He had lived part of his boyhood in this house, but he had never regarded it as home, not as he did that poor hut in Sipnget. This huge house was nothing but slabs of stone, solid pieces of wood, and polished floors, and servants who flitted about at his slightest whim, barefoot and nameless, although he knew where they came from. They were his people once upon a time, but he was an Asperri now and that made all the difference.
“I did not really expect you to come,” Santos said quietly.
“And why not?” Luis felt badgered again, for Santos was right. Luis had been transparent to persons other than himself and his cousin. “It’s vacation time, isn’t it?” He did not care to hear Santos’s reply, and he did not hear him mumble it. They were nearing home, and they slowed down as they passed the Chinese accesorias his father owned, the bootblacks, and the travelers at the bus station. They paused once as Simeon let a caromata pass, then he swerved to the right, to the wide-open driveway lines with well-tended azucena plots and potted roses. The car stopped on the broad tile landing of the marble stairway.
A young man he had never seen before, in faded khaki, a pistol tucked on his hip, appeared from behind the stairway, opened the door, and saluted. At first Luis took him for one of the soldiers who manned the outpost they had passed and who must somehow have strayed into the house. Beyond the driveway, at the door of the storehouse, were more men in khaki, armed with Garands and carbines.
“Who are they?” Luis pointed to the armed men.
Simeon turned to him. “Our civilian guards,” he said matter-of-factly. It suddenly became clear that Rosales was like the rest of the country—in turmoil—and it was here, right in this very house, that the turmoil was perhaps keenest and deepest.
“Shall I go tell him now that you are here?” Santos asked, turning to Luis and Trining as he stepped out of the car.
“No,” Trining said, “you may go.”
Luis got out. He had not driven such a distance in a long time, and a sense of relief filled him. He greeted the servants who had emerged from the shadows and were now around them, vying with one another for the leather luggage in the trunk. Luis went up with his cousin. The stuffiness converged upon them—the mustiness, the meticulous polish of the woodwork, the stifling opulence, the magnificent pink chandelier from Venice in the center of the hall, which his father had brought back from one of his trips to the Continent before Luis was born, and the bronze statue of the farmer with the plow at the end of the hall, fashioned by a nameless sculptor from Manila.
Trining led Luis to his father’s bedroom. On the carved narra door he rapped twice. The voice from within—hollow and expectant—told them to enter. All the blinds of the room were down and it was almost dark, but Luis saw Don Vicente Asperri at once on the high-canopied bed. The old man was propped up by a stack of pillows. He was in pajamas, and his huge body seemed to melt into the thick slab of mattress. His eyes were squinting now, and his thick lips were half open, as if in a smile.
Luis went to him and held his father’s big hand to his forehead. As he and Trining withdrew to sit on two wrought-iron chairs near the window, Don Vicente beckoned to them, his voice soft but firm. “Come nearer, I can’t see you well.”
“Luis, so you have finished college,” he said after they had drawn their chairs close to the bed. Luis turned to Trining briefly, but her expression was noncommittal. “In a way, Papa. But I have no diploma yet.”
Luis watched his father’s face. Don Vicente grunted, but whether his reaction meant displeasure or plain indifference Luis was not able to fathom. The old man turned to the girl: “And how’s college?”
Trining sighed. “Fine, Tio, but don’t ask me about my grades. Those nuns, they are never satisfied with my term papers.” Don Vicente shook his head, and the loose folds of fat on his chin trembled. His countenance was happy. “What do you intend to do now, Luis?” he asked, blinking.
“I hope you won’t object, Father,” Luis said hesitantly. He had grown familiar with the dimness, and looking at his father’s face, at his red misty eyes for any sign of disapproval, he continued, “I have found a job.”
“You are working?” Don Vicente asked in disbelief.
Trining nodded. “At least it will keep him out of mischief. He will no longer go around fighting priests.”
“Luis—fighting priests?” Don Vicente asked in alarm. He stretched himself upon his pile of pillows and stared at his son.
“But you know, Tio,” Trining said. “That is why he wasn’t able to get his diploma.” She was apparently enjoying herself, and she started laughing.
“A fighter like his father, then,” Don Vicente said, his lips quivering. “Tell me about it sometime, hijo. I don’t remember the story very well. It must be in the files Santos keeps.”
Luis felt relieved that the old man had not shown any desire to muddy the niceties of welcome, but his uneasiness was not easily dispelled. For four years he had not returned to Rosales, and here he was again before this man he called Papa, this man whose face his mother said she could spit at without blinking. He had loathed coming back to this town, this house, five kilometers away from a village where his mother, his brother, and his grandfather still lived in great need, while here he was, secure and never wanting.
Don Vicente rubbed his chest. “And what about affairs of the heart?” he asked, a smile flickering across his face.
Trining turned to Luis and said gaily, “Tio, his score is zero. He rarely comes to see me in school, where I have so many pretty friends all waiting to see my handsome, intelligent cousin. And when I introduce him to them he becomes an ice cube.”
Don Vicente grunted again, but from the light in his eyes Luis knew his father was pleased. “It’s about time you started getting more interests, hijo,” he said.
