I am not being facetious. I had not meant to go off-tangent this way. I had meant to start this letter in all seriousness — like an editorial in my magazine, which will never be read by you and by Grandfather and by all the people in Sipnget, although Vic tells me that he reads the magazine every week. I had meant to be poetic, for tonight the Son of Man was born to a mother who, like all mothers, should be revered because it was in her body that she suffered the beginning of life. The birth of Christ is to me the celebration of motherhood, for there are many among us today who would not be loved and who would not be cared for except by their mothers.
I write this letter because just a while ago Vic was here to see me. I asked him what he believed in, and he said he believed in you. I would like to say that I, too, believe in you, but do not think that I will be fair to you or to myself if I didn’t explain this belief that is more than belief. I think it is a kind of blindness — or faith.
There are times — and God knows there are many — when I wish I had not been born, but I must tell you that even this suffering that I bear is something that I must experience, both as a poet and as a human being who loves life. It will be difficult for you or for Vic to understand this suffering, for it is a form of ennui that is embedded in the mind, a pain without surcease, even after the wound has healed and the scab has lifted. In fact you will look in vain for scars. It is a malaise that money or circumstance cannot dispel. How utterly simple it would be if it were something a medical specialist could conquer with a new strain of antibiotic. Perhaps a vacation in San Francisco, a new Mercedes, or an eight-carat sparkler — each is a simple-enough solution, but not one of these will suffice.
I am speaking of my birth, dear Mother, my conception, my reason for being here, for being your son and my father’s son. It is not enough that I am here, living in comfort, while you are there, suffering. I would like to know how I came to be. I am curious to know if I was born out of love, if I deserve this life that has come to me as a gift from you, and if you regret that I ever came to be.
I will never know the answers, for these are questions I could not dare ask you or Father. At most I can only guess — and that is enough. Even if I do get the answers that I seek, I would still ask why I am here.
Vic knows his reason for being. He has found a cause to which he can give his life. As for me, I have not found out if this life is worth living. It was, I am certain, given to me in sufferance, and perhaps I am loved not because of myself but because of what I am supposed to be.
Dear Mother, in spite of all these doubts that rankle in my mind and poison my heart, there is one certitude for you: I love you, perhaps not in the way that you expect me to, sometimes not even the way I would like to, but I love you with a tenacity that I alone can feel. I love you because, as my brother has said, you are all I truly have.
Forgive me then, dear Mother.
CHAPTER 25
When Luis woke, the sun was already high. It flooded the room and danced in the cream curtains that stirred in the morning breeze. He could hear Marta puttering in the kitchen and Simeon sweeping the driveway. The first thing he thought of was Vic’s visit. He could vividly remember snatches of their long talk, and he had in fact started to think of better replies for the questions Vic had asked and was now better prepared to answer them if they ever came up again. He was now more curious than ever about the reason for the visit, for Vic’s having confronted him. He was sure that if he had not spoken so pointedly or tried to dampen his brother’s enthusiasm, Vic would have been more open and would have told him what he really wanted to say. It was all too late now; in all probability there would not be another such clash between them and, for all their closeness and for all that was dear and past, never again would Vic confide in him. Knowing this, he felt a great weight press upon him.
Ester called him up while he was having coffee, and her voice smoothed away the numbness of his spirit. “It’s nice to hear your voice,” he told her. “Would it be too much if you called me every morning to cheer me up?”
“The problem with you,” she said with a smile in her voice, “is that you are such a self-centered person, you think only of your convenience. Did it ever occur to you that sometimes it is I who may need the cheering up?”
“Well, sweetheart,” he said, “if we are to think of our mutual convenience, the best thing is for us to get married. We can get up together in the morning and cheer each other up.”
Ester kept up the banter. “Are you proposing?”
“After we go to church and I still feel the same way, I will.”
“Baclaran then,” she said. “It won’t be crowded today with all those favor seekers.”
“I am a favor seeker,” Luis said. He stood up, catching a draft of the sea breeze. “But I seek favor only from one virgin.”
A gale of laughter. “Suppose I told you I am no virgin?”
“I’m not old-fashioned,” he said.
“If you come with me after mass and have Christmas lunch with us, I will believe you.”
For a moment Luis wanted to accept the invitation, but he would feel awkward having lunch with the Danteses when he was not sure of how Ester would eventually regard him. “I have an idea,” he said brightly. “Let’s drive to the beach in Cavite and stay there the whole day. I’ll bring lunch.”
He could surmise by her silence that she was not so happy about what he had in mind. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”
“No — no,” she said, undecided.
“All right, then, I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
“I’m already dressed,” she said with a laugh. “You get ready in half an hour, and I’ll be there.”
The sound of a kiss pleased him, and even after she had hung up he was still holding the phone against his ear.
Marta lingered while Luis was having his breakfast. Although she was past fifty like her husband, she had none of that middle-aged look that most women her age had — and the women of Rosales aged fast, oppressed as they were by the drudgery of the farm. Not that she herself was not burdened with work. She had always worked for the Asperri household. After the old house was burned down Don Vicente took her in to look after his orphaned niece in Ermita. Afterward he sent her and her husband to look after Luis.