“You haven’t given your word to any girl then?”
For an instant Ester came across Luis’s mind, but he and Ester had not talked at all about marriage. He had told her many times that he loved her, and he was certain that in his own fashion he did love her, although there always was in his mind, alive in its recesses, the thought that she had not been completely truthful. It would be so profoundly personal, so demeaning to him, if he were to confront her, so he had never bothered to.
“No, Father,” he said firmly, “I have not promised myself to any girl.”
Don Vicente wanted to rise a little again, and Luis fluffed the pillows up and added a couple to the pile that supported his father’s back.
“I know how young people feel nowadays. How times have changed!” He chuckled. “I want to see you married before I die, Luis. That’s a legitimate paternal wish, isn’t it? And Trining — I hope that your closeness to each other has not made you blind — she is very pretty. If you have no feeling for her except that of a cousin or even a brother, don’t worry. Love will come. She is a very good girl and she cares for you, although you perhaps do not know. I think she adores you. And do not forget, she is also rich — and it will be in the family, intact. No messy legal procedures and all that sort of thing. Your being cousins is no problem. We will get a dispensation from the bishop later. And your heirs — may there be a dozen of them! They will really have something substantial to lean on.” A long pause. “You agree with me about Trining, don’t you?”
Luis nodded dumbly.
“How long will it take you to decide? Until this evening? The earlier you decide, the sooner you can go back to your work.”
Now that it was crudely put to him, Luis did not really need time to think. What would be had been in the back of his mind, inchoate but whole, and Trining had really been a warm and wonderful companion — if only there were more mind in her, not just homemaking and loving. What she had, however, were attributes of the housewife, not the mistress. Whenever she got permission to leave the convent and stay with him she took over the house — the kitchen most of all. She never tried going into meanderings of his mind. She never really reproved him for quitting school and creating havoc with the priests. It would have been easy for Luis to loathe the direct hand that his father was playing in a matter that was intensely personal, but Luis did not resent it. His father was right — there was also the family wealth to consider. How materialistic and crass can you get? The thin, raspy voice of conscience twitted him, but he did not heed it. He loved Trining, too, perhaps in a way that was not as deep as love should be, but he loved her nonetheless and that justified everything.
“The decision is an easy one to make, Father,” he said. “Come to think of it, I am very fond of Trining, too, but”—he paused—“do you think she will not object?”
“Hah!” the old man exclaimed, then burst out laughing, shaking with uncontrolled mirth until tears came to his eyes. When he finally stopped, his breathing was slow and relaxed and a warm contentment settled over him. “Trining will grab you with her two hands,” he said. “Well, this is wonderful. I knew you would see my point. You will get married tomorrow, then. I’ll tell Santos that the papers he has prepared are not going to be wasted.” He laughed softly again. “The judge will come here for the ceremony — and the church ceremony will come later. I am sure Trining will insist on that.” The old man shook his head, and with a slight wave of his hand he signaled Luis to leave him alone with his thoughts and his happiness.
Trining was waiting in the hall. “What happened?” she asked, following him to his room. “I am glad there was no shouting, nothing of that sort. You have to be kind to him. What was he laughing about so uproariously?”
In his room Luis started laughing, too, as soon as he had closed the door.
“What is so funny?”
“Us,” Luis said. “What a wonderful, compact family we are. All in complete agreement with one another.” He realized that she was waiting for the final word. In the fading light of the afternoon he saw that her eyes were beseeching. They had been very close, and he was always aware of her moods, how quickly they changed and how spontaneous they were. “Trining,” he said, holding her hands, “will you marry me?”
She gasped, flung herself at him, and burst into tears. “Luis … Luis …” She was sobbing softly. “I am so happy, so very happy.”
Her heart thumped against his chest. She took his hand and pressed it against her belly. “You are here, darling,” she whispered. “I wanted to tell you, for some time now, but I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t — but now I can.”
He drew her away. “Why did you not tell me?”
“Maybe you will say that I am proud,” she said softly, “but I wanted to be sure of many things. We have always been close. We have done many things together — and naturally. Even making love — it was the most natural thing, and finally”—she paused and did not seem to want to speak further.
“Tell me,” he prodded her.
“Well, I could see you paying attention to Ester. I thought that maybe — oh, I suffered. I couldn’t go to sleep. You can see I’ve lost weight, thinking …”
He held her close again, and she hugged him, covering his face with kisses. “It must have been that time you didn’t ask me about my period. You are so damn fertile.” She laughed softly. “Oh, Luis, how many children do you think we should have? I’d like to have a dozen — and they will know more companionship than we did. But I am not complaining. Did Tio threaten you or argue with you about us? I want you — God, how I want you — but of your own free will.”
His hand wandered down the silky valley of her thighs, up the mound and unmistakable feel of pubic hair, onto her belly, which he now rubbed ever so gently. He was filled with tenderness and compassion for this girl who had been his companion as well. “I hope we will have a boy,” he told her.
They were married in the hall the following evening. The town judge, who had once clerked for his father, performed the ceremony. He was a short, paunchy man, and he stuttered badly; his hand was wet when he congratulated Luis and Trining. The town knew about the wedding, and in no time all of Luis’s office mates would learn about it, for Luis had sent a telegram to Eddie telling him that he would be absent for a few days, perhaps a week, since he and Trining would be getting married — and would he please look after everything?
There were no guests. For Luis to have invited his mother and his grandfather was unthinkable. Besides, Don Vicente wanted it as quiet as possible, so only Dr. Collantes and Santos’s wife stood as witnesses. Don Vicente permitted the servants to watch the ceremony, but they did not file into the hall. Simeon stood at the dining room door, looking in, and Trining wished Marta was present, too, but she was in Ermita, unaware that the girl she had saved was happiest at this moment. Don Vicente did not leave his room, but his door was kept open so he could see everything. When the ceremony, which Trining said later was so brief and unromantic, was over, the newlyweds went to Don Vicente’s room and kissed his hand. At seven they had an ordinary supper, and after reciting the rosary in Don Vicente’s room they retired to Trining’s bedroom, for her bed, as she herself had whispered to him, not only was wider but also did not squeak.
Now there were just the two of them, and with the sounds of evening muted, they sought each other and put the quietus to the waiting and the uncertainty of the past. The window was open. The sky was cloudless, deep black, and sprinkled with stars. The cold of January evenings was in the air. Trining wanted to switch the light off, but Luis stopped her. “Isn’t this one time,” he said, running his hand across the valley of her breast, “that we shouldn’t care if the light is on?”