“I don’t have to look for more,” Luis said, feeling miserable and piqued with his cousin. He crossed his legs and studied the interlocking hand-embroidered design on the bedsheet. “My work, it’s so demanding and really keeps me busy.”
“Don’t let your work do that,” his father said. “Visit Trining every week next school year, even every day if you can. I think you should live together, so that you can meet her friends.”
“It’s once a month he comes,” Trining complained, “and he doesn’t even want to take me out unless I beg him. It’s so embarrassing. I would like to do some shopping and see some movies—but he won’t let me.”
Don Vicente laughed, and as peals of his laughter burst out, Luis imagined that they gathered in his belly and belched out of his mouth with the sharp crack of splitting bamboo.
“Hijo,” he said, “try to understand how difficult it is for a girl to be cooped up in that convent school. And you don’t have to work all that hard.”
“I have no specific working hours, but we do have to exert extra effort all the time.”
“But your health—look at yourself, frail as a toothpick.” Don Vicente sounded alarmed.
“I sleep well, eat well.”
“But is your allowance enough? I can give you another opening in the bank,” Don Vicente offered.
“It’s more than enough, Father,” Luis said firmly. “You know that.”
“And the house, nothing needs repair? New furniture?” Don Vicente pressed on.
Luis shook his head. “I live like a sultan, Father,” he said. “I cannot ask for more. Besides, I am earning a little now.”
“Starvation wage!” Don Vicente roared, and then fell into a fit of deep coughing. After a pause, “All right—remember this—no one asked you to work. It is my remotest desire. But if you want to die slowly …” His coughing stopped, and leaning forward, he said softly, “You know I am always interested in your welfare, and I’ve told Simeon and Santos to look after your needs even if you don’t want to tell me …”
A gap of uneasy silence.
Then, turning to the girl, Don Vicente said, “Run along to the kitchen and see that we have a good supper.” Trining sto
od up, and as the door closed after her, Don Vicente beckoned to his son to come closer. “Listen, I do not want you to go astray. But you should have women—that is natural. Only, do not let your sexual urges confuse you about the real purpose of marriage, which is the formation of a home. Marriage is a social contract, not just for children but for your future.”
“You seem to have forgotten the most important element, Father,” Luis said. “There has to be love.”
Don Vicente smiled patronizingly, his nicotine-tinted teeth showing. “Young romantic love! Yes—you must know the feeling, the experience. But don’t forget what marriage is for. You can have mistresses, Luis. But marriage must be for more than love. Politics, economics, stability. Now, look around you, at your own publisher. Dantes—he married his cousin, or did you not know that? The politicians that I knew—the powerful men in government—they married not for love. So, keep your romantic notions and do the right thing just the same.”
Don Vicente looked at the ceiling, shaking his head. “Young people,” he continued, “they waste not only time. But then, I was young once, too. And I enjoyed life—my wine, my gambling. Do you gamble, son?” He turned briefly to Luis.
The young man shook his head.
“What are you so sensitive about?” the old man asked. “I am a man, I understand. Nothing like gambling or risks to temper the soul. But even here, you must keep your head. And you must know how to lose. I did lose a bit—on the tables, but I gained a lot away from them. Do you know what I am talking about?”
Luis would have to hear it again, how the old man had played poker with Quezon and all those who gravitated around Malacañan, the big men, the mestizos who blabbered in Spanish and bludgeoned the Indios just as their forebears had done. “I almost had a street named after me in Quezon City,” Don Vicente was saying, “but Quezon forgot—and I was too proud to remind him about it. And as I was saying, you must also choose your gambling partners—not just any riffraff, and don’t patronize just any gambling den. Politics is total, son. Total. And even women should be tools in it. If you ever go to a whorehouse, don’t forget to look after your health; use condoms. Be protected always, by insurance, by connections. This is what I really want to tell you. Have you considered taking up law, Luis?”
Luis shook his head again.
“You are still very young,” the old man continued. “You can take up law in the evenings. You don’t have to become a lawyer, or if you pass the bar, you don’t have to practice law. Four years—and the knowledge of the law is a good form of preparation. With it, you can be a surer, more skillful politician. Then run for public office, for Congress. This is how I see it. Times are changing, Luis. I did not have to go into politics because I knew the best politicians in the country. Wealth—you cannot keep it, nor will it grow if you have no political power: I am not too sure that you know the men who are in power now, or those who are coming up. Be a congressman, then, from this district. Not mayor, that is much too low for you. I have supported so many of them, and they—Nacionalistas and Liberals—they owe me favors. So you will have not just a name or wealth but real power. You understand, don’t you?”
Luis nodded. There came quickly to mind the parade of politicians in the Ermita house, the gregarious talk and the handshakes, the government clerks meekly seeking audience with his father, the carefully coined phrases of corruption, the undertones and the exultant “areglados.” So, he would be a politician, too, but the prospect did not attract him. “We have such a surplus of lawyers, Father, and noisy politicians who do nothing but cheat.” He had not intended to argue or displease the old man.
