“We have to live with ourselves,” he said contritely. “That is difficult to do. And the peace that we seek, I suppose, is the peace of the grave.”
Her face lighted up, the smile bloomed again. “I have often thought of it that way,” she said, rising, a sudden lift in her being. “Then the burden would be lifted, and finally we would be free.”
“You agree with me, then, death isn’t so tragic after all. And I do wish sometimes that I were dead.”
He walked with her to the gate, where her car was waiting, and before he turned to go he pulled her to him and gently, ever so gently, kissed her, murmuring, “Ester, don’t hate me for my alcoholic histrionics. In vino, Veritas!”
She held him and kissed him, then quickly got into the car. Luis walked slowly back to the azotea. Along the boulevard the houses were brightly lighted with red, white, and blue star lanterns, with colored bulbs strung across their fronts and the trees in the yards. From the direction of Ermita and Malate came more firecracker explosions. At times the voices of children singing carols and the brash music of cumbancheros came through, clear and sharp.
The party had actually tired him, and he was most riled by the hypocrites among his own crowd — Abelardo Cruz, Etang Papel — those who prattled about their vaunted love for humanity and understanding of the country’s social malaise. There they were, all dolled up, their perfumed hands never having known the brutal hardness of a plow handle. His starveling friends were no different. They banded together as if they belonged to a touted though impoverished aristocracy, and they regarded the masses — the masses, how contemptible, how hopeless they are! Of course, he also used the phrase occasionally — but only when he wanted to make the point that revolution could start not only with the peasantry but also with the middle class, the enlightened bourgeoisie, himself among them. Why isn’t there more honesty in this world? Perhaps it is only in art that we can be totally honest. Again, he tried to exculpate himself from the inadequacy of his response. But of what use is art? He was not even sure that the poetry he had written was art. It sounded so effete, maybe because he was looking for the innate music of words or maybe because he was searching deeply for the symbolic meanings of words when there were no symbols at all — just words strung together in order to evoke ideas, images, and the total whole of aesthetic experience. He was becoming an aesthete, incapable of translating his ideas into action. Indeed, he was beginning to wither as he sometimes wished he would.
He went back to the house and wandered about. In the kitchen Simeon and Marta were tucking away the bowls and the wineglasses. The two waiters had gone home, and the rubbish was now in the garbage cans, but the house still looked dirty and the floor was a mess. Marta would have to spend the whole morning cleaning up. “Simeon,” he said, “you and Marta go to Rosales for a week. Just be sure you are back by New Year’s, for you must drive me to Rosales. Right now I can be alone by myself. And if I forget, do not fail to remind me about your bonus — both of you — tomorrow.”
Their faces lit up, and he told them to leave the work — it was late; they could always do it in the morning before taking the bus or train home.
He went back to his room as their footsteps died down on the stone staircase. Slowly removing his red bow tie and his jacket, he sank into his bed. The phone jangled, and half rising, he took it.
It was Ester and her voice was warm: “How are you feeling now? I should have made you a cup of coffee before I left.”
“I’m fine,” he said, “and I’m sorry.”
“You always say you are sorry.”
“Blame it on the world — or circumstance.”
“You are still sour.”
“Even milk sours,” he said.
“You are forgiven, then.”
“How can I ever thank you?”
“Plenty. We can hear mass tomorrow. I can drop in at your place and pick you up.”
“I might not be up early,” Luis said, feeling suddenly trapped.
“I’ll wake you up.”
“I’ll be a mess — the house, too. Besides, I’ve got to work.”
“It won’t take more than forty-five minutes.”
“High mass?”
“Luis, you sound bored.”
He could feel the apprehension in her voice. He laughed. “You are going to be a nun.”
She laughed softly, too. “Merry Christmas again.”
Then he was really alone. The tedium of the day finally possessed him, and he sank in complete surrender to it. He could not remember how much he had drunk, and the urge to have one last nightcap came, but he withstood the temptation. He struck the headboard behind him, cursing, then he reached out to switch off the light. It was then that his door slowly opened and, more surprised than frightened, he watched the man come in.
Recognition came quickly. Luis jumped up and rushed forward to embrace his brother. “Vic,” he said, drawing away, studying the sun-browned face, short-cropped hair, buck teeth, and laughing eyes. “Why did you not come earlier?”
“I did,” Vic said, “but I didn’t want to interfere with your party and I wanted to be sure you were alone. I stayed in the garage.”
Luis was incredulous. “Now, that is a foolish thing to do,” he said, shaking his head. He was angry. “You know you are welcome in this house. If you didn’t want to be with the party, you could have come here and locked yourself in.”
“Anyway,” Vic said, “I am here and that’s what matters, isn’t it?”
Luis’s mind was keen again. In the soft bedroom light he looked at his brother. It was just two years since Vic’s last visit in this house, a visit that had peeved and perplexed him. He knew then that his brother was in need, and he had tried to give him money, but Vic had refused it, saying that he already had a job, that it was enough that he had helped him with his education and with books that he had sent. Luis hoped that his brother would not be as proud again. Tonight, after all, was Christmas.
He could see that although Vic was robust, his clothes were faded khaki and his shoes were battered leather. He smelled of sun and harsh living.
“Marta let me in,” he said simply.
“You could have joined us,” Luis said.
Vic shook his head. “Manong,” he said, “you know very well that I do not belong to that crowd.”
Luis knew what else Vic would say, so he changed the subject at once. “Let’s go to the kitchen. There’s a lot of food and drink, and I’m getting hungry again.”
“Marta gave me something to eat,” he said. “I’m really full, and besides, I came here to ask for something important from you — more than food.”
Luis sighed. “Vic,” he said, “you know I’d give you anything you ask for, but you refuse what I give you.”
“I have come here not to ask for help for myself. I know you have it in your heart to help people like me.”
“How much do you need?” Luis asked. “I told you before that this house is always open to you. You can stay here if you wish. There’s even an extra room. It is so much simpler and easier for you to come and see me than for me to go to Rosales. I’ve told you this a hundred times. And you haven’t written to Mother. I was there last April. She doesn’t know where you are. That’s not fair.”