The Reign of Greed
especially for the occasion. A lattice of gilded wood over which
clambered fragrant vines screened the interior from the eyes of the
vulgar without impeding the free circulation of air to preserve the
coolness necessary at that season. A raised platform lifted the table
above the level of the others at which the ordinary mortals were going
to dine and an arch decorated by the best artists would protect the
august heads from the jealous gaze of the stars.
On this table were laid only seven plates. The dishes were of solid
silver, the cloth and napkins of the finest linen, the wines the most
costly and exquisite. Don Timoteo had sought the most rare and
expensive in everything, nor would he have hesitated at crime had he
been assured that the Captain-General liked to eat human flesh.
CHAPTER XXXV
THE FIESTA
“Danzar sobre un volcán.”
By seven in the evening the guests had begun to arrive: first, the
lesser divinities, petty government officials, clerks, and merchants,
with the most ceremonious greetings and the gravest airs at the start,
as if they were parvenus, for so much light, so many decorations, and
so much glassware had some effect. Afterwards, they began to be more at
ease, shaking their fists playfully, with pats on the shoulders, and
even familiar slaps on the back. Some, it is true, adopted a rather
disdainful air, to let it be seen that they were accustomed to better
things—of course they were! There was one goddess who yawned, for she
found everything vulgar and even remarked that she was ravenously
hungry, while another quarreled with her god, threatening to box his
ears.
Don Timoteo bowed here and bowed there, scattered his best smiles,
tightened his belt, stepped backward, turned halfway round, then
completely around, and so on again and again, until one goddess could
not refrain from remarking to her neighbor, under cover of her fan: “My
dear, how important the old man is! Doesn’t he look like a
jumping-jack?”
Later came the bridal couple, escorted by Doña Victorina and the rest
of the party. Congratulations, hand-shakings, patronizing pats for the
groom: for the bride, insistent stares and anatomical observations on
the part of the men, with analyses of her gown, her toilette,
speculations as to her health and strength on the part of the women.
“Cupid and Psyche appearing on Olympus,” thought Ben-Zayb, making a
mental note of the comparison to spring it at some better opportunity.
The groom had in fact the mischievous features of the god of love, and
with a little good-will his hump, which the severity of his frock coat
did not altogether conceal, could be taken for a quiver.
Don Timoteo began to feel his belt squeezing him, the corns on his feet
began to ache, his neck became tired, but still the General had not
come. The greater gods, among them Padre Irene and Padre Salvi, had
already arrived, it was true, but the chief thunderer was still
lacking. The poor man became uneasy, nervous; his heart beat violently,
but still he had to bow and smile; he sat down, he arose, failed to
hear what was said to him, did not say what he meant. In the meantime,
an amateur god made remarks to him about his chromos, criticizing them
with the statement that they spoiled the walls.
“Spoil the walls!” repeated Don Timoteo, with a smile and a desire to
choke him. “But they were made in Europe and are the most costly I
could get in Manila! Spoil the walls!” Don Timoteo swore to himself
that on the very next day he would present for payment all the chits
that the critic had signed in his store.
Whistles resounded, the galloping of horses was heard—at last! “The
General! The Captain-General!”
Pale with emotion, Don Timoteo, dissembling the pain of his corns and
accompanied by his son and some of the greater gods, descended to
receive the Mighty Jove. The pain at his belt vanished before the
doubts that now assailed him: should he frame a smile or affect
gravity; should he extend his hand or wait for the General to offer
his? Carambas! Why had nothing of this occurred to him before, so that
he might have consulted his good friend Simoun?
To conceal his agitation, he whispered to his son in a low, shaky
voice, “Have you a speech prepared?”
“Speeches are no longer in vogue, papa, especially on such an occasion
as this.”
Jupiter arrived in the company of Juno, who was converted into a tower
of artificial lights—with diamonds in her hair, diamonds around her
neck, on her arms, on her shoulders, she was literally covered with
diamonds. She was arrayed in a magnificent silk gown having a long
train decorated with embossed flowers.
His Excellency literally took possession of the house, as Don Timoteo
stammeringly begged him to do. [71] The orchestra played the royal
march while the divine couple majestically ascended the carpeted
stairway.
Nor was his Excellency’s gravity altogether affected. Perhaps for the
first time since his arrival in the islands he felt sad, a strain of
melancholy tinged his thoughts. This was the last triumph of his three
years of government, and within two days he would descend forever from
such an exalted height. What was he leaving behind? His Excellency did
not care to turn his head backwards, but preferred to look ahead, to
gaze into the future. Although he was carrying away a fortune, large
sums to his credit were awaiting him in European banks, and he had
residences, yet he had injured many, he had made enemies at the Court,
the high official was waiting for him there. Other Generals had
enriched themselves as rapidly as he, and now they were ruined. Why not
stay longer, as Simoun had advised him to do? No, good taste before
everything else. The bows, moreover, were not now so profound as
before, he noticed insistent stares and even looks of dislike, but
still he replied affably and even attempted to smile.
