Let me backtrack a little again. One morning, in mid-May in 1963, Cornejo at the gate came to me. Angela, about six years old then, Corito and I were having breakfast on the terrace, which, the day before, had been washed by rain. The potted bromeliads shone and portions of the marble were still glazed with water. Cornejo had been with us for more than a decade, his father before him also our gatekeeper. He kept the gate closed at all times, opening the side door only to the servants and to guests who were properly announced or were expected. Like most of the help, he was from the hacienda, dark of skin, with a diffident smile that was a kind of mask. It was with this meaningless smile that he approached us. I was having my favorite fried rice with garlic, sliced tomatoes with salted eggs and strong Batangas coffee.

“Señorito, a young man at the gate wants to see you. He came yesterday afternoon. He is a provinciano, tall, about seventeen or eighteen years old. I told him I cannot let him in and he said he will not leave until he has seen you. All he has with him is a small canvas bag. When I looked outside this morning, he was asleep by the gate. It is good it did not rain last night else he would have been very wet.”

“What does he want?” My interest was aroused.

“He said he does not want anything, just to see you and talk with you. Not more than ten minutes, he said. I examined his bag—just a few old clothes. I searched him. No weapons. Not even a small knife …”

“Let him in,” I said.

I will never forget the first time I saw Delfin. I was through with breakfast and was just sipping my coffee. Corito and Angela were finished, too, but had stayed on at the table, curious about this insistent visitor.

Delfin walked into our presence with what seemed like cock-sure confidence and as he stood before me, he bowed slightly and said “Good morning, sir” crisply in well-pronounced English. He glanced at Angela and Corito and nodded toward them in greeting, too.

There he stood and a shock of recognition quickly coursed through me; he looked exactly like me in my youth though a little bit darker—the same wide brow, the straight nose and that chin. He was poorly dressed in faded khaki pants and white shirt, but there was about him an unmistakable look of aristocracy.

“What do you want to see me for?”

He glanced again at Angela and Corito. “May I speak alone with you, sir?”

“This is my sister and my niece,” I said. “You may speak in their presence.”

He stood stiffly, head bowed a little. When he refused to speak, I knew then that he meant what he said. I stood up and he followed me to the library, his eyes wandering over those shelves and shelves of books. I had added quite a lot to them in the recent past, particularly the antiquarian editions that were presented to me by dealers.

I sat at one end of the long narra reading table and asked him to sit beside me, but he merely stood, thanking me first. Then, with just the two of us, he finally spoke, softly, as if he did not want anyone else to hear.

“Severina—my mother—died last December. I had asked her so many times in the past who my father was, but she never told me. I stopped asking her after a while. Then, before she died, she told me …” He paused.

Every word sank into me, boulders in a quagmire of reverie, and a hundred immobilized memories long dispersed into the void came back alive and whole again, swamping me, drowning me.

He continued evenly, “She asked me to see you, that I must promise her I would. And now that I have seen you and have fulfilled my promise to my mother, I must go.” And with that final word, he turned and marched out of the room.

I sat there, paralyzed by emotions I could not explain or control; the revelation confirmed me, buoyed me. I have a son, a handsome grown-up son! Dr. Avecilla had examined my sperm count after the dread disease was vanquished and he said I would never be able to sire a child; that was one ravage of the disease that could not be reversed. I was therefore confident in all my liaisons, the women I had with just a finger on the telephone, the cloying attention of my cousins’ lovely daughters. I need not be responsible. But I had a son! A son, and the whole world that wonderful morning changed completely. In a while, however, I realized that the boy had walked out of my life. I rushed out of the house in my plaid silk robe and asked a bewildered Cornejo at the gate where the boy had gone. He pointed toward the main highway; in my bedroom slippers I ran in that direction, to the mélange of buses and jeepneys jostling one another to the city.

I saw him with his canvas bag about to board a jeepney. I rushed after him and held on to the handle of the jeepney as it started. I was dragged along before I pitched myself into the jeepney—fortunately, there was a seat beside him. I held his arm, “I must talk with you, hijo. You cannot leave me like this.” I realized I was pleading.

The driver stopped the jeepney.

The boy must have been embarrassed by the attention I had drawn, my attire and all, so he followed me down out of the jeepney. Walking beside him back to the house, this pride, this vaulting sense of being a father, this great paternal feeling I had never felt before filled me, never, not even for Angela, although I loved her so much; maybe because she was a girl and was always there when I needed her.

