11
A man’s suicide is the ultimate violence he can fling against the granite circumstance he could not vanquish. It is a lonely and desperate act of supreme courage, not weakness. But it is also an admission of total failure; the destruction of the self is the end of one person’s struggle, an end wherefrom there will be no rebirth or resurrection—nothing but the blackness, the impenetrable muck that hides everything, sometimes even the reason for death itself.
Tio Baldo never left a note, and I can only surmise the depths of that despair that had claimed him. It was not, I think, that Don Vicente had defeated him; that would not have dented his courage so much, for someone like Don Vicente—all-powerful and all-devouring—could have done that and that would be explainable. It was, I think, Tio Baldo’s complete destruction at the hands of his own people that not only humiliated him; their mistrust—though not so widely voiced—simply destroyed his last shred of dignity.
But when a person commits suicide, he does not do violence only to himself; he inflicts his death upon those whom he least considered would be so afflicted. I have thought of Tio Baldo a lot, admired him, the simplicity of his final response; he has taunted me and haunted me in a way no wraith ever will, for I saw in him not just a way out of my own dilemmas but the capacity of man to have in his hands—and in no other—his own destiny. But in thinking this way, I also realized how finite everything is, how vulnerable a human being is as I now know—victim that I am, not just of memory but of that accursed attachment that I have felt for all those who have been good to me.
As for Father, he, too, was not inured to the turmoil of conscience and self-blame. In the days that followed, he became more morose and withdrawn. At the dinner table, he would stare blankly, his face drawn and haggard. He seldom spoke, and when he did, even when he was not really angry at anyone, his words had a cutting edge.
There were nights, too, when sleep eluded him, and once I heard him curse: “Ungrateful wretches! I gave you everything and you give me hell!” He moved about in his room, his slippers scraping the floor, and I slept through, then woke again to listen to him still awake and moving about.
He did not have breakfast with me that morning, and when I saw him again late in the day after school, his eyes were deep-set and glazed, and for the first time I realized that he was drunk; his breath stank.
He had called me to the azotea, where he reclined on his armchair, the ash from his cigar scattered on the front of his white coat.
“Son,” he said, “when you grow up, don’t think of other people. Think only of yourself. Others don’t matter, because they don’t think of you anyway.”
It was comments like these that, more than anything, showed how Tio Baldo’s death had now warped Father’s thinking. There may have been occasions when his spirits were buoyed up, but they were far between. I thought, for instance, that the coming of Miss Santillan to our house would brighten our lives, and it surely did, but only for a while.
Miss Santillan was brought to the house by the high school principal. She was a young, handsome woman, a teacher. They talked with Father for some time in the sala, then the principal left and Miss Santillan stayed to board with us. Father told her to make herself really at home. I’m sure the gesture was but a nicety; Father could not have meant what he said, because he loathed intrusions into his privacy. The only reason, I presume, why he took Miss Santillan as a boarder was that she was the only teacher in the high school who was not a native of our town. The principal had suggested to her that nothing but the best boardinghouse would do for her.
And the “best,” actually, was our house.
Miss Santillan was around twenty-four. Her complexion was clear brown like a baby’s, and she wore her hair short like a movie actress. Her shoes had high heels, and her toenails, like her fingernails, were painted red. She did not, however, wear the slightest smudge of rouge or lipstick. In spite of this, her lips and her cheeks shone with the pale pink of macopa.
During the holidays, when the wooden schoolhouse beyond the plaza looked haunted, she stayed in her room. And if the weather was balmy, she would read, comfortably seated on the bench shaded by the balete tree. She came up only when the sun finally toppled over the foothills and the leaves of the acacias that lined the provincial road had closed.
