Francisco Jose - Don Vicente - Two Novels

Now I’ve done it, Luis reflected bitterly when the first copy of Our Time , with the story of the Sipnget massacre, was brought up by the copy boy. The article on agrarian reform was written by a rural sociologist, and the complementary piece on political stability and social change was a contribution from a scholar just returned from Harvard. His own article was extremely calm. He had been worried that it would be truculent and emotional, but it was simple, eloquent reportage, and even Eddie, who did not believe in I-scratch-your-back-you-scratch-mine, had gushed over its polish and forcefulness. Writing it, however, had been more than a drudge. The fury that kindled his vision had made the first draft easy to do. It was the rewriting that had drained him; it had been difficult to speak ill of his father and of the civilian guards, but he had done it with objectivity, and now that the anger had been dissipated a nameless void took its place.

He did not go to the office the day the magazine came out. It was as if he had done the last useful thing for the month and work itself had become some fetter around his neck. Eddie called many times, telling him of his visitors, particularly the team of officers from the constabulary and the imminent trouble that he had raised. Never before had the house where his father once lived seemed so wide and forlorn. In a moment like this it was best that he was alone, so he had hurriedly told Simeon and Marta to go to Rosales on the flimsiest of reasons — that Trining needed them — and told them that he would just call them back. He would miss the couple, but they must have guessed his torment, for they left without complaint.

The nights were most difficult. Between the sombrous dark and moments of fitful sleep he damned himself. Now it was not three jiggers of bourbon but five, sometimes ten. On the fourth night that he had not gone to his office it was half a bottle before he could sleep — and he did not even sleep long.

When he woke up, the bedroom burst in a bright yellow slash and he shaded his eyes with his palms and turned on his side. It had rained — one of those brief, unusual showers in February — and a slow, sinuous breeze filled the room and toyed with the voile curtains. Outside, beyond the rain-polished window, the night was dark.

It was ten o’clock by the timepiece on top of his dresser. He had not slept for more than thirty minutes, but somehow he felt a bit refreshed. He sat up stiff and straight and passed his hand over his thick, uncombed hair. Slowly the hand, which he could not fully control, fingered, too, the stubble on his chin. His toes curled at the edge of the bed, he groped for his slippers and, finding them, stood up. He felt a little dizzy, and he clung for a moment to the bedpost to steady himself. He had brought the typewriter from the library to his bedroom some months ago when Ester had suggested that he work in the bedroom while she was there. Ester loved listening to the hypnotic clacking of the keys. Now his eyes were on the machine and on the crumpled sheets on the floor. He had written the letter, bits of his thoughts, and some stray lines that would go into a new poem, but he had not really worked out anything whole.

He went back to the mirror and peered into it. The face that confronted him looked wan. Around the eyes were bluish rings that he had never seen before, and as he peered at his face, he caught sight of Ester’s picture on top of the low aparador . He wheeled around, and holding the picture in the light, he examined the swept-up hair, the lips parted in a smile, and the pensive eyes — all her fragile beauty held in a simple aluminum frame. Her dedication was simple: For Luis … Sincerely, Ester . He cursed himself again for not having kept her letter, for giving it to her father when it was really his. He must write another letter, another poem, anything that would express this emptiness. He picked a sheet from the ream beside the typewriter and sat down. He was surprised to find that his fingers were unsteady. On an empty beach , he typed, sand and sky and sea — all beyond my reach . He paused. That was all he could write, for although they burned in his brain, words would not shape into lines and he sat helpless before the machine. He stood up after a while, went to the bathroom, and splashed water on his face. The refreshing coolness was brief. His stomach started to twinge, and he went to the kitchen and opened the cabinets and the refrigerator. There was plenty to eat — tomatoes, oranges, canned stuff, and leftovers in the freezer — but the sight of food now sickened him.

He went back to his room, combed his hair, put on a fresh shirt, then went down. He switched the lights on in the garage. His car was dirty, and although the Chrysler was only last year’s model, it looked drab with its thick coat of dust. He had driven through the bad, dusty streets the first night that he did not go to work, and with Simeon and Marta gone there was no one to clean the car. He pressed the starter twice, and the engine obligingly purred — but only for a while. Its hum died into a sputter. He pressed the starter again, then saw that the fuel tank was empty. He cursed and slammed the door.

He hailed the first cab that came along. He had nowhere in mind to go to, so he said to the driver, “Derecho.” Perhaps there was something to see in the office, although it was already past ten. There would be a few persons still at the desk of Dantes’s daily newspaper. When he reached the publishing office he did not bother to get his change. He raced past the parked delivery trucks near the entrance and into the lobby, where the elevator boy was drowsing. There was not much of a crowd in the editorial section, and beyond it, in his office, there was light still. Eddie was working late, reading a batch of galley proofs, when he went in. “Luis, I hope that you are feeling better,” Eddie said. “I know how you feel, so I didn’t want to bother you, but now that you are here—”

“I came for a few things,” Luis interrupted him.

“Take your time,” Eddie said. “Would you care to treat me to a cup of coffee? I’m sleepy and I need to go over this.” Then Eddie became businesslike. “Can you make it tomorrow? There are a lot of people who want to see you. I have all the names and messages there.” He thrust his chin at the pile on Luis’s desk. “Tomorrow, particularly, some constabulary officers will be coming. Dantes said you cannot hide from them anymore.”

“I have not been hiding,” Luis said angrily.

“I know,” Eddie said, “but that is the impression one gets, especially after the massacre story came out.”

They went down to the ground-floor coffee shop, which catered not only to the Dantes employees but also to the pedestrians and window shoppers. They went to their favorite corner, and Eddie ordered an egg sandwich and coffee.

“Make mine just coffee,” Luis said.

“You aren’t having anything to eat? You look famished,” Eddie said. Luis smiled grimly and shook his head.

The waiter brought Eddie’s order. As he started eating he became thoughtful. “This should not go on,” he said. “It won’t do you any good. Do try to come back to work as soon as you can. There is no therapy as effective as work. About Ester, you should not blame yourself. It was not your fault. The reasons are far more complex than both of us can understand.”

“It’s not just Ester,” Luis said, shaking his head.

“Who else, then?”

Luis sipped his coffee and glanced around at the few customers in the shop and at the waiters looking sleepy and bored — they would have about an hour more to work, for the shop closed at midnight. Luis looked at Eddie and said, “I’m worried about us.”