We were now in the shade of the huge acacia trees along this street that led to the house. I would have ridden the jeepney to wherever it was going had he not agreed to get off. I think he realized this, too. It would have been my first jeepney ride, for even in the days after the war when there was very limited transportation, my family always had our own—jeeps and command carriers, which Father got from the American army. And, soon after, our first Buick and Cadillac arrived.

I asked Delfin where he was going and he said it was to a distant aunt somewhere in Parañaque. He had arrived the day before and from the pier he had gone straight to the house. Did he have money? It was a foolish question, but I wanted to know. Yes, he said with some pride, what Severina had saved, all three hundred pesos of it, pinned inside his shirt so no pick-pocket could reach it.

At the gate, I instructed a flustered gatekeeper to let Delfin in at any time he wished. It was Sunday and though I worked even on Sundays, this time I decided to stay in the house and be with him.

How does one become an instant father? All my life I have had my way. With money, I got anything I wanted; almost anything anyway. Could I now buy this young man’s affection? He had had no supper the previous evening, no breakfast, this I soon realized. I took him back to the dining room and told the cook to prepare breakfast, and for me another cup of coffee.

So many questions ached to be asked, but I held back, and watched him eat silently. When I did ask, he spoke slowly, as if he were weighing every uttered word.

To my pleasure, he said he was enrolling at the state university. He had a full scholarship through the efforts of the high school principal who recognized, perhaps, the boy’s academic excellence. He was his high school’s valedictorian that year. I knew little of the island where Severina had gone—that Siquijor was somewhere in the Visayas, minuscule, insignificant, without any industry. I would ask my office the following morning to prepare its profile.

And what did he want to be? What course in the university would he be taking?

Not one hesitant moment. “I hope I can be a lawyer, sir,” he said simply. Almost immediately, I knew that he would achieve that goal.

I had presumed that I could persuade him to stay. How many rooms in the house were empty? How many servants did we have to serve just the three of us? Maybe I sounded too eager when I said, “Hijo, live with me. There is so much space here—there is just my sister and her daughter and I …”

Again, no hesitation. “Thank you very much, sir. All that I promised my mother was to see you.”

At this moment my precious Angela came to the dining room and sat beside me to look at Delfin. She had heard part of the conversation.

“Your cousin,” I said, almost blurting out “your sister” instead. Though in poor health, Angela would surely grow into a beauty—the signs were explicit, the large dark eyes, the angelic face—indeed, her name truly fitted her and her disposition as well.

Delfin and I were talking in English. His Tagalog was not any better than mine and it was heavily accented.

“Tito.” Angela had been calling me uncle since she could speak. Her hand was on mine, but those limpid eyes were on the young man before us. “Why does he not want to stay with us? Then you don’t have to help me with my homework. I can ask him to do that.”

I told her in Spanish that this young man was my son, that I really wanted him to stay, and when I turned to Delfin, something in his face told me he understood everything. I was to learn later that, indeed, he knew enough Spanish to get by—Severina had taught him what she had learned in the house. It was only a matter of time, in college and by his own reading, that he would know Spanish, speak it correctly in a manner better than mine.

Perhaps I tried too hard. I could imagine his uneasiness not just with me but with the grand dimensions of the house. He need not tell me how he had lived and grown up in that god-forsaken island. The roughness of his skin, his big callused hands were more than eloquent expressions of how harshly he had lived.

But why did Severina never tell me that we had a child? Why did she leave without telling me? Later on, it would have been easy for her to write. I could only surmise that it was my parents’ doing. How often had they dinned into me that I must never marry someone whose social background was inadequate.

Having finished breakfast, he stood up, bowed and thanked me. “I must go now, sir,” he said.

I couldn’t hold him back, so I decided to take him to his aunt. I would at least know in what anonymous corner of Parañaque he would stay.

Angela wanted to come along. She sat between Delfin and me. The Cadillac, the fifth in the garage, was new, black and shiny. A couple of Mercedes-Benzes were awaiting release at the piers.

Delfin gave the address to the driver with some hesitation. All the way to Parañaque, he did not speak unless he was spoken to. Angela asked her own kind of questions: Did he live by the sea in this Siquijor island? No, but the sea was not far. Did he do a lot of swimming and boating? Angela loved the sea and when I would take the boat from the yacht club for a breath of sea air along the Bataan or Cavite coasts, she always wanted to come along. Yes, Delfin told her—he also liked swimming and fishing.