On this particular evening, a few days before the celebration of our high school concert, we were idling in the sala, having finished supper. Miss Santillan was feeling exuberant the whole day, and though it was Saturday, she did not shut herself up in her room or read in the yard. She had puttered around the house instead, joking with the maids in the kitchen and with the boys in the storehouse. The echo of the Angelus had waned; I had kissed Father’s hand, and he had taken his silver-handled cane and gone down for the stroll that would lead to Chan Hai’s. Sepa had lighted the bronze Aladdin lamp in the sala. The cool blue haze steadied, and Sepa dropped on the sofa and leafed through the Bannawag, which she could not read but whose pictures and Kulafu comics attracted her.
Miss Santillan, who was looking out into the town slowly succumbing to the dark, turned and beckoned me.
“You want to know something?” she asked. She held my hand and pressed her forefinger to her lips as if to warn me to share with no one her beautiful secret. “It is supposed to be a surprise,” she said.
I nodded.
“You won’t believe it, but Mr. Sanchez and I—”
Her face reddened; she drew back and laughed. “No, of course not.” She stopped laughing, but her voice was still rich with happiness. “For the high school program, the principal has asked us to sing. A duet.”
Now it was evident why she felt lighthearted the whole day, and suddenly it struck me as wonderful—her singing on a stage. From bits of talk in the school, I gleaned that she had studied voice once, but never during the past few weeks that she had stayed with us had she raised her voice in a full-bodied song.
As for Mr. Sanchez, our mathematics teacher, he made not the slightest effort to hide his rich baritone as big as himself, and he could best any male teacher in the school, I am sure, not only in hog-calling but in wrestling.
Miss Santillan turned around and looked at the piano in the hall—a relic that had belonged to my mother. It was more of a prop whose presence was a status necessity in all big houses. Its dark mahogany shone dully through the red shawllike cover that ran down the keyboard and almost hid the rectangular stool. It sulked in the west corner, flanked by two wrought-iron pedestals that supported palmetto fronds. Its stage was elevated a step high, and surrounding it, lining the curving wall, were square glass plates that reflected bits of light. Though constantly cleaned by Sepa, its thin casing had started to crack and peel. I could knock out a tune with one finger, but I never heard it played properly; its only complaint against the obscurity to which it had been flung was a disconcerting jangle of the chords when Sepa ran a rag over the keyboard to wipe off the dust.
“I think I will yet play a tune on that,” Miss Santillan suddenly said, moving toward it.
Sepa dropped the magazine.
“Why doesn’t someone play it, anyway?” Miss Santillan asked me. “It’s easy to learn, you know. Was it never intended to be played?”
“It is, ma’am,” I said.
A cryptic smile crossed her face, then she strode toward it. Before she could lift the cover, Sepa ran to her side and clamped a firm hand on the piano cover.
“No, maestra,” the aghast housekeeper said.
“Don’t be foolish,” Miss Santillan reproached her.
“But Apo—he might know. No one has touched it in a long, long time.”
“It’s all right,” Miss Santillan assured her. “I’ll play softly. Besides,” she turned to me, “your father won’t be back till midnight.”
Sepa backed helplessly away. “I’ll explain it to him,” the teacher said. She eased herself onto the stool and cracked her knuckles. “I haven’t touched a piano in ages.”
She played a folk song and occasionally struck a broken string. She did not step on the pedals because they did not respond, and with the piano lid closed, the music was muffled, distant. She did not complete a piece; she just rippled through snatches of melody.
She turned to me afterward to ask what song I wanted to hear. She would play a complete piece. Her question lost urgency, and her face quickly darkened.
“Play a mazurka. Any mazurka,” Father answered for me; he had returned much earlier than we had expected and had perhaps stood by the door, for how long we did not know.
“Sepa told me not to touch it,” Miss Santillan explained. “I thought I might still be able to play … it was such a long time …”
Father did not listen to her blurted explanation. “I should have known that you play well—with fire, with emotion.” He was euphoric. He brushed aside the housekeeper, who had gone to him with a mouthful of excuses.
“We didn’t expect you to come home so soon,” Miss Santillan said, stepping down from the platform.
