They were bound to drift apart, however — irrevocably, inexorably. There came a time when to make up was such an effort it drained them of feeling, of expectation. After they had disagreed on his leaving school, on ideas about art and the future of the Huk rebellion (Ester felt that it was justified, but Luis felt that there were other equally effective methods that could be explored and experimented with), the arguments deteriorated and turned to trifles — movies that they saw and novels that they read — and by the time some rash words were exchanged they would be like two beasts, fangs and claws ready to strike.
Their last quarrel concerned the tritest of things — his latest poem, “The Changeless Land.” She had read “The Waste Land,” and she felt that the similarity was so obvious — but Luis was no Eliot fan and had not even read Eliot’s poem. She said that it was unthinkable that someone writing in English in the twentieth century, involved with social change and manners, could avoid Eliot. They were on the azotea, and it was past sunset; before them the lights of ships blinked in the wide, blackening bay. Before finally going up they had strolled down the grassy shoulder on the boulevard, following the sweep of the seawall, then when sunset came they danced between sips of Coke and sandwiches Marta had prepared. Now they were estranged again. It was their last quarrel, and Ester declared without rancor, “All is finished — I suppose it is best this way. I am tired of it all, always having to eat humble pie.”
“And what about me? Do you think I have no self-respect at all?”
The year had ended — the December picnic, the clinging smell of the sea. “I have tried my best at least to see that we are headed for somewhere, but I will never know. The way we are quarreling over trifles — there’s no future for us, Luis, and the best we can do is call it quits while our personalities are intact.” She sounded so cool, so detached, and this infuriated him, for he could not feel the same way. It was as if she had robbed him of his manhood and that he had let her do it at will. He watched her every move, her gestures as she sat on the azotea ledge and spoke, and he did not know whether he would walk to her and push her, or take her in his arms and end the silly argument with a kiss, or stomp away in superior rage and let her go home alone.
“If I keep up with you, what is going to happen? You will probably drive me to suicide. You are, as I have said before, simply, hopelessly self-centered,” she said, trying bravely to still the quaver in her voice.
It was then that he laughed. “You committing suicide? Ester, you have no sense of honor as the Japanese have. It’s not in your upbringing. You know very well where you will end, you and your Catholic clichés. You will roast in hell — that is what you believe — if you try as much as pull one pubic hair!”
She was fairly shouting back, taunting him: “You will probably gloat over your victory, for you will then think that I have given my soul and my body away to you.”
It was she who stomped out of the house, not even bothering to close the door after her. He heard her car crunch out of the driveway. For a while he was really vexed; he loathed the way she had treated him, but his anger slowly turned to regret that he was not really able to answer her. Finally he came to realize that he had a part in fueling the quarrel and that the decent thing for him to do was to call her up and repeat the same pat apology. If they could never be together again, at least they could part on a note of civility, if not affection. He decided to wait until morning, but when morning came he found no chance to make amends, for as he prepared to go to the office the telephone rang and the message was to alter his plans.
It was a long-distance call from Trining, and her voice was urgent: “Luis, what will I do? You must help me. I don’t know what to do.”
“Take hold of yourself, and slowly, slowly tell me what the matter is.”
“Hurry home, I mean to Rosales — now, as fast as you can.”
“Is that all?”
“I don’t know, but I think it’s serious — and besides, Luis, I want to see you, too. It’s been so long now that you have not been here. You can come, can’t you? Tio says today — and you need not stay for more than two days.”
“What does he want to see me about?”
“He won’t say — but if you want a hint, a heart specialist from Manila is staying in the house. He’s been here for a week now.”
“He isn’t dying, is he?”
“I don’t know, but a heart attack is often sudden, isn’t it?” She sounded frightened. “And suppose he dies, what will I do, Luis?”
“Father is like a bull. He will live to be a hundred.”
“It is serious, Luis. Please believe me.”
“I’ll try my very best to be there this afternoon, then. I have to rush to the office first and fix things up. Tell him that.”
It was early afternoon when Luis reached Rosales. The sun was warm, and in its white glaze the town dozed. No change was apparent in the town except for the presence of Army trucks in the plaza. Soldiers in olive uniforms loafed in the shops, on street corners, and in the barong-barong refreshment parlors.
Two civilian guards were posted at the gate to the house. They had strung across the gate a barricade of barbed wire, which they swung aside when he arrived. It annoyed him immensely to think that he must live in a fort, but it was, perhaps, for the best. Trining ran down the marble stairs to greet him. She was pale, and because she wore no lipstick, she looked as if she were convalescing from an illness.
“Luis,” she said, holding his hand tightly, “I have something important to tell you.”
He pinched her chin. “You’d better tell me something really important. It was no pleasure getting here — all those damned checkpoints.”
They went up to the house, and when Luis started for his father’s sickroom, Trining held him back. “Please,” she implored, “it won’t be long.”
He followed her to her room, its doors always open to him since they were young. Now she locked it after they had gone inside. The drapes had been changed — the heavy purple brocade had become white damask, and on the gray walls were Navarro sketches that the artist had not bothered to frame. On her wide steel bed and on her narra dresser were the coverlets that she had patiently worked on in high school—“to keep from getting bored because you didn’t take me out.”
“I just don’t want any interruption,” she explained as she latched the door securely and pulled him to the rattan sofa. As an afterthought, she said, “Do you want a Coke? I baked a cake this morning.”
He nodded, sitting back and yielding to the comfort of the sofa. Trining wheeled around and unlatched the door again. Although Simeon was a good driver, the trip had wearied Luis, who had dozed between Angeles and San Fernando. In the hypnotic heat of the straight and glistening road, they had to stop at a shabby roadside restaurant for a cup of coffee and to douse their faces with iced water. Luis felt that he could go to sleep now and forget everything, but Trining returned with Coke and a piece of chocolate cake. Again she latched the door.