Luis shook his head again.
“You are still very young,” the old man continued. “You can take up law in the evenings. You don’t have to become a lawyer, or if you pass the bar, you don’t have to practice law. Four years — and the knowledge of the law is a good form of preparation. With it, you can be a surer, more skillful politician. Then run for public office, for Congress. This is how I see it. Times are changing, Luis. I did not have to go into politics because I knew the best politicians in the country. Wealth — you cannot keep it, nor will it grow if you have no political power: I am not too sure that you know the men who are in power now, or those who are coming up. Be a congressman, then, from this district. Not mayor, that is much too low for you. I have supported so many of them, and they — Nacionalistas and Liberals — they owe me favors. So you will have not just a name or wealth but real power. You understand, don’t you?”
Luis nodded. There came quickly to mind the parade of politicians in the Ermita house, the gregarious talk and the handshakes, the government clerks meekly seeking audience with his father, the carefully coined phrases of corruption, the undertones and the exultant “areglados.” So, he would be a politician, too, but the prospect did not attract him. “We have such a surplus of lawyers, Father, and noisy politicians who do nothing but cheat.” He had not intended to argue or displease the old man.
“But am I asking you to cheat?” Don Vicente raised his voice. “When did millionaires cheat? I am asking you simply to understand what power is, more than I can give you, with my name, my properties. I am thinking of the future — and just between us, hijo, you have made a very good start. The people know now that there is an Asperri who is intelligent. And with your pen, you have influence — which is also power.”
“I understand, Father,” Luis said. He had wanted to ask, of what use is power when it is coveted just by one man, or one group, without the consent of those who are ruled? How long can it last? But the question did not need to be asked, for he knew, too, what the old man would say — that there are those who are destined to rule, to hold power, not because it is their blood but because they are created to rule, to manipulate, in the same way that there are men who are destined to work, to be slaves, to be patronized, to be cared for like children. History is like that, and the Philippines and the Filipinos are no exceptions.
His father was being redundant again. “It is obvious, of course, particularly to those of us who know. The Dantes family — you know Dantes is not in politics, but his brothers and relatives are. They have the whole of the Visayas — perhaps I exaggerate — but Negros and Panay are in their hands. They have intermarried with one another. Not all of Dantes’s papers are making money, but they are forms of investment. Look how scared the politicians are of him. I read in the columns that even the president does not dare cross his path. And why? He has political power, and he can also manipulate public opinion. Do not forget, I may be shut off here, but I read — and think — and remember. I knew the Dantes family when they had nothing but a couple of bancas. Now look at their shipping, their transport system, their bank, their publishing — and the politicians they control. Do you know that they could be hurt if the Philippine Bank, which they think they own, were to foreclose their loans? The bank, of course, will not do such a thing …”
Luis knew of the vast political and economic power that the Danteses, as the country’s leading sugar family, wielded. He also knew that to work for Dantes meant giving him not only one’s loyalty, sweat, and blood, et cetera, but also, as the boys in the Press Club often said, “giving him your balls.”
But Dantes was an ideal employer. When he traveled, which was twice a year, he always brought six or more of the staffers — first class, of course. For his particular pets he bought cars, homes, vacations — and when they became too old or too unwieldy in his publications he kicked them upstairs as vice presidents or consultants in his other enterprises.
It was common knowledge on newspaper row that his editorial writers and columnists, like Abelardo Cruz and Etang Papel, were reduced to lackeys and wrote according to rote, but Luis did not have to go through such an ordeal.
In his one and only job interview, the publisher had told him, “I will give you complete freedom, not only in the way you run your magazine but in picking your staff. I know of your quarrel with your father rector. I admire your independence; just remember that my interest is in this country’s progress — if the country progresses, we progress, too.”
“All the big papers are owned by powerful Filipinos, Father,” Luis said. “Dantes is no exception.”
“Which simply buttresses my position,” Don Vicente said. “But the sugar industry is not good for the country, Luis. I can see that now. We are not even producing enough rice. You often write about exploitation of the poor. Someday you should go to Negros. I have some friends there. Spaniards. And talk about exploitation! They rape the prettiest daughters of their workers. They horsewhip their people when they catch them chewing cane. It’s like a thirsty man in a brewery, sipping just a little! And the sacadas—this is 1950. They were exploited in 1930 and in 1940. Someday you should write an article on the sugar quota and you will find many interesting things … and they say the hacenderos of Luzon are the exploiters. All these Visayans, with their easygoing ways, their effeminate intonation — they are the most vicious of landlords.”
The drone of traffic drifted to the room — the provincial bus screeching to a stop to disgorge its passengers at the junction, the creak of unoiled bull-cart wheels going through the gate, away from the warehouse at the rear, and toward the open field. His father again, this time with pronounced seriousness: “But more than anything, can’t you see? I am no more than an old bundle of bones. I am no longer healthy. I cannot look after the land as well anymore as I should.” He coughed slightly, then shook his head and pressed his pudgy hands to his chest. “It hurts, but not as much as when I think of what they are doing to me. These accursed peasants — they lie and cheat and get away with everything because I can no longer ride out there. God knows the hacienda was once the best in this part of the country, better than the one in Santa Maria, Tayug, or San Miguel. Did you know that once upon a time this town was the hub of the rice trade, that we could supply all of the rice needs of the province and even of Tarlac if we wanted to? Hard work — not just mine but also that of your ancestors, my grandfather, your great grandfather …”
The same old story again — Luis knew it by heart and was bored by it. His eyes wandered to the spiral iron staircase at the foot of his father’s bed, and once more he mused about the tower room he and Trining had never entered. Once, when he was new in the house and had thought he could go anywhere, he had asked permission from his father, who was then propped in bed as he was now, having his tray of coffee, but Don Vicente had told him brusquely that the tower room was private and no one — absolutely no one — ever went up there. Once, when he and Trining were left in the house, since his father had gone to Cabugawan to visit the tenants there, they had, like conspirators, decided to invade his father’s eyrie. They had gone gingerly up the spiral staircase, and at the top they rammed themselves against the door. It was securely locked and refused to yield. He wondered, but only for an instant, about the secrets the tower room held; and when he was past his teens he mused that perhaps that was where his old man stored his dirty pictures.