The Wine of Youth (25 page)

Julio Sal was not listening. Both hands were cupped at his heart as the moonlight bathed his brown eyes. “Oh, lovely Helen!” He spoke in his native Tagalog. “Oh, wonderful moon girl! Thy beams have filled my soul with wild pleasure. Could I but kneel at thy feet in worship, the hem of thy red gown in these unworthy hands, I should die for joy. Many there are who are worthier than Julio Sal, but no man can say he loves you more. My wish and my hope is that you will become my bride. Back to the beloved motherland we will go, there to live forever beneath the coconut palms of beautiful Luzon. My wealthy father and mother shall welcome you to their plantation of fifteen thousand acres—rice, dates, pineapples and coconuts. Over it all you shall reign like a queen to the end of your days.”

That was too much for Antonio Repollo. “You lie, Julio Sal. Your mamma and papa are peasants. They are poor people, Julio Sal. You betray them with such lies. You make them capitalist dogs. Caciques.”

“You write,” said Julio Sal. “I am pay one penny for the word. You write 'em down.”

Repollo wrote it down, wrote three hundred and fifty-six words in all. They counted them together—three dollars and fifty-six cents. Expensive. But Antonio made no charge for punctuation marks, for “a” and “an,” nor for the envelope, or for addressing it to Miss Helen, in care of the Angels' Ballroom, Los Angeles. Julio Sal was pleased with the cool, clean typescript and the boldness of his signature at the bottom, underscored three times, with a whirlwind flourish of curlicues.

“I pay,” said Julio Sal, “come payday.”

It came six days later, and Julio Sal paid thirteen dollars and eighty cents for that letter and three more. Even so, he managed to save another fifteen, for it had been a big week, with overtime. She did not answer his letters. But he could understand that;
the life of a taxi dancer was not an easy one—to dance by night, to sleep by day, with never a moment to herself. All that was going to be changed someday. Pretty soon—after the tuna.

He saved his money. Was Betty Grable playing at The Harbor? All the little brown men loved Betty Grable; her autographed photograph hung over the kitchen sink; en masse they went to see her picture. All but Julio Sal. Seated on a piling at Dock 158, he smoked a cheap cigar and watched the stevedores load the President Hoover, bound for Hawaii and the Philippines. Came Madeleine Carroll, Virginia Bruce, Carole Lombard, Anita Louise—big favorites with the Penoys. But Julio Sal stayed home. There was the night Sixto Escobar fought Baby Pacito at the Hollywood Legion. And the night the bolo-punching Ceferino Garcia flattened Art Gonzales to the cries of “Boola, boola!” from his countrymen in the gallery. Where was Julio Sal? At home, saving his money.

IV

In September the tuna disappeared. And where does the tuna go, when he goes? No one can say. Overnight the roaring canneries shut down. No fish, no work. If wise, the Filipino boy had saved his money. Maybe he had three hundred, maybe five.

Home now? Back to Luzon and Ilocos Norte? No, not yet. Big money up north in the crops—lettuce, prunes, hops, olives, grapes, asparagus, walnuts, melons. Take rest, few days. Go to Los Angeles, see some girls, buy some clothes, chip in together and buy big car, ride down Hollywood Boulevard, maybe see Carole Lombard, maybe Anita Louise, can't tell. Then to the great agricultural centers of the north. Merced, Stockton, Salinas, Marysville, Woodland, Watsonville. Good-by to friends and fellow workers—to Celestino, Bartolome, Bunda, Denisio, Lazada, Macario. See you up north.

Said Antonio Repollo to Julio Sal that last day, “The prunes, she is good in Santa Clara County. You come with me?”

Said Julio Sal, “No. I go to Los Angeles for to get Helen. We go to Reno, maybe. For to get married.”

Said Repollo, “You have letter then? She say yes?”

“No letter. Just the same, we get married.”

“Maybe,” said Repollo, not meaning it.

“No maybe. Is truth. You wait. You see. Pretty soon Mrs. Julio Sal, with ring.”

