It was patterned after the staid English weeklies — Dantes affected a liking for British papers — but its presentation was bright and breezy. The writing was in-depth without being ponderous, and the contributors, whose numbers Luis built up through personal meetings, covered a wide spectrum — conservatives and radicals, campus literati and aloof Ph.D.’s.
He did not know it, but it was Ester who had brought his name to her father’s attention. She had heard of him often from Trining, had read his poetry, which Trining would bring surreptitiously to school, and the articles he had written in his college paper and in the other newspapers, for by the time he was in his senior year Luis had already caught the attention of the national-magazine editors for his forceful but elegant prose, and when he met them they were surprised that he was still in college.
Dantes gave his two young editors a free hand, and he was not disappointed. Luis was a good team leader, although there was not much of a team to lead — just Eddie and one staff member, two proofreader/copyreaders, and a layout artist. Most of the articles were solicited, but in spite of a growing list of distinguished contributors the editors still had a lot of topical writing to do themselves — and fashioning those subheads and those pungent captions was always a dreary chore.
Trining was right — the magazine was his life. Ester took him for a snob when they met for the first time, but he remembered her face, and it was not because she was Dantes’s daughter. There was a quality of frailty about her, of tragedy in her eyes. He remembered her, although she wore that anonymous brown, stiff-collared convent-school uniform. She had gone to her father’s office that morning and had interrupted a discussion on Hemingway’s latest fiction, The Old Man and the Sea.
“My daughter,” Dantes had introduced her, and Luis had turned to her standing by the table, notebooks in her arm. He merely nodded — an almost mechanical reaction — then went on with the discussion, saying that Hemingway’s simplicity was terribly misleading, that this was no simple fisherman out for big game, that the work belonged to the same classic mold as Melville’s Moby Dick, that it was the story of man searching for meaning, and Ester stood there, listening until it was time for Dantes to hand out his black gold-tipped cigarettes to the two young men, who took them although they never really smoked. He did not speak to her, and he did not even bid her good-bye when he left the publisher’s office.
At eight-thirty Luis was ready. He could not make up his mind as to whether or not he should wear a tuxedo. The invitation had left the choice open between black tie and national costume, but it was so warm that he compromised by putting on a barong tagalog, with the collar buttoned, over his tuxedo pants.
The Dantes mansion — or compound — occupied a huge lot in San Juan, perhaps a full two hectares of choice land overlooking the city. It had been purchased by the Dantes clan before the war, when such mansions were comparatively cheap and there were still a few nipa houses in the area. The land was rocky, as were most of the environs of Manila, and people were not attracted to it, for nothing would grow on it except sturdy acacia and guava trees.
Five blocks away from the Dantes house, Luis was struck by the immensity of the party. The whole distance was lined with fat, glossy Cadillacs, Jaguars, and Rolls-Royces. Ubiquitous motorcycle policemen from San Juan and Manila directed traffic. It was the party of the year, perhaps of the decade or even the century, but nothing was said about it in any of the papers that belonged to Dantes. It was in the other papers that the event made a splash, for the three big publishers, in spite of their stiff competition for advertising, had formed an informal club where their social doings and good deeds were publicized but not in their own papers — an expression of urbanity that was somehow shallow and hypocritical. It was in the other papers, too, that Luis had read about Sydney oysters and Australian lamb being flown to Manila for this party, along with champagne by the gallon, truffles from France, Roquefort and Stilton cheeses, and other gourmet foods, about how the tables were decorated with tulips from Holland, and then, of course, about the guests — bank presidents from Wall Street, a couple of princesses and some dukes, and a dozen titled personages from Europe.
As he neared the Dantes mansion, a uniformed police colonel stopped his car at the gate and checked his invitation with the guest list, then a police captain gave his driver a card with a number and told him to park farther up the street. They drove into the compound, which smouldered with multicolored bulbs, and the door was opened by a doorman resplendent in the gala uniform of a police colonel. Like most of the big houses in the neighborhood, the Dantes residence was done in the ornate architecture of the twenties and thirties and surrounded by high adobe walls now covered with ivy. The acacia trees were strung with colored bulbs — green and blue and red — and in the carefully manicured gardens were huge candy-striped tents; in the tents were tables. There were four buffet tables at strategic places on the grounds, and beyond, on a stage before the tennis court that was not covered with Masonite, the American orchestra was playing “Autumn Leaves.” Luis listened briefly and concluded that the Bayside band was better.
The guests spilled all over, on the terraces, under the high bushy pergolas, and across the grassy lawn. Waiters in white barong tagalog, black pants, and white gloves flitted about balancing trays and carrying drinks, and all around was the happy sound of people at play.
The night was unusually cool, and the scent of sampaguitas hovered over everything. In the biggest tent, at the other end of the tennis court, Dantes was seated with his asthmatic wife, and beside them were the president and First Lady. Luis could see them clearly in spite of the distance.
He walked toward the tent, and midway he caught Ester’s eyes. She rushed to him, and together they went to her father and mother.
“Congratulations, sir, madame,” Luis said, shaking the couple’s hands, and Dantes, ever the impeccable host, asked, “I hope your father is well, Luis.”
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Well,” Dantes said, “Ester, he is all yours.”
Luis took another look at the celebrants. Dantes looked older than his fifty-five years, his hair prematurely white and with bags under his eyes, which were perennially misty. His chin always quivered when he talked, and it was quivering now as he chatted with a couple who had just arrived. Luis became aware of Ester’s hand gripping his and keeping him from tarrying. “Oh, I’m so glad you came,” she said, gushing. “I asked Papa if you were coming, and he said that you had gone home to visit your ailing father. So you left Trining there. She should have come, too. I was allowed four guests, and she is, well, my best friend — but you are here and that is all that matters.”