23
June came in a green that flooded the boulevard. The dead brown of March that had scorched the city was gone. The banaba trees had begun to bloom, and their purple flowers brightened the wide shoulders of the streets and the fronts of restaurants and nightclubs. The school year opened, and a rash of college uniforms—the plaid skirts, the grays and blues—colored the Luneta in the afternoons, together with the olive-gray and khaki of the ROTC cadets having their drills there. The invigorating smell of green things wafted to the house, bringing memories of Sipnget. Trining came, too, every Friday afternoon when her classes were over, and she stayed with him until Sunday afternoon, when he drove her back to the convent school.
It had been a significant year for the magazine, and the signs were clear that it would soon be able to stand alone and would not have to depend on financial assistance from the other Dantes publications, although the magazine had already displeased influential people and business leaders with its satirical and irreverent lampooning of their personalities. That they did not make good their threats pleased Dantes very much. Like Luis, he had correctly argued that if it were known that they were bringing pressure on the magazine, it would have confirmed not only their lack of humor but their vulnerability as well.
Luis had really intended to see Ester again, but the opportunity did not come until one afternoon shortly after school had opened. She came to the office with Trining and two other classmates.
“Our first term paper has already been assigned,” she said after the niceties were done. She wore no lipstick. Looking at her finely molded face, Luis could see her personality shining through. This afternoon there was something efficient and businesslike about her. “We came to you for advice, really. We do not know anything about the agrarian problem that you have been writing about—and labor, too—and our understanding of our sociology is rather poor. We didn’t know that our professor had written for you.”
Luis liked the unintended compliment. “Well, for a start,” he said, “suppose you tell me if you have been in a picket line—any of you.”
All four shook their heads.
“I haven’t either,” Luis said with a smile. “So this makes all of us students of some sort. The picket line is where you should really go if you want information about labor unions. You will be surprised how crooked the labor leaders are.”
“But our teachers—when we talked about this,” Ester said, “gave us the impression that you’d be an expert.”
Luis snorted. He never liked being called an expert on anything, and his humility was real. “I would suppose that being an editor should qualify me as a jack-of-all-trades, but I really know little about labor problems. A bit about the agrarian problem, particularly sugar—” He paused, suddenly remembering that Dantes was in sugar, too, but Ester would notice this; so he went on. “Politics, the sacadas, and sugar colonialism. All these aren’t new—you can get more from the files than by talking with me.”
“Give us some pointers on how to begin,” Trining said. It was a simple suggestion and he was grateful to her, for now he could speak a little from his own point of view. Looking at Ester seated, eagerly waiting, he became ill at ease, and he began to ramble vaguely about the nature of man, the value of labor, and the Marxist interpretation of surplus value; then he shifted to the encyclicals of the popes, the Rerum Novarum and the Quadragessimo Anno, and homing in, he spoke briefly about the class structure of Filipino society, the agrarian origins of the revolution of 1896, the peasant uprisings of the country, and now the rebellion in central Luzon.
He did not know that he had taken so long. Dusk was falling, but the girls did not seem to mind and Ester, particularly, seemed entranced. “It’s cleared up a lot,” she said when he was through. “I think I know how to go about mine. Why don’t you write what you just told us and use it in your magazine? I would like to see it before it goes to print.”
He agreed, and as they filed out, most of their questions finally answered, Trining tugged at him and whispered, “You would do anything Ester tells you to do. Now you must write my term paper for me.”
A week later Ester dropped by alone and made Luis very happy. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but the article—it’s all finished—is at home. I did it two nights ago, and I just forgot to bring it here. You should have called first, but if you are in a hurry, let us go home and get it.” His tone was tentative. He foresaw her indecision, so he added, “I think I will just bring it here tomorrow and give it to your father.”
The implicit challenge had been made, and Ester picked it up. “We will go to your place,” she said, “any time you are ready.”
It was not even five, but Luis stood up, and before she could say another word he was guiding her out of his office. Outside, the heat of the late afternoon claimed them. The Dantes building was in the congested heart of the city, and driving out was a problem. By five, however, they were on the boulevard, which was still sun-drenched. To his right, the sea glinted and the waves collapsed with a murmur against the concrete seawall. The breeze whipped her hair close to his face occasionally, and he could smell her fragrance. Her nearness evoked thoughts and imaginings of the kind of life she and her friends lived, of Trining, too, and all the others who had seemed to him immersed in staleness and boredom, mulling over their sins, keeping all their holy days of obligation, living day to day in the exasperating desire to keep their chastity as the most valuable thing that they would present to those who would become their husbands. It was really quite a shame that Trining had not even put up a token fight. He wondered how it would be with Ester, if she would—after it was all over and done with—go to confession so that she could take communion, or just stop taking communion altogether.