It took us more than an hour to locate the place, tucked inside a narrow alley into which the Cadillac could not squeeze. We walked through a seedy neighborhood, ramshackle wooden houses. It was Angela’s first time in a slum; her face was so mobile that, although she did not speak, the shock was all over her young face. The whole place smelled, too, of abandoned urinals and dour living, and this is where my son was going to live.

I met the distant aunt, a fat, slovenly woman, middle-aged and worldly-wise, who immediately recognized my social status. She could glimpse through the narrow alley the El Dorado parked on the street around which the children and the neighborhood riffraff were now crowded. Her manner was sickeningly ingratiating, saying how fortunate that Delfin had such well-to-do relatives and, now, he had to visit such a humble place blessed though he was with the acquaintanceship of such generous people.

She had opened the door of the tiny apartment; some slattern women were inside, squatting on the cement floor, smoking and playing cards. Delfin walked me back to the car and, before we parted, I thrust into his pocket a fistful of bills. He did not want to accept it.

“I will come back for you,” I said, dodging his hand as he tried to shove the money at me.

Angela went into the car immediately as if she were anxious to be inside, to be shielded from the destitution and squalor she had just seen. She seemed very relieved when we finally left.

“He is going to stay there?” she asked in disbelief.

In the office the following morning I sent an aide to the state university to inquire about Delfin’s scholarship, specifically how much it was worth, for how long. What about his textbooks? The other expenses he might incur? I wanted to know all about his needs.

The aide returned. Delfin had a full scholarship, which meant he also had a little spending money, but he had to maintain his high grades to retain the stipend and the scholarship. With so many other bright young people at the university on scholarships, he might have some difficulty keeping his. How could he concentrate on his studies while living in that dreadful place? The stipend was measly—would it keep him alive? I was very glad when at the opening of the school year, he transferred to a tiny room near the campus. His having to commute to Parañaque every day was a terrible waste of time.

The profile prepared by my research department was comprehensive. None of my ships stopped in Dumaguete, the port closest to the island. Three hours by ferry from Siquijor and you are in Dumaguete and, from there, connections by air or boat to any of the country’s big cities.

Though densely populated, the island is basically agricultural, with almost no potential for industry. For tourism, it has white sand beaches and snorkeling possibilities in its coral reefs, many of them teeming with fish, particularly skipjacks and the rare blue ribbon eel.

A coastal road, some seventy-six kilometers long, skirts the island and all its towns. It is hilly, limestone-ridged. The natives are fishermen, and farmers tending coconut, corn, cassava, abaca, rice, peanuts and tobacco. Some manganese is mined in the interior.

What attracted me most, however, were the details about the island’s history and its identification with the black arts.

The islanders’ oral tradition holds that Siquijor rose from the sea amid thunder and lightning, and also describes a legendary King Kihod. Fossilized sea creatures have been found in the interior highlands. Chinese porcelain plowed up by local farmers indicates the prevalence of pre-Hispanic trading. The island’s native name was Katugasan, after tugas—the molave trees that covered the hills. The Spanish first called it Isla del Fuego (Island of Fire), probably due to the swarms of fireflies they found here, and later renamed it Siquijor.

In spite of the long presence of Christianity, Siquijor is noted for herbal medicine, witchcraft, magic and superstition, with San Antonio as the center of shamanism. There are said to be about fifty mananambals who are classified as either “white” or “black” sorcerers, depending on whether they specialize in healing or harming. You can see a collection of their paraphernalia, including voodoo dolls, potions and concoctions, skulls and candles at Silliman University’s Anthropology Museum in Dumaguete. San Antonio, named after the patron saint of medicine, is reached by a back road leading into the interior hills, but don’t expect to see much evidence of the dark arts.

During Holy Week, herbalists and sorcerers come from all over the Visayas and Mindanao to San Antonio to participate in a ritual known as tang-alap. They roam the area’s forests, caves and cemeteries to gather medicinal herbs and roots, then sit in a circle, and while a humorous mood prevails, the ingredients are combined in piles. The gathering culminates in an exclusive ritual that takes place in a secluded cave at dawn.

