Bab Bab 34 · THE WEDDING

Once in the street, Basilio began to consider how he might spend the

time until the fatal hour arrived, for it was then not later than seven

o’clock. It was the vacation period and all the students were back in

their towns, Isagani being the only one who had not cared to leave, but

he had disappeared that morning and no one knew his whereabouts—so

Basilio had been informed when after leaving the prison he had gone to

visit his friend and ask him for lodging. The young man did not know

where to go, for he had no money, nothing but the revolver. The memory

of the lamp filled his imagination, the great catastrophe that would

occur within two hours. Pondering over this, he seemed to see the men

who passed before his eyes walking without heads, and he felt a thrill

of ferocious joy in telling himself that, hungry and destitute, he that

night was going to be dreaded, that from a poor student and servant,

perhaps the sun would see him transformed into some one terrible and

sinister, standing upon pyramids of corpses, dictating laws to all

those who were passing before his gaze now in magnificent carriages. He

laughed like one condemned to death and patted the butt of the

revolver. The boxes of cartridges were also in his pockets.

A question suddenly occurred to him—where would the drama begin? In his

bewilderment he had not thought of asking Simoun, but the latter had

warned him to keep away from Calle Anloague. Then came a suspicion:

that afternoon, upon leaving the prison, he had proceeded to the former

house of Capitan Tiago to get his few personal effects and had found it

transformed, prepared for a fiesta—the wedding of Juanito Pelaez!

Simoun had spoken of a fiesta.

At this moment he noticed passing in front of him a long line of

carriages filled with ladies and gentlemen, conversing in a lively

manner, and he even thought he could make out big bouquets of flowers,

but he gave the detail no thought. The carriages were going toward

Calle Rosario and in meeting those that came down off the Bridge of

Spain had to move along slowly and stop frequently. In one he saw

Juanito Pelaez at the side of a woman dressed in white with a

transparent veil, in whom he recognized Paulita Gomez.

“Paulita!” he ejaculated in surprise, realizing that it was indeed she,

in a bridal gown, along with Juanito Pelaez, as though they were just

coming from the church. “Poor Isagani!” he murmured, “what can have

become of him?”

He thought for a while about his friend, a great and generous soul, and

mentally asked himself if it would not be well to tell him about the

plan, then answered himself that Isagani would never take part in such

a butchery. They had not treated Isagani as they had him.

Then he thought that had there been no imprisonment, he would have been

betrothed, or a husband, at this time, a licentiate in medicine, living

and working in some corner of his province. The ghost of Juli, crushed

in her fall, crossed his mind, and dark flames of hatred lighted his

eyes; again he caressed the butt of the revolver, regretting that the

terrible hour had not yet come. Just then he saw Simoun come out of the

door of his house, carrying in his hands the case containing the lamp,

carefully wrapped up, and enter a carriage, which then followed those

bearing the bridal party. In order not to lose track of Simoun, Basilio

took a good look at the cochero and with astonishment recognized in him

the wretch who had driven him to San Diego, Sinong, the fellow

maltreated by the Civil Guard, the same who had come to the prison to

tell him about the occurrences in Tiani.

Conjecturing that Calle Anloague was to be the scene of action, thither

the youth directed his steps, hurrying forward and getting ahead of the

carriages, which were, in fact, all moving toward the former house of

Capitan Tiago—there they were assembling in search of a ball, but

actually to dance in the air! Basilio smiled when he noticed the pairs

of civil-guards who formed the escort, and from their number he could

guess the importance of the fiesta and the guests. The house overflowed

with people and poured floods of light from its windows, the entrance

was carpeted and strewn with flowers. Upstairs there, perhaps in his

former solitary room, an orchestra was playing lively airs, which did

not completely drown the confused tumult of talk and laughter.

Don Timoteo Pelaez was reaching the pinnacle of fortune, and the

reality surpassed his dreams. He was, at last, marrying his son to the

rich Gomez heiress, and, thanks to the money Simoun had lent him, he

had royally furnished that big house, purchased for half its value, and

was giving in it a splendid fiesta, with the foremost divinities of the

Manila Olympus for his guests, to gild him with the light of their

prestige. Since that morning there had been recurring to him, with the

persistence of a popular song, some vague phrases that he had read in

the communion service. “Now has the fortunate hour come! Now draws nigh

the happy moment! Soon there will be fulfilled in you the admirable

words of Simoun—‘I live, and yet not I alone, but the Captain-General

liveth in me.’” The Captain-General the patron of his son! True, he had

not attended the ceremony, where Don Custodio had represented him, but

he would come to dine, he would bring a wedding-gift, a lamp which not

even Aladdin’s—between you and me, Simoun was presenting the lamp.

Timoteo, what more could you desire?

The transformation that Capitan Tiago’s house had undergone was

considerable—it had been richly repapered, while the smoke and the

smell of opium had been completely eradicated. The immense sala,

widened still more by the colossal mirrors that infinitely multiplied

the lights of the chandeliers, was carpeted throughout, for the salons

of Europe had carpets, and even though the floor was of wide boards

brilliantly polished, a carpet it must have too, since nothing should

be lacking. The rich furniture of Capitan Tiago had disappeared and in

its place was to be seen another kind, in the style of Louis XV. Heavy

curtains of red velvet, trimmed with gold, with the initials of the

bridal couple worked on them, and upheld by garlands of artificial

orange-blossoms, hung as portières and swept the floor with their wide

fringes, likewise of gold. In the corners appeared enormous Japanese

vases, alternating with those of Sèvres of a clear dark-blue, placed

upon square pedestals of carved wood.

The only decorations not in good taste were the screaming chromos which

Don Timoteo had substituted for the old drawings and pictures of saints

of Capitan Tiago. Simoun had been unable to dissuade him, for the

merchant did not want oil-paintings—some one might ascribe them to

Filipino artists! He, a patron of Filipino artists, never! On that

point depended his peace of mind and perhaps his life, and he knew how

to get along in the Philippines! It is true that he had heard foreign

painters mentioned—Raphael, Murillo, Velasquez—but he did not know

their addresses, and then they might prove to be somewhat seditious.

With the chromos he ran no risk, as the Filipinos did not make them,

they came cheaper, the effect was the same, if not better, the colors

brighter and the execution very fine. Don’t say that Don Timoteo did

not know how to comport himself in the Philippines!

The large hallway was decorated with flowers, having been converted

into a dining-room, with a long table for thirty persons in the center,

and around the sides, pushed against the walls, other smaller ones for

two or three persons each. Bouquets of flowers, pyramids of fruits

among ribbons and lights, covered their centers. The groom’s place was

designated by a bunch of roses and the bride’s by another of

orange-blossoms and tuberoses. In the presence of so much finery and

flowers one could imagine that nymphs in gauzy garments and Cupids with

iridescent wings were going to serve nectar and ambrosia to aerial

guests, to the sound of lyres and Aeolian harps.

But the table for the greater gods was not there, being placed yonder

in the middle of the wide azotea within a magnificent kiosk constructed

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.