When Delfin said he had plans that afternoon, I suspected he had quickly concocted a reason for staying away, for it was Friday and I had hoped he would be able to be with me not just that afternoon but perhaps for the weekend. I did not want to appear as if I were begging. Angela was now having her favorite macapuno—coconut—ice cream and Corito always appreciated the cheesecake. It was almost three in the afternoon. I took Delfin to Francesco, my Italian tailor for the last five years, and, there, Delfin was fitted for a couple of summer suits and one for fall. I also ordered for him several shirts and summer trousers. I told him I would like to take him on one of my trips and, please, give away that old pair of khakis and get several pairs of new shoes. As a haberdasher, Francesco also had a good line of Italian shoes for men.

Delfin did not object to Francesco; he stood there, acceding to the master cutter’s measuring him, and all the while Francesco was saying how splendid he looked, what a handsome mannequin he would make at a fashion show. Francesco was homosexual.

It was one of the most pleasant afternoons I had ever spent with Delfin. We hadn’t talked at length before and I wanted so much to know about him, his boyhood, his needs.

“I am doing all right, sir,” he said. “I am earning a little …”

And what could a prelaw scholar, studying rigorously to maintain his scholarship, do to earn money?

He was candid; he said he helped some of his classmates with their reports and he also tutored a couple of girls from nearby Maryknoll in math—he was good at it and had considered taking up a science degree, but had decided on law instead.

Was it his ambition to be a politician? We were in the car on our way to my office. I wanted my senior staff to see him.

“No, sir, that’s farthest from my mind.”

“Stop calling me ‘sir,’ ” I said, a little peeved. “Call me Papa, hijo, if you can manage it.”

He did not reply. I knew then he would never call me Papa, and the old hurt came back, the suspicion that Severina must have coached him, pounded into his young mind that I had done them wrong.

“You did not explain to me why you want to be a lawyer.”

This time, he hesitated and, then, again the truth: “In Siquijor, sir, there are many people who are made even poorer because they have no way of fighting back, because they cannot afford lawyers …” and as if he was suddenly aware of having said too much, he stopped.

Was this my son talking about championing the poor? Youthful idealism, I concluded; I had heard a bit of that from some of my classmates at the Ateneo, like Jake, my chief counsel, for instance, but they soon forget it all when they enter the real world, the world which I dominate.

My Makati building was ready, and the finishing touches were being completed in the upper floors. My office was on the ground floor, unlike other executives who want their offices higher up. My penthouse, however, was there at the top, where I had a view of the city. It was accessible only to me, with its private elevator.

All my top people were also on the ground floor. We did not go to my office through my rear entrance but through the front so that as we walked through executive country, all of them could see Delfin. I did not have to introduce him—by his looks alone they could see he was the son I had been boasting about.

In my office, I told him to sit down and read The Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times while I sifted through the messages that had come in during the late morning and lunch hour. Tina, my private secretary, came in with her pad and more messages. She was older than I; I had inherited her from Father. She was fat, jovial and extremely efficient. We always spoke in Spanish, and I introduced Delfin to her. “I have heard a lot about you,” she said in Spanish, presuming Delfin spoke Spanish, too. “You are so handsome and you look just like your father.”

Delfin smiled and replied in English, “Thank you, ma’am, for the compliment.”

Nothing of importance from Tina or in the papers on my desk. I took him to the rear, to the private elevator and to the top, my penthouse. I often stayed here when I had company or when I entertained a maximum of eight people. For more, I used the house in Dasmariñas. Going now to Sta. Mesa was too much of a bother—the distance, the knotted traffic and the pollution that seeped through the air-conditioning. My building was taller than almost all the other Makati buildings and, from the penthouse, Manila sprawled in all directions. Were it not for the acacia trees, I could see the house in Sta. Mesa. On one side was the helicopter pad and the anchored helicopter, kept in readiness if I wanted to go to the beach house in Bataan, or to the hacienda, or even to Sta. Mesa if I was in a hurry. I had not meant to show all these possessions or even my lifestyle to Delfin. I had wanted privacy with him, to know him and, looking back, I suppose I had awed him somewhat, for now he was rigidly silent.