Magbabarang is the name given to the “black” sorcerers. These dreaded purveyors of pain and death can be hired as agents of vengeance, and use barang—certain bees, beetles and centipedes that have an extra leg—and magic invocations to achieve their ends. They collect these insects and keep them in a bamboo tube. Always on a Friday, they place several pieces of paper, each bearing someone’s name and address, in the tube. They check a short time later, and if the papers have been shredded, it’s taken as a sign that the insects will attack the individuals named. The magbabarang ties a white string around the insects’ other legs before releasing them. They are ordered to find their victims, enter their bodies and cause death by biting the internal organs. Then they return to their master, who examines the strings to see if the magic was successful. If so, the string will be red with blood; if it’s clean, it means the person was innocent and could resist the hex. Those who suspect that a magbabarang had been hired against them may employ their own practitioner to counteract the voodoo, which could result in a complex power struggle.

Later that year, during Holy Week, an aide came in excitedly. He had helped prepare the Siquijor profile. Now, he showed me an Agence France Presse dispatch:

“WITCHES” CONVERGE ON SIQUIJOR ISLAND
TO TEST POTENCY OF THEIR MEDICINES

Self-styled medicine men, sorcerers, herbalists and other practitioners of esoteric arts converged on this Visayan island this Holy Week to cook up their most potent potions.

Such medicine men could be seen in the island’s cemeteries on Good Friday, picking up gravel with their hands from the base of the graves for use in their potions.

The annual event has earned Siquijor the title of “the island of witches.”

It has also given its inhabitants a fearsome reputation among fellow Filipinos—much to the irritation of some of Siquijor’s more image-conscious residents.

From Good Friday until Easter, various people described alternately as healers, witches, shamans and medicine men prepared the various mixes that they will use all year.

Ingredients for potions were gathered on Friday, cooked in cauldrons on Saturday and made into various preparations that the sorcerers sell.

Most ingredients are from Siquijor’s forests: plants, leaves, twigs, vines and roots. Some “treatments” from these materials seem to be much like traditional herbal medicine since they supposedly alleviate aches, pains and various diseases.

Only plants from Siquijor will do, although some herbalists readily admit these plants grow elsewhere.

But some potions use even stranger ingredients: cemetery dirt and wood gathered on Good Friday, and leftover candlewax and flower petals scavenged from Holy Week processions.

Florian Cabico, a 68-year-old herbalist from the nearby island of Cebu who travels to Siquijor each year, says the potions must be prepared on Good Friday because “there is no God on Good Friday.”

This refers to the belief among Catholics that Good Friday marks the death of Christ, who is not resurrected until Easter Sunday. The Philippines is largely Roman Catholic, but animist beliefs persist in many areas of everyday life.

Medicine men say their potions have supernatural effects: charms that allow the wearers to dodge bullets, prevent them from falling off coconut trees, and ensure good luck.

There are charms that guarantee salesmen big earnings, preparations that draw fish into nets and love potions for both men and women.

But the most feared are the curses: spells cast by witches using voodoolike dolls and, through offerings of food and drink, to unseen spirits in a hidden ceremony within the gnarled roots of the “balete” tree, widely believed by Filipinos to be an abode of unearthly creatures.

Such witches, both male and female, can supposedly bring illnesses and even painful death to their enemies—or anyone they are paid to curse. Fortunately, sorcerers also prepare charms to counter these.

Medicine men, who often live as simple farmers alongside the rest of the communities in rural towns here, will rarely admit they are also witches who cast curses, due to possible retaliation from their victims’ relatives.

But people in their neighborhood will say—out of earshot—who among them practice such black arts.

Other Siquijor medicine men reputedly have even stranger skills, like the ability to walk on hot coals or charm snakes by reciting certain prayers or, in one case, to make spirits animate paper dolls so they dance to disco music.

Many medicine men insist they are good Catholics who see no conflict between their practices and their faith.

Juan Ponce, 70, describes himself as a Catholic and says he uses his potions only to “cure sicknesses that can’t be cured in hospitals.”

Ponce, considered a teacher by a small clique of younger herbalists who gather at his home from throughout the country each year, says his knowledge was passed on to him from his father, who received it from his own father.

I know, of course, that witchcraft, a heritage of ghosts and the macabre, is not confined to Siquijor. Every village has its lore of the mysterious, a past beyond fathoming, enshrined in myth for the young to embellish and perhaps to believe in—the trees that are the abode of spirits, the turn of a river where a nymph was once seen, an empty lot where on moonlit nights wraiths in white reveled.

One Sunday morning, having fulfilled my duty to Corito for the day, we fell to talking about Delfin.

