Francisco Jose - Don Vicente - Two Novels

He did not faint. He sat through the two hours, and when it was over and Trining was wheeled unconscious to the recovery room he rushed to Dr. Reyes.

“I am no surgeon”—the doctor’s face was grim—“so I merely assisted, but the surgeon we had, as you very well know, is one of the best. We did all that could be done. Trining is safe — she will be recovering in a few days, and then she can go home.”

“Why did she have to go through surgery?” Luis asked. It was a foolish question. It had been explained to him earlier when he signed the paper stating that he was permitting a surgery. If it had not been done, her pains would not have ceased, the baby would not have been born, and the mother would have died.

“She is all right,” Dr. Reyes repeated, “but we had to remove her uterus. You know, this means she cannot have another baby. Her ovaries are intact, so there will not be much hormonal change, but babies — that’s out of the question now.”

“And the baby — is it a boy or a girl?”

Dr. Reyes could not speak. The grimness of his face deepened. He beckoned to the new father to sit with him on one of the long sofas near the lobby. There, quietly, the doctor told him what had to be said.

When the doctor had finished, what stuck in Luis’s mind were his words: “It will require courage to look at the baby — and more courage to accept him.” Courage! If only his father were here now, he would perhaps curse heaven. It was not possible that he who had everything, who had worked so hard to leave his name upon the land, must now himself be blighted. Perhaps it all started with him, his genes diluted with sin. It is not I, it is not my fault or Trining’s , Luis assured himself; it is not I, it is not I .

But it was he who had planted the seed that had brought forth this thing that Trining would have to see, too, and have the courage to accept.

When she regained consciousness her first words were, “How is my baby?” Her breath still smelled faintly of anesthesia. She had lost blood, and although she had been given a transfusion, she had the pallor of the sickroom.

“It’s a boy,” he whispered, kissing her, “and he is well, but you cannot see him — he is in the incubator. He is such a tiny creature. The doctors say he may have to be brought to Manila within the week for special care. They don’t have the facilities here for him.” He was carefully preparing the ground for the fact that he did not want her to see the child. She smiled at him and pressed his hand. “You will be all right,” he continued. “They had to cut you up. They had to remove your uterus, and you won’t be able to have any more babies, but that was the only way you could be saved.”

“Oh, Luis,” she broke into a sob, “and I wanted to give you a dozen children!”

He stroked her brow until she quieted down. He had carefully instructed the people who were taking care of her never to mention the baby to her or let her see it.

After two weeks, when she was finally able to move, he brought her back to Rosales together with two nurses. They placed a bed for Luis in the library so that Trining could occupy their room alone until she was well. It was only Santos and the two nurses who knew about the baby, and Luis had instructed them to keep their mouths shut, not only before Trining but also before everyone else.

Returning to his chores fatigued him. There were decisions to make — the introduction of fertilizers in certain areas around the hacienda, the purchase of four new tractors, and the setting up of the first cooperative, which he had planned. Above all, the anxiety of watching over Trining, of seeing to it that she would not know. After supper, which he took alone in the dining room, he went to her. She was propped up on a stack of pillows and was reading the Manila papers that had piled up. Her complexion had improved. Color was returning to her cheeks, and her eyes were warm again. He kissed her passionately and whispered, “I can hardly wait — but it will have to take a month, I think.”

She pinched him and called him a dirty old man. He kissed her again on the brow, this time tenderly, and said that he was sleepy and must rest. He closed the door of their room and crossed the hall to the library, where his bed was made. The moment he lay down, without even putting on his pajamas, he fell asleep.

He woke up at about midnight — that was what the clock on the wall above the writing desk said — and the first thing he was conscious of was that he was not alone in the room. The lamps were on and the light etched everything clearly — the writing table, with his typewriter on it, the bowl of chicos and bananas, and the thermos jug with coffee. Seated before him, at his right, was Vic — lean and dark and serious of mien, looking intently at him.

Startled, he spoke hoarsely: “Vic, how did you get here?”

His brother simply smiled. “I have been waiting for over an hour, and I have finished reading most of your magazines,” he said, “but I did not wake you up, although I switched on the light so that I could read.”

“But how did you get here?” Luis was incredulous. He sat up and groped for his slipper. “You must not stay here another moment — and you know why. You are a wanted man, and just across the street are soldiers.”

Vic shrugged. He stood up and peeled a banana. “I am safe here,” he said. “Isn’t this your house, Manong?”

Luis went to the door and bolted it.

“I assure you I am safe,” Vic said. Then, thoughtfully: “But I must ask you and your wife to leave as soon as you can, tomorrow morning if it can be done. Go back to Manila and stay there. I don’t know how you will do it, but give the land back to the people. Of what use is it really to you?”

“So this is what you came for — to make a pauper of me,” Luis said.

Vic shook his head. He had grown thinner and older since Luis last saw him. His clothes were the same decrepit gray trousers and colorless shirt. “Make a pauper out of you? Do you know how I live? Many times we have nothing to eat but green papayas, guavas, sometimes no salt, and our stomachs are full of sourness. We are bitten by leeches and mosquitoes, and some have malaria. But we are not bitter. How can you be a pauper? You will never be one.”

“Why do you want us to leave?”

“Because you are my brother,” Vic said, “and I don’t want you to be like Grandfather — or Mother.”

“Do you know where she is?” he asked shrilly. “I went to Aguray — my wife and I, searching.”

“I searched for her, too,” Vic said, “in the villages and in the hills. She had been there and people saw her, but I was always too late. She must have gone to Manila. How can we find her there? You can move more freely than I. I can easily find her in the places I know — if she is there — but in the city …”

Luis sat silent and helpless. “I did what I could, Vic. I am a writer — and I wrote. I was eased out of my job, you probably know that, but do you know how it happened? Who did it?”

Vic said simply, “Don’t worry. Justice will be done, I swear. God,” he muttered, “if You are here, then You are my witness. I have sworn it!”

“Why do you come like a ghost?” Luis said after a while. “Why should you still care whether I am alive or not?”

“There is one thing we have in common,” Vic said. “We have the same mother.”

“Yet,” Luis said evenly, “you really do not care; you would rather see me dead, so that it would be easier for you. If you only had one hour to spend in my place, you will realize that what you want is not that simple. I agree with you that the land must go to the people who farm it — but how will they progress without someone like me to give them money when they need it? Why must they spend so much on fiestas when it is unnecessary? Who will sell their products? Who will teach them about farm management, fertilizers, and crop rotation? These problems cannot be solved with guns.”