Luis had expected only a few guests, but a riot descended upon him and he was very pleased. It was almost like a reunion with the old college crowd. There were also members of the cosmopolitan set, friends of Dantes, editors from the other Dantes publications, and the inseparable Abelardo Cruz and Etang Papel. Most important of all, Ester was there with some of her friends.
Luis was sorry that Trining was not coming. It would have been an experience for her to know people other than those to whom she was exposed in school, but a week earlier she had gone back to Rosales for the Christmas vacation as well as to look after Don Vicente, whose condition had worsened. She had tried convincing Luis to go with her, even for just a week, not only so that his mind would clear a little but also so that he would be able to see his mother. Luis, however, loathed the idea of staying in Rosales for more than a day, and he had decided that spending New Year’s Day at home would be more than enough for him not only to fulfill his filial obligations but also to confront his other self again.
The buffet started at seven, but Luis had started to drink much earlier. By eleven most of his guests had already left in search of nightclubs that were not crowded and churches where they might catch the midnight mass. He was the perfect host, slightly inebriated but gracious, waving heartily, making wry comments once in a while, in keeping with his character, and always saying, “And do come again — if there’s going to be another time!”
He had broken into a heated discussion on the azotea between Abelardo Cruz, Etang Papel, and a couple of new Ph.D.’s from the university who had just returned from Harvard, brimming with American wisdom and enthusiasm. He had never been apologetic about not having finished his B.A., and particularly after he had read a doctoral dissertation on social change in a Nueva Ecija village. He had been infuriated by the trivia that had come to pass for scholarship.
Papel was huge and homely and had a spongelike mind that soured everything it absorbed; she would have been dismissed as someone’s fat old-maid aunt, which, of course, she was not, for in spite of her plain features, she had had a string of men, some of them foreigners who had, perhaps, fantasized about her looks. She was saying that the true nationalist commitment was not freedom from America’s apron strings but freedom of the people from their own rich exploiters.
Luis had always agreed with such a statement, but for tonight, he was simply, wearily tired. “Thank God for the poor,” he had said, “otherwise, we would have fewer Ph.D.’s and columnists as well.”
Papel did not like it and had retorted, “Thank God for the rich, then, for it is they who made the poor!”
His was still the last word: “And thank God again for the poor, for they will make some writers rich writing about poverty!”
Etang Papel left shortly afterward, followed by her coterie. Soon it was only Eddie and Ester in the house with Simeon and Marta, who had come to tidy up the place. Eddie was trying “Silent Night” on the piano with one finger, and beside him Ester sang in a cool pleasant voice, sipping iced tea from a tall glass. Luis joined them, half dragging his feet on the floor, which was now dusty and littered with canapé picks and cigarette stubs.
“Sing louder, Ester,” he said. “This is my happiest Christmas.”
Eddie stood up. “I have to go, too,” he said. “It’s been a nice party, Louie.”
Luis held him by the shoulder. “And I thought you were my friend,” he said. “Stay awhile. You haven’t heard Ester play yet.” Then to Ester: “Please, boss, do play for us a hymn — any hymn.”
“Now, what do you mean, calling me boss?” Ester asked.
Luis laughed. “You are the publisher’s daughter, aren’t you? You are boss, too.”
“That’s not funny,” Ester said coldly.
“You are drunk,” Eddie said.
“I am not, but — Ester, play just the same. I will sing to your tune. Isn’t it time we sang something not just to honor Christ but also to those who are in the hills? Let’s sing a hymn also for those fighting a private war — those who are now in whorehouses, driven there by decent women.”
“You are really drunk.” Eddie turned to the girl. “Ester, I think we should go.”
“You will do nothing of the kind,” Luis said. “In fact, if anyone should go home, it is I. Do you know where home is? It is not in this house or that atrocious feudal castle in Rosales. It is out there, in them thar hills — only there’s no yellow gold …”
“What’s come over you?” Eddie asked. “You just had a most wonderful party, surrounded by the nicest people in the world. What are you beefing about?” He headed for the door. “I’m leaving before I change my mind and call this a lousy party.”
“I wish I were dead,” Luis said, meaning it. But Eddie had already gone down the stairs. Ester walked over to him and, holding his clammy hand, led him to the azotea. From the near distance there came an explosion of firecrackers. It was cooler out in the open, and the sea breeze helped clear his mind a little. He was, however, aware of everything that he had said, and he hoarsely repeated, “I wish I were dead.”
“That is not a nice thing to say on Christmas Eve, Luis,” Ester said.
“Perhaps I will feel differently tomorrow. I have something for you. It’s not wrapped up — it couldn’t be wrapped up. It’s my heart and I can’t take it out. And what is more, it is fouled up, I think. You will not want it that way, would you?”
“I hope this is not the liquor at work,” Ester said softly. “We say so many things that we don’t mean afterward. And when this happens, it is all wrong. It sours relationships.”
Luis listened attentively for the first time during the hectic evening. This was not party talk; they were really alone now. The world had slipped by, and stars swarmed over the sky.
He held her hand and pressed it. “I mean what I say, Ester,” he said, looking at her serene face.
“I have friends, many friends,” she continued barely above a whisper. “But the relationships are empty. It is not that there is no trust — I trust them as I trust you now, and I hope that they trust me, too. But how can I express it? What I want? What I’m looking for? It is not something that money can buy, else I would have gotten it a long time ago. Do you understand, Louie, what I am trying to say?”
He nodded, for she was now saying something that he had always felt himself; she was giving shape to thoughts that had bedeviled him but that he had not been able to express.
“You want peace,” he said simply. “You want happiness, fulfillment — all those wonderful things that come to the yogi, the enlightenment. You want a way out.”
She looked at him and nodded.
“There is no way out, Ester,” he said. “Not for you. Not for me.”
“Yes, there is, for me,” she said. “For you, I have doubts. You thrive on conflict. On anger. You are alive when you are angry. I cannot see you in a world where there is peace and harmony.”
He shook his head, not because he disagreed with her but because he did not want to believe what she said; it was true, he would be a misfit in a world without anger. Did he really believe in justice, or was he not just rebelling against a past that had injured him? Did he really love the poor, or in professing love for the poor was he doing what was easy, addressing himself to man — amorphous, unreal, without identity — rather than be committed to one individual in need of sympathy, which he could give but would not? And if he loved the poor, would he give them the wealth that was going to be his? Would he be willing to let go of the comforts that he enjoyed so that they — his people in Sipnget — would have something better on their table? He loved Ester, but now he also resented her for pushing him against the wall, for flailing at him with the truth, for forcing him to be honest with himself. But he also knew that to lose her would be to lose his conscience.