“I find him very attractive,” Corito said. She had gotten dressed but was still lounging on my bed. “You know who he reminds me of? You—when there was more stamina here,” she said, fingering my crotch.

“He is barely out of his teens,” I said.

“That’s when they are the most sturdy, too,” she said. “And you know, he looks just like you, darker eyes, but so very handsome …”

I knew exactly what she was saying. “Now, Corito,” I said rather testily, “whatever is in your mind, just keep it there. He is my son, your nephew—don’t you forget that!”

She rose and started laughing, her laughter in sonorous volleys of joyless mirth. She turned around, looked at me and said clearly, “Your son, my nephew—and you, Carling—you are my brother!” and turning abruptly, she left me to ponder the irony and the truth of what she had uttered.

I now realized how truly I wanted Delfin. In those times when I socialized and the talk veered to family and children, I had kept silent. As I said, I wanted my private life unintruded upon, even in conversation. I was now delighted to talk openly, fondly even, of my son, raising as I did curiosity and skepticism, that I was perhaps joking, or enlivening a particularly asinine conversation.

I’ll let you in on a little secret, I would say with a conspiratorial smile. I did get married long ago, but she died.

And when they pressed for details, I would clam up. But where was this Delfin, this brilliant boy who had my name, my looks?

You will see, I told them proudly. You will see.

And then I would announce boastfully, He is a scholar at the state university. You can always check the veracity of this statement. He is a Cobello. His first name is Delfin.

Having revealed those details, I saw more than ever how important it was that he move to Sta. Mesa. He never called or visited, however. Always, it was I who went to see him, and I had to suffer my pride, which I never did in the past. I was capable of noblesse oblige, particularly with those in my employ who had served me and my family for so long, but with people who were seemingly equal, to them I showed no mercy. At forty, I think I had gotten the reputation in business of being astute—and ruthless—and I nurtured that image so that anyone with intentions of crossing my path would be forewarned, would then beware. And rarely did anyone taunt me.

It was difficult for me to understand why a boy who had obviously lived in want in some dilapidated village in the Visayas would reject the ease and comfort that I offered, circumstances that were legitimately his and were all being gladly given. If I were he, I would have grabbed everything.

How did Severina raise him? To loathe me perhaps for having abandoned her? But I did not know. Why then did she bother at all at the last moment to reveal my identity? Thinking back, I realized how culpable I was. When she left, I should have inquired about her whereabouts from the help. I should have persevered, threatened them even, particularly her distant aunt, the cook. If I had persevered, I am sure they would have told me. I could then have found her and her baby. But would I have stood by her? Again, the warning from my parents, their wish to keep our property intact, to see that our bloodline, the Spanish in it, was strengthened, not diluted. And to the wealth that Corito and I inherited, I had already added so much on my own. What was one house for Delfin in Diliman? I could build it with a snap of a finger. I kept several houses. And I seldom visited them, nor did Corito and Angela, for now Corito always wanted to be where I was, wanted me beside her when she needed me, always using Angela as bait, as an excuse, that the girl was not well again. And, God, most of the time it was true. But though I wanted to build Delfin a house, I could not do it without his consent.

Without his being aware, I knew not only about the tiny room he kept but also his schedule in school. I tried not to be conspicuous in my attention. I knew he resented my wish to pamper him.

The driver had carefully timed it; Delfin would be coming out of the Liberal Arts building at noon, his Friday afternoons being free, and the car drove over to the sidewalk. I had gotten out of the car and there was no way he could avoid me. “I want to invite you to lunch, hijo,” I said.

He turned briefly to a couple of classmates who were with him; they were staring at me, at the Cadillac with a uniformed driver. It was the first time in four months that I had seen him, but an aide had kept tabs, every month handing him an envelope with cash that would enable him to be comfortable. He had at first refused it, but the aide had pleaded with him that I would fire him if he did not do his job. That was quick thinking but, in truth, I never told him that.

Delfin smiled at me, warmly enough, I think. He wore the same faded khaki pants, white shirt and battered sneakers. He had also lost a bit of that sun-browned skin and he was fairer now. I saw myself in him again, only he was taller, though not by much.

“Thank you, sir, but I have plans this afternoon.”

I held his arm firmly and led him to the Cadillac. “Tell me about it in the car,” I said. I was prepared to drag him and I think he sensed that.