When they were almost home he turned to her and saw her looking at him intently. She turned away, embarrassed. “How is your guinea pig?” he asked. An uneasy laugh escaped her.
“Looking at you,” she said, “makes me feel you are sometimes just playacting. You have a driver, a fine home, and yet you sound bitter and discontented—and very proletarian.”
He smiled benignly at her. “Don’t tell me you don’t have a single frustration in the world.”
“I do,” she said.
“It’s all a matter of degree,” he said. “Besides, I do not consider myself embittered. Why should I be when I have right now a very pretty girl with me?”
“You are a rogue,” she said, smiling. “You will do anything to steer the discussion away and make a compliment on the side. You are a liar, too. You said that you would come and see me, but it is I who makes all sorts of excuses to come and see you.”
Her outright confession touched him. “I’m sorry, Ester, but we really had so much to do. Besides, we still have years ahead of us.”
“I hope you’ll change a little,” she said, “acquire a more pleasant disposition—in what you write, at least.”
“For you,” he said, “I will.” Sure of himself, he took her hand. It was cold. “But you must like me as I am.”
They were home. He let go of her hand as Simeon swung the car to the left. In the driveway, as soon as he got out, he asked her to come up with him and have a Coke and a piece of cake. He noticed her brief indecision, so he added hastily, “No, don’t bother. I can run upstairs and bring the manuscript down.”
She stepped out quickly and without another word followed him up to the house.
The blinds were raised and the sun flooded the hall. As he went to his study Ester drifted around the room and out to the trellised azotea, where the wind from the sea was coolest. She came back and gazed at his father’s Amorsolos on the walls.
“It’s lovely here,” she said when he came out with the manuscript.
“I’m glad you like it,” he said. “As you know, I live alone. I love the privacy and the independence.”
She walked to the piano, which seemed to bask in the glow of the afternoon, opened the cover, and drew her hand across the keys.
“Do play,” he said, “while I fix up something to drink.”
In the kitchen, as he sliced the chocolate cake and prepared the glasses, he heard snatches of Mozart, sentimental and melodious. When he went back to the living room with the tray, however, she stopped and pulled the lid down.
“You play very well,” he said.
“Tell that to my mother.”
Ester left at dusk. She had asked him not to bother seeing her home, but he had Simeon drive her to San Juan just the same. They had sat in the azotea and watched the sun go down and paint the horizon, the clouds in resplendent ochres, browns, and indigos. They had talked about her paper, classmates, and Trining’s new admirer—a basketball player (Trining had told Luis about him). To this last one he had listened with a mixture of contempt and interest. Ester had also talked about her brothers, who seemed to drift, not knowing what to do. Finally she had voiced her disappointment with her own school, the emptiness of it all, the superficiality of the friendships, the senselessness of girl talk, and how most of her friends were looking forward to nothing but sweet domesticity.
As he watched her get into the car and finally drive away, a strange, dull ache filled him. It was not love, he was sure of that. It was something akin to compassion. He worked until past midnight, and although he was tired, sleep seemed far away. He could not quite forget Ester on the azotea with him—her smile and the way she spoke earnestly, plaintively. She was not like Trining, who was sensual and all woman, who was direct and who knew what she wanted. It was quite clear—and his knowledge of it made him apprehensive—that he was really interested in Ester, now that the wall of indifference with which he had surrounded himself as far as she and her kind were concerned was crumbling. He was kindred to the emotional beast, he was not immune to the feelings that blighted the poor in spirit, but he was also sure that it was not love.
After Marta had done the dishes and Simeon had checked the locks, Luis was alone again. Marta had thoughtfully, as always, filled the thermos jug near his desk with coffee, and listlessly he poured himself a cup. It took him some time to finish it. Traffic on the boulevard was almost gone except for those leaving the nightclubs farther up the street. When he finally lay down he remembered Ester again, her beautiful body, and he was sure that someday he would have her.
As he closed his eyes, however, in the reddish consciousness that flooded his brain he saw an endless array of wailing babies with his features in each shrieking face. He shuddered.