Father was still grinning. “Chan Hai has had too much cerveza, and his moves weren’t wise. But go on. Play.”
Miss Santillan reluctantly returned to the piano. Her long housedress swished against her legs. “Some of the keys are out of tune,” she said, and struck one to emphasize her point. “And a few strings are broken.” She struck a few keys again.
“I know,” Father said, “but go on. Play.”
He turned and went to his rocking chair in the azotea, wheeled the chair around so he would face us, and digging a pouch from his shirt pocket, filled his pipe and lighted it. In the cool light of the Aladdin lamp Miss Santillan looked very pretty. Her hair was brushed up and tied with a blue ribbon at her nape. Her forehead, her cheeks were smooth. As she played, her lips were half open as if in a smile. Father’s eyes were on her hands.
Mr. Sanchez visited us the following afternoon. It was the first time he or any other teacher came to the house. Only the principal visited us; even Miss Santillan’s female coteachers waited at the gate when they wanted something from her. We walked from the schoolhouse with Miss Santillan. Mr. Sanchez was short and dark, with a fleshy face and wavy hair. He wore a white shirt loudly printed with red and green birds. Though he was seldom jovial in school, all the way to the house he teased Miss Santillan on the prospects of their forthcoming stage appearance. What they did not know was that the entire school already shared their secret. He did not want to come up to the house, but when I told him that Father was not home and would not be in until evening, he went up with us. It was not long before he was at ease and Miss Santillan had him sitting beside her on the piano stool as they played “Chopsticks.” It seemed to be the only tune the mathematics teacher could play.
“I haven’t done that in years,” Mr. Sanchez gushed, and Miss Santillan’s eyes shone. They sang a little, Miss Santillan softly, while most of the time Mr. Sanchez’s baritone boomed. After the Angelus had pealed, he said he was going home. Since our supper was not ready yet, would Miss Santillan care for halo-halo in the refreshment parlor by the bus station, and would I please come along as Miss Santillan’s chaperon?
Father returned early, and we met him at the gate. He rattled the iron bars of the fence with his cane. The two teachers greeted him. Father did not ask where we were headed, but Mr. Sanchez felt he had to explain, his baritone changing into a squeaky stammer.
On our way back, the night was black and the balete tree was crowned with fireflies. Mr. Sanchez walked close to Miss Santillan, and sometimes they talked in whispers punctuated by Miss Santillan’s soft laughter.
Roosters perched on the acacia trees along the street crowed. At our gate, I saw Father smoking in the azotea. He rose when we approached. “Your supper is cold,” Father said as he opened the door for us. Without listening to Miss Santillan’s greeting, he hied back to his seat.
After supper, Miss Santillan took her lesson plan and went to the table in the sala where I also did my homework. There Father joined us, his unlighted pipe in his hand. “Aren’t you going to play tonight?” he asked.
“I am tired,” she said politely, “and, really, I don’t know any other piece except those that you’ve already heard.”
Father struck a match.
“Besides, the piano is …”
Father snuffed the light out without kindling his pipe. “I know.” He sounded sorry. “The piano is no good.”
Before Miss Santillan could speak again, he went back to his rocking chair. When we left the table after some time, he was still there, neither smoking nor rocking, the quiet night all around him.
I was not asleep when the familiar scrape of his slippers came down the hall. He paused before my door, then came in, his pipe still unlighted in his hand.
“You went very far this afternoon,” he said.
“No, Father,” I said, trying to make out his face in the dark. “We just had halo-halo at the bus station.”
“With that teacher?”
“Yes.”
He nodded and left.
The following week, Father spent little time in the fields. He came home early; at five he was already in the house, and he always asked Miss Santillan to play after supper. In spite of the repeated invitations of Chan Hai and the new priest, Father paid little attention to chess. One afternoon, four days before the high school concert, a man from Dagupan arrived. He brought the piano to the azotea, where he dismantled it, and it lay, a heap of strings and pieces of anonymous wood, its many felt-covered hammers scattered on the stone floor.