He was tight-lipped and glum, speaking only when I spoke to him. It occurred to me to be blunt. “Delfin, what ugly things did your mother tell you about me?”

The question must have startled him. He looked at me in surprise. “You never knew my mother, sir. She was a good person, with never an unkind word for anyone. She never spoke about you till, like I said, she was already very ill. And all that she said was that I should see you, that you should know.”

I was mortified. “We are going to the Polo Club,” I said. Then I called Corito on the car radio; she was at the Assumption waiting for Angela. Both would proceed to the Club from school.

Makati was growing magnificently, an enclave of business, banking, its residential areas well planned for the rich. My own office building was already almost finished, thirty stories tall. I was also going to build a house in Dasmariñas. It would be more convenient to entertain there. I wanted a place to stay where I was not always at Corito’s side. The Huk rebellion was over, its members having turned into mere brigands. It had bothered me and Father, too, but we knew Magsaysay, who was then president, would defeat them and come to the succor of the oligarchy.

My businesses were thriving, too, but it seemed I had learned so little about empathy. I could not understand Delfin’s deep longing for independence, his desire to challenge the world and live on his wits and brawn in a manner I never fostered in my own self, used as I was to the privileges of birth and high station. Where did all that granite perseverance come from? From Severina and her peasant origins? I was beginning to appreciate my son as someone different from me. I would never be able to do what he was now doing.

The drive along Highway 54, soon to be known as EDSA, was quiet but tense. Corito and Angela were already at the Club. The two often came here on weekends to ride, Corito to shed off some pounds, and Angela to exercise. At eight, she was tall but oh so thin. They were on the patio drinking Coke. Always, Delfin was polite as he greeted them. He remained standing until I told him to sit down. Angela never stopped gazing at him, smiling. On the sunny polo field, the stable boys were walking some of the horses. A waiter came and took our orders.

It was a leisurely lunch, chopped endives with oil and vinegar, chateaubriand and Spanish sherry. Angela had very little appetite; I had to finish her steak. She was very much alive, however, not quiet and seemingly lost. She had a lot of questions like “I would like to visit you. Will you take me to your place one day?”

Delfin merely smiled at her.

“Tito said you have moved from that place where we first took you. I am very glad you did. But you can live in Sta. Mesa—I cannot understand why you don’t want to. We have so many empty rooms.” She turned to her mother. “That room next to mine, there’s nothing there but cabinets and cabinets. Sometimes, at night, I think there is a ghost there—no, you don’t want that room. But the room across the hall?”

Corito would do anything to please her daughter. “You must come,” she said graciously, warmly. “Why don’t you visit? The weekends when you don’t have classes. Help Angela with her homework …”

Again, a noncommittal smile. I was very happy that Corito and Angela had voiced my feelings without my prodding. Corito knew who he was, she had seen Severina and me in an embrace, but she did not show any sign of jealousy anymore—and anyhow, Severina was dead. The whole house knew Delfin was my son and there, in the Club, I wished there were people now who knew me, who would approach our table.

Angela couldn’t be stopped. “Why don’t you want to come even if we want you so much? What is the reason, Delf?” she had given Delfin a nickname.

“I would like to very much,” he finally said. “But I want to be on my own, to learn how to be independent.”

An honest answer, and I was grateful for it.

Just as I had hoped, Don Simeon, who owned the Agricultural and Industrial Bank where I had a minority interest, happened by. He knew Corito and Angela. I stood up and introduced Delfin, who had also risen. “My son, Simeon.”

The banker stepped back, looked Delfin over, then grinned and pumped my son’s hand. “So it is true—what I heard about you having a son. But you know, Charlie, he is handsomer than you and, I hope, brighter, too, although that would take a lot of doing.”

We laughed. Delfin was blushing. Don Simeon was twenty years older than I, mestizo, too, and to Delfin he said, “I presume you are still in school, hijo. What are you going to be?”

He hesitated, and I answered for him. “He is a scholar at the state university. He is studying law.”

Don Simeon chuckled. “So he will replace Jake when he is through, huh?”

“If Delfin so chooses,” I said, suavely, considering his feelings.

Don Simeon was looking for a table. I asked him to join us so he would be able to know Delfin better. That is how business relationships start, from social beginnings. I wanted, in fact, to introduce Delfin to as many of my associates and connections as possible, if only he deigned stay with us. But Don Simeon was expecting company and it was enough that he had met Delfin. Everyone would soon know the reality of my son—and heir.