countenance continued to be sullen.

“That is not a fair observation, sir,” Luis said, feeling badgered. “I thought I was impulsive most of the time.”

Dantes shook his head and went back to his desk. “This is not a business discussion, Luis, but it is important — perhaps more important than business.”

“But I wouldn’t be able to know her more than you do,” Luis said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“You could have been in love with her,” Dantes suggested, looking away.

Luis settled back in his chair and laughed hollowly. “You must be joking, sir. You know, of course, that I have just gotten married.”

Dantes turned away, took another cigarette, and lighted it. He inhaled deeply. “That makes it simpler,” he said.

“I don’t understand.”

Dantes sounded remote and his voice was raspy. “Ester is dead, Luis. I hope this means something to you.”

Luis clutched the arms of his chair, half rose, then slumped back. “No — this cannot be. No!” he cried, but this was Ester’s father telling him that Ester was dead. “I am very sorry, sir,” he stammered, “but how — only last night—”

“Suicide.”

“No,” he cried again. “Why did she do it? It’s unthinkable — Ester!”

“This morning,” Dantes continued calmly now, “she didn’t come down for breakfast. Her room was locked from the inside, so we forced it open. Sleeping tablets — one whole bottle.”

Now, with sudden and vicious truculence, bits of Luis’s talk with her came back and clawed at him. “She was with me last night,” Luis said. “We went out for a drive, and she had dinner in the house. My cook prepared paella, and we talked. We talked. I wanted to drive her back, because I had picked her up. She said she would go home alone. I got her a cab at the boulevard—”

“Was there anything to indicate that she would do this?” The publisher’s tone was demanding.

He gripped the edge of the publisher’s desk. “I don’t know what you are driving at, sir,” Luis said grimly. “I liked your daughter very much — although we had arguments, too. I felt great affection for her. I do not deny this, but to imply that I am the cause—”

“No,” Dantes cut him short. “I am not saying that, but did she confide anything? I must get to the bottom of it, can you not see?”

Luis sat back and shook his head. “Am I to know everything?”

“Do not misunderstand,” Dantes said, opening his drawer. “I have a letter for you from her. It was on her dresser. It surprised me very much that she wrote to you at all.”

Luis felt a chill ride to the tips of his fingers. “I’d do anything to have her back,” he said with great feeling. “Ester — she is one of the most wonderful people I have ever met.”

“She wrote only two notes,” Dantes said. His voice seemed about to break, and he paused for a while. “The other was for her mother and me.” He placed the sealed letter on his table. Luis took it and hastily opened it. It was, like the address on the envelope, in Ester’s hand. “Dear Luis [the greeting was so prosaic!] — Did you know that I once won the school hundred-meter dash? Please forgive me. Ester.”

“There is not much here,” Luis lied, shoving the letter back.

“Nothing?”

“See for yourself.”

Dantes fingered the note silently. “There’s nothing? But everything is here. Why should she ask for your forgiveness?”

“She regarded me, I think, as her best friend. She knew that I would not approve of what she did. She was running away all the time — like me. Most of the time. Sir, this you will not understand.”

“What was she running away from?”

“I don’t know. It could be life itself, and she got tired of running. We talked about it.”

Dantes was silent again. “May I keep this note?” he said after a while.

“I’ve seen it,” Luis said simply.

Dantes’s lips were drawn. “You don’t care — and you say that you are her best friend or sweetheart—”

“Don’t think of me that way,” Luis said softly. “I admired her very much and loved her in my own way, but not in the way you think. Not that way.” He was speaking with candor, and he could hear his heart pounding, the words rushing out in a torrent. “There were many things we had in common. We had a sense of communion although we argued and quarreled, but we were alive, Mr. Dantes. That you must understand. We were not two pieces of furniture. We were alive then, but now she is dead. Do you think this does not pain me at all?”