“It’s plain that the sun is setting,” observed Padre Irene in
Ben-Zayb’s ear. “Many now stare him in the face.”
The devil with the curate—that was just what he was going to remark!
“My dear,” murmured into the ear of a neighbor the lady who had
referred to Don Timoteo as a jumping-jack, “did you ever see such a
skirt?”
“Ugh, the curtains from the Palace!”
“You don’t say! But it’s true! They’re carrying everything away. You’ll
see how they make wraps out of the carpets.”
“That only goes to show that she has talent and taste,” observed her
husband, reproving her with a look. “Women should be economical.” This
poor god was still suffering from the dressmaker’s bill.
“My dear, give me curtains at twelve pesos a yard, and you’ll see if I
put on these rags!” retorted the goddess in pique. “Heavens! You can
talk when you have done something fine like that to give you the
right!”
Meanwhile, Basilio stood before the house, lost in the throng of
curious spectators, counting those who alighted from their carriages.
When he looked upon so many persons, happy and confident, when he saw
the bride and groom followed by their train of fresh and innocent
little girls, and reflected that they were going to meet there a
horrible death, he was sorry and felt his hatred waning within him. He
wanted to save so many innocents, he thought of notifying the police,
but a carriage drove up to set down Padre Salvi and Padre Irene, both
beaming with content, and like a passing cloud his good intentions
vanished. “What does it matter to me?” he asked himself. “Let the
righteous suffer with the sinners.”
Then he added, to silence his scruples: “I’m not an informer, I mustn’t
abuse the confidence he has placed in me. I owe him, him more than I do
them: he dug my mother’s grave, they killed her! What have I to do with
them? I did everything possible to be good and useful, I tried to
forgive and forget, I suffered every imposition, and only asked that
they leave me in peace. I got in no one’s way. What have they done to
me? Let their mangled limbs fly through the air! We’ve suffered
enough.”
Then he saw Simoun alight with the terrible lamp in his hands, saw him
cross the entrance with bowed head, as though deep in thought. Basilio
felt his heart beat fainter, his feet and hands turn cold, while the
black silhouette of the jeweler assumed fantastic shapes enveloped in
flames. There at the foot of the stairway Simoun checked his steps, as
if in doubt, and Basilio held his breath. But the hesitation was
transient—Simoun raised his head, resolutely ascended the stairway, and
disappeared.
It then seemed to the student that the house was going to blow up at
any moment, and that walls, lamps, guests, roof, windows, orchestra,
would be hurtling through the air like a handful of coals in the midst
of an infernal explosion. He gazed about him and fancied that he saw
corpses in place of idle spectators, he saw them torn to shreds, it
seemed to him that the air was filled with flames, but his calmer self
triumphed over this transient hallucination, which was due somewhat to
his hunger.
“Until he comes out, there’s no danger,” he said to himself. “The
Captain-General hasn’t arrived yet.”
He tried to appear calm and control the convulsive trembling in his
limbs, endeavoring to divert his thoughts to other things. Something
within was ridiculing him, saying, “If you tremble now, before the
supreme moment, how will you conduct yourself when you see blood
flowing, houses burning, and bullets whistling?”
His Excellency arrived, but the young man paid no attention to him. He
was watching the face of Simoun, who was among those that descended to
receive him, and he read in that implacable countenance the sentence of
death for all those men, so that fresh terror seized upon him. He felt
cold, he leaned against the wall, and, with his eyes fixed on the
windows and his ears cocked, tried to guess what might be happening. In
the sala he saw the crowd surround Simoun to look at the lamp, he heard
congratulations and exclamations of admiration—the words “dining-room,”
“novelty,” were repeated many times—he saw the General smile and
conjectured that the novelty was to be exhibited that very night, by
the jeweler’s arrangement, on the table whereat his Excellency was to
dine. Simoun disappeared, followed by a crowd of admirers.
At that supreme moment his good angel triumphed, he forgot his hatreds,
he forgot Juli, he wanted to save the innocent. Come what might, he
would cross the street and try to enter. But Basilio had forgotten that
he was miserably dressed. The porter stopped him and accosted him
roughly, and finally, upon his insisting, threatened to call the
police.
Just then Simoun came down, slightly pale, and the porter turned from
Basilio to salute the jeweler as though he had been a saint passing.
Basilio realized from the expression of Simoun’s face that he was
leaving the fated house forever, that the lamp was lighted. Alea jacta
est! Seized by the instinct of self-preservation, he thought then of
saving himself. It might occur to any of the guests through curiosity
to tamper with the wick and then would come the explosion to overwhelm
them all. Still he heard Simoun say to the cochero, “The Escolta,
hurry!”
Terrified, dreading that he might at any moment hear the awful
explosion, Basilio hurried as fast as his legs would carry him to get
away from the accursed spot, but his legs seemed to lack the necessary
agility, his feet slipped on the sidewalk as though they were moving
but not advancing. The people he met blocked the way, and before he had
gone twenty steps he thought that at least five minutes had elapsed.
Some distance away he stumbled against a young man who was standing
with his head thrown back, gazing fixedly at the house, and in him he