“The mice gnawed some parts,” he explained, pointing to a mess of shredded paper where pink baby mice, their eyes still shut, were cuddled together and making soft squeaking noises. For the next two days he stayed in our house, working far into the night. When he was through, the piano was returned to its old niche. It had a new coat of varnish, the lid was propped up and polished to a sheen, and the white ivory keys were no longer yellow.
After supper, upon Father’s prodding, Miss Santillan walked over to the piano. We watched her settle primly on the stool, then tentatively run her fingers over the keys. The music that bloomed later was full, magical, and Father rocked quietly in his chair.
Then it was their last rehearsal, and Mr. Sanchez came to the house again. The block-glass window in the corner was flung open, and the last vestiges of sun that came in made the piano shine like burnished gold. Miss Santillan played “One Kiss” several times. On Father’s rocking chair, which had not been returned to the azotea yet, Mr. Sanchez sat and listened. After a while he went to Miss Santillan’s side. He rested his arm on the piano ledge, looked at Miss Santillan’s face, then sang. His voice was tremulous and without much timbre at first, but as the melody held him, it soon filled the house.
After “Oh Promise Me,” a Spanish song, he sang another, whose words I could not understand. They were not able to finish the last, because there was a brisk clapping behind me. I turned and saw Father standing at the top of the stairs. He did not return the greeting of Mr. Sanchez. To Miss Santillan, he said gravely: “I didn’t know you could sing, too,” then he walked briskly to his room and his ledgers.
Miss Santillan played softly after Father had gone, and in a while Mr. Sanchez begged to be excused. He said he had something important to do at home.
“But won’t we sing just once more?” She tried to hold him back. “We might not be able to practice again.”
“Oh, yes, we will,” Mr. Sanchez stammered, then he stepped back to the door, mumbling unintelligibly about his work.
Father appeared at the supper table. He was very quiet, and it was only after the dessert that he spoke. Without looking at Miss Santillan, he dug his spoon into the bits of nanca sweet and said: “I see you sing, too.”
Miss Santillan could not face Father. “I had no formal training,” she said.
“And the other teacher, too?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “You made a nice duet, indeed!”
“We will sing in the high school program tomorrow.”
“Really?” Father said. “Well, that’s good! I think you’ll make a good show. It’s really all right for you to like singing very much, to like a man even …”
Miss Santillan gripped the table’s edge; a flush of red had crept to her face. “Isn’t this becoming too personal, sir?” she asked.
Father glared at her. “Personal or not, I cannot let any lovemaking take place in this house.”
“Lovemaking!” Miss Santillan slumped, shocked, on her seat. “We were only singing a … a duet!”
Father had not raised his voice, but it was stern. “I don’t care which men you want to meet. But as long as you are staying here, under my care, I want you to know that I am like—like your father here.”
He stopped and, in all dignity, stood up, walked to the sala, and pushed his rocking chair back to the azotea. Miss Santillan, speechless for a long while, finally rose and made for her room.
The next morning she was back in her perch under the balete tree. The day of the high school show had come, and though she was needed at school, she did not go. Father arrived late for supper, and when it was over he got his cane from the rack and went down the darkening streets. A boy came from the high school where the program was about to begin and asked for Miss Santillan, but she told me to tell the messenger that she was not feeling well. After the Angelus, Sepa lighted the bronze Aladdin lamp, and Miss Santillan brought out her sewing box. The quiet in the house was awful.
“Aren’t you going to play tonight?” I asked.
She shook her head and did not even turn to me.
“I am going to the school to watch the program,” I said. “Aren’t you coming along?”
Another vehement shaking of the head.
It was sheer waste, and I loathed it. I went to the piano at the far corner. I wanted to run my fingers over its keys, so I tried to lift the lid, but to my surprise, it would not budge. The man who repaired and tuned it had installed a shiny, silver-plated lock—and it was on.