But even if I did not show him all these, maybe, bright as he was, he already knew the extent of my holdings.

“I sometimes stay here, hijo,” I said. I took him to the other bedroom. And then I made the pitch. “If you will be uneasy staying in Sta. Mesa, you can stay here with me. I will not bother you—in any case, I am not here often. As you know, I am often away on business trips, or I am in Sta. Mesa, or in that other house in Dasmariñas …”

When he did not reply, I knew I was again rejected.

What could I possibly do to gain my own son’s affection?

Here I am, one of the country’s richest, most powerful men, but with him, I am completely powerless.

My own son! I survey the supreme magnitude of my economic achievement and a chest-thumping sense of pride buoys me. I had really used Corito’s and my own inheritance to grow, to parlay all these into something my father had never dreamed of. Like him, I had gotten to meet the important people in government and out. I had helped them, too, contributed not just to their political agenda but also to their own pockets, and they had all responded—the reparations, the lumber concessions, the licenses and franchises and the approval of Congress—even my income tax deductions. I had a battery of brilliant people, most of them lawyers, who knew all the loop-holes, and some of them even proclaimed themselves as nationalists—I lured them, paid them homage, co-opted them, then used them all.

And why shouldn’t they believe in me? I was collecting Philippine antiques, Chinese porcelain, preserving them, even created an exhibition hall for my collection in the absence of a national museum. I gave away prizes in literature, supported the local stage and charity! All this, recorded dutifully by journalists, is nationalism indeed.

What will I talk about with Delfin, my reading, my knowledge of Roman law, the lines I could remember from the Roman orators? Yeats and T. S. Eliot—do not forget, my dear reader, that I had dabbled in poetry, that I love poetry, thanks to those many idle days during the Occupation in the brothel in Pasay when I was always reading. But would showing off my intellect bring me closer to my son? I doubted it—he might even conclude that I was just showing off, for that is what I did at board meetings when my ignoramus colleagues would ask me who it was this time I was quoting and, sometimes, although it was my very own thoughts, I would attribute them to some Chinese or Indian philosopher—nonexistent, of course, but who among them would know? Cobello locuta est, causa finita est! (Cobello has spoken, the dispute is finished!)

Then, it occurred to me. I would take Delfin to Nueva Ecija, to Hacienda Esperanza—he would certainly like to see where his mother came from, maybe even to meet some of his mother’s relatives who were still there.

“I will take you to Nueva Ecija this afternoon. Cancel all your plans. I have not been there myself in a long time …”

I could see at once the pleasure light his face. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Thank you.”

My impulse had worked. Finally, I was going to do something he approved of.

The house in San Quentin had always been maintained so that if I ever decided to visit the place, I would be comfortable. I called Sta. Mesa and told the cook to prepare to leave for San Quentin; Corito and Angela had just come in, too, and Corito said she would take Angela with her. It would be a wonderful weekend for the family.

Delfin said he had brought no clothes, so I flung open one of the cabinets. “Take anything you want,” I said. “I am sure they will fit you, taller though you are, but not by much.” He was embarrassed, hesitant. I picked a suitcase and started filling it.

I am not a finicky dresser. In the last three years, Francesco had made me only four dozen suits, but he likes to announce that he is my tailor. I have, at most, only a dozen tuxedos and another dozen old tweed jackets, mostly Donegals. When my three-button gray flannel suits tailored in the fifties went out of fashion in the seventies, I still wore them because all were of fine English wool. In fact, I sometimes wear a five-dollar tie picked up on a New York sidewalk with my Savile Row suits because I like the traditional Brooks Brothers design. All these may seem excessive until one realizes I have several houses abroad and in each there are enough clothes for any season. My only one caprice is white silk shirts, all made to order in Hong Kong with a red monogram above the breast pocket: C.C.

I had to go back to my office to sign some papers. Delfin sat there, reading the newspapers and business magazines. He sauntered over to the shelves that line one side of my office—more Philippine books there, some rare editions, some sociology classics, fiction, history. He browsed until I was through and my secretary had also received instructions in the event that important matters cropped up that weekend.