“But am I asking you to cheat?” Don Vicente raised his voice. “When did millionaires cheat? I am asking you simply to understand what power is, more than I can give you, with my name, my properties. I am thinking of the future—and just between us, hijo, you have made a very good start. The people know now that there is an Asperri who is intelligent. And with your pen, you have influence—which is also power.”
“I understand, Father,” Luis said. He had wanted to ask, of what use is power when it is coveted just by one man, or one group, without the consent of those who are ruled? How long can it last? But the question did not need to be asked, for he knew, too, what the old man would say—that there are those who are destined to rule, to hold power, not because it is their blood but because they are created to rule, to manipulate, in the same way that there are men who are destined to work, to be slaves, to be patronized, to be cared for like children. History is like that, and the Philippines and the Filipinos are no exceptions.
His father was being redundant again. “It is obvious, of course, particularly to those of us who know. The Dantes family—you know Dantes is not in politics, but his brothers and relatives are. They have the whole of the Visayas—perhaps I exaggerate—but Negros and Panay are in their hands. They have intermarried with one another. Not all of Dantes’s papers are making money, but they are forms of investment. Look how scared the politicians are of him. I read in the columns that even the president does not dare cross his path. And why? He has political power, and he can also manipulate public opinion. Do not forget, I may be shut off here, but I read—and think—and remember. I knew the Dantes family when they had nothing but a couple of bancas. Now look at their shipping, their transport system, their bank, their publishing—and the politicians they control. Do you know that they could be hurt if the Philippine Bank, which they think they own, were to foreclose their loans? The bank, of course, will not do such a thing …”
Luis knew of the vast political and economic power that the Danteses, as the country’s leading sugar family, wielded. He also knew that to work for Dantes meant giving him not only one’s loyalty, sweat, and blood, et cetera, but also, as the boys in the Press Club often said, “giving him your balls.”
But Dantes was an ideal employer. When he traveled, which was twice a year, he always brought six or more of the staffers—first class, of course. For his particular pets he bought cars, homes, vacations—and when they became too old or too unwieldy in his publications he kicked them upstairs as vice presidents or consultants in his other enterprises.
It was common knowledge on newspaper row that his editorial writers and columnists, like Abelardo Cruz and Etang Papel, were reduced to lackeys and wrote according to rote, but Luis did not have to go through such an ordeal.
In his one and only job interview, the publisher had told him, “I will give you complete freedom, not only in the way you run your magazine but in picking your staff. I know of your quarrel with your father rector. I admire your independence; just remember that my interest is in this country’s progress—if the country progresses, we progress, too.”
“All the big papers are owned by powerful Filipinos, Father,” Luis said. “Dantes is no exception.”
“Which simply buttresses my position,” Don Vicente said. “But the sugar industry is not good for the country, Luis. I can see that now. We are not even producing enough rice. You often write about exploitation of the poor. Someday you should go to Negros. I have some friends there. Spaniards. And talk about exploitation! They rape the prettiest daughters of their workers. They horsewhip their people when they catch them chewing cane. It’s like a thirsty man in a brewery, sipping just a little! And the sacadas—this is 1950. They were exploited in 1930 and in 1940. Someday you should write an article on the sugar quota and you will find many interesting things … and they say the hacenderos of Luzon are the exploiters. All these Visayans, with their easygoing ways, their effeminate intonation—they are the most vicious of landlords.”
The drone of traffic drifted to the room—the provincial bus screeching to a stop to disgorge its passengers at the junction, the creak of unoiled bull-cart wheels going through the gate, away from the warehouse at the rear, and toward the open field. His father again, this time with pronounced seriousness: “But more than anything, can’t you see? I am no more than an old bundle of bones. I am no longe
r healthy. I cannot look after the land as well anymore as I should.” He coughed slightly, then shook his head and pressed his pudgy hands to his chest. “It hurts, but not as much as when I think of what they are doing to me. These accursed peasants—they lie and cheat and get away with everything because I can no longer ride out there. God knows the hacienda was once the best in this part of the country, better than the one in Santa Maria, Tayug, or San Miguel. Did you know that once upon a time this town was the hub of the rice trade, that we could supply all of the rice needs of the province and even of Tarlac if we wanted to? Hard work—not just mine but also that of your ancestors, my grandfather, your great grandfather …”
The same old story again—Luis knew it by heart and was bored by it. His eyes wandered to the spiral iron staircase at the foot of his father’s bed, and once more he mused about the tower room he and Trining had never entered. Once, when he was new in the house and had thought he could go anywhere, he had asked permission from his father, who was then propped in bed as he was now, having his tray of coffee, but Don Vicente had told him brusquely that the tower room was private and no one—absolutely no one—ever went up there. Once, when he and Trining were left in the house, since his father had gone to Cabugawan to visit the tenants there, they had, like conspirators, decided to invade his father’s eyrie. They had gone gingerly up the spiral staircase, and at the top they rammed themselves against the door. It was securely locked and refused to yield. He wondered, but only for an instant, about the secrets the tower room held; and when he was past his teens he mused that perhaps that was where his old man stored his dirty pictures.
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