Before the food was served to the tenants Old David came to me with a big bottle.
“Fill it up,” he pleaded.
“You’ll get drunk again,” I said, knowing I already had given him three cups of gin.
“It’s for the horse,” he said. “A little alcohol might help it.”
I could not refuse the old man.
Before noon, when the food was about to be served to the tenants, the five demijohns under my care were empty. I went to the stable to see how the horse was. It will be better in the morning, Old David had told me the night before. He was still in the stable. His withered face was red, and the bottle of gin I had given him was on the ground, half empty.
“Old David, you drank the wine,” I said, angered by his lie.
He nodded and grinned foolishly, his black teeth showing. “It’s no use,” he said, pointing to the horse that now lay still on the sawdust, its eyes wide open. Several flies were feasting on its eyes, on the streams of saliva that had dried on its mouth. The jute sacks that had covered its brown hide were scattered around.
“Only a while ago,” Old David explained, shaking his head.
“Father must know,” I said.
“No, not on a day like this. All these people. What will he say?”
“It is his horse,” I said. “Tell him.”
“It’s an old horse, and it was more mine than his,” Old David whined. “He never liked it. He had no need for it.”
“If I tell him myself, it will not be good for you,” I told him.
He stood up and, with wobbly steps, followed me to the house. In the sala Father and his guests were already eating. I went to him and told him Old David had something important to say. He beckoned to the old man, who remained standing at the top of the stairs where I had left him. He walked to the table and whispered the news in Father’s ear.
“No!” Father exclaimed. He turned to the startled assemblage. “Of all things to happen on my birthday!”
Cousin Andring, who sat near him, bent over and asked, “Not bad news, is it?”
“It is,” Father said, but there was no trace of grief in his voice. “My old horse is dead. All the rest the Japanese took. But this. Now it’s dead.” He turned to the old man. “What did it die of?”
“I don’t really know, Apo. Maybe exhaustion.”
“I always knew that horse couldn’t endure it,” Cousin Andring said. “You should have hitched another yesterday, David.”
“There is none other,” Old David said. He turned to Father. “What shall we do now, Apo?”
Father stroked his chin, exaggerating the gesture. “Well, inasmuch as no one wants to eat the meat of a dead horse, there is only one alternative left. David, you bury the horse.”
Father’s guests roared.
“Tell us,” Father went on when the laughter subsided, “when did it die?”
“Just now, Apo.”
“How long have you been tending horses, David?” Cousin Andring asked. “You were not able to cure this one, even with your experience.”
“The Apo knows I’ve been in this household since I was a child. Ever since, I have tended not only horses but also children. One can cure sickness, but death …”
“Tell us, then,” Cousin Andring leaned forward, his eyes bulging with inspiration, “about your experiences tending horses. God, let us saddle up David and have some fun,” he said, turning to our other relatives, all of whom smiled approval.
The old servant moved to the middle of the hall near the table stacked with wine and food. He looked anxiously at Father, but Father was now occupied with the leg of a fried chicken. When he caught Father’s eye, Father merely nodded and said, “Go ahead, David. Speak up.”
Old David blinked, wiped his bloodshot eyes with his shirt-sleeve.
“Here,” Cousin Andring said, rising and offering the old man his unfinished glass of Scotch. “You may have had too much, but this is different. It may even refresh your memory.”
“Thank you,” Old David said. He took the proffered glass and emptied it into the brass flower vase on the table. Again, the bumptious howling.
Cousin Andring relished it. “If you can’t tell us about horses, David,” he went on, “tell us the story of your life. Anyone who has lived as long as you, and has drunk as much, must have an interesting life.”
Old David turned briefly to me, but I could not look at him; I felt dismal and responsible for his predicament. He turned to Father, but again Father nodded.
“My life,” he said finally, softly, without the slightest trace of emotion, his red eyes steady on my Cousin Andring, “is like an insect’s. So small it can be crushed with the fingers like this.” He paused, and with his thumb and forefinger lifted, he made the motions of crushing an imaginary insect.
“Ah, but for an insect — a flea, for instance — you are very durable,” Cousin Andring said. The guests smiled.
“Now tell us,” Cousin Andring said, “your life as a man, not as a butterfly.” More laughter. Cousin Andring beamed. He was apparently enjoying himself.
Old David held the table edge. His voice was calm. “Yes, I’ll tell you all.” His eyes swept the hall.”I was born here. I knew this place when it was a wilderness, when the creek … you’d be surprised — it wasn’t wide then. Why, there were some parts of it that one could cross merely by jumping. And the fish …
“I have watched young people grow so quickly like the shoots of bamboo. Most of you here, Benito, Antonia, Marcelo — all of you. And I said, someday, maybe, among these fine children, there would be one like their father. You must all revere his name, you whose lips still smell of milk …”
“And Carlos Primero!” Cousin Andring roared. Laughter swelled in the hall again.
“There was kindness in the hearts of men,” Old David said, undistracted. “I recall similar parties like this, which your grandfather used to give. His servants — us — we did not eat in the yard. We ate with him at his table, and we drank wine from the same cup he used!”
“More wine!” Cousin Andring howled again.
“There was less greed, less faithlessness. Men were brothers — the rich and the poor. It was a day for living, but now the past is forgotten and it can never be relived again even by those who used to belong to it. It was a good time, a time for loving one another, for forgiving one’s faults and understanding one’s weaknesses. Now the people don’t even know what kindness means to a horse …”
“Let’s drink to the health of the horse,” Cousin Andring said. “By God, we’ll give that horse a decent funeral, eh, Tio?” Cousin Andring winked at Father.
More laughter. The guests raised their glasses of wine and beer and smacked their lips. Then they fell to eating again, nibbling at drumsticks, reaching for the mountains of prawn and crab on the table.
Old David turned to Father and said in a quavering voice, “I have said enough, Apo.”
Father laid the spoon on his plate. “All right, David. We lost all the horses. No, I am not blaming you and your drinking. After all, even horses die. Now, maybe, I’ll buy a pickup truck, a jeep, or a car. You can’t drive — and even if you can, I won’t let you be the driver. What good would you be in the household then?”
“There is still the garden, Apo,” Old David said. He bent forward, his arms twitching. “And I can clean the car, wash it every day, till it shines like the bronze studs of the harness. And I can help in the housekeeping. I’ll sweep the yard twice a day, Apo. Even the streetfront of the house …”