“You have money, Julio Sal? Costa plenty for to have American wife.”

“Three hundred fifty, I have.”

“Is very small amount.”

“Is plenty. I get some more in the crops.”

Repollo took out his wallet. “I loan you twenty buck. After asparagus you pay me back.”

“Is plenty, three hundred fifty.”

Repollo held out a five-dollar bill. “This, for the wedding present. Some chocolate. Compliments, Antonio Repollo.”

Mist welled up in the eyes of Julio Sal. He folded the greenback and wet his lips. “You are good Filipino, Repollo. Smart man. I tell Helen. Maybe someday I tell her you write letter on the machine—someday, maybe.
Gracias
, my friend.”

“Is nothing,” said Repollo. “For that I am A. B., University of Washington. Pretty soon we play Minnesota; we win maybe.”

When he left the apartment that last time, a grip in each hand, his topcoat over his shoulder, he smelled sweet and clean, did Julio Sal, and he knew that, according to the pictures in Esquire, he was sartorially correct, even to the tan golf sweater that matched his light brown tie. There was one slight imperfection in his ensemble—his brown shoes. They had been half-soled.

It was forty minutes to town by way of the big red cars. At a quarter to one Julio Sal was on Hill Street. On the corner, there in the window, a pair of shoes caught his eye. They were light brown, a pock-marked pigskin, moccasin type, light soles, box toes. Fifteen dollars was the price beneath the velvet stand. Julio Sal bit his lips and tried to hold down his Spanish-Malay passion for bright leather. But it was a losing battle. Relishing his own weakness, he walked through the glass doors and stepped into a fragrant, cool world of leather and worsteds, silks and cashmere.

At two-thirty the new Julio Sal strutted up Hill Street with the grandeur of a bantam cock. The new shoes made him taller; the
new gabardine slacks gave him a sense of long, virile steps; the new sport coat, belted and pleated in back, built him into a wedge-shaped athlete; the soft wool sweater scarcely existed, it was so soft, so tender. That new hat! Dark green with a lighter band, high crown, short brim, pulled over one eye. At every window Julio Sal watched himself passing by, wished the folks back in Luzon could but see him passing by. The transformation had cost him a hundred and twenty-five. No matter.

Said Julio Sal to the handsome Filipino flashing past the shop windows, “Is better first to become engaged. Wait few months. Hops in Marysville. Asparagus in Stockton. Big money. After asparagus we get married.”

The idea came to him suddenly, giving warmth to his conscience. But the coldness of guilt made him shudder. The first jewelry store in sight swallowed him up. An engagement ring. He was not happy when he walked into the hot street again, his purse thinner by seventy-five dollars. He felt himself falling to pieces with a suddenness that left him breathing through his mouth. Crossing to Pershing Square, he got no pleasure from his new clothes as he sat in the sun. A deep loneliness held him. What was the matter with Julio Sal? This Helen—not once had she answered his letter. He was a fool. Bartolome had warned him. But what was Filipino boy to do? For every Filipino girl in California there were twenty-two Filipino boys. The law made it so, and the law said Filipino boy could not marry white girl. What was Filipino boy to do? But Helen was different. Helen was taxi-dance girl. Working girl. Big difference. At once he felt better. He got up and walked toward Main Street, proud of his new clothes again.

V

First at the ticket window of the Angels' Ballroom that night was Julio Sal. It was a few minutes before seven. He bought a hundred tickets. On the stand, the four-piece colored band was tuning up. As yet, the girls had not come out of the dressing rooms. Julio Sal followed the wicker fence down to the bandstand, six
feet from the dressing-room door. Then the band began to play the blatant hotcha wired down to a loud-speaker that spewed it in all directions out on the street.

By seven-fifteen the noise had lured five Filipinos, three Mexicans, two sailors and an Army private. The dressing-room door opened and the girls began to appear. Among the first was Helen.

Said Julio Sal, waving his tickets, “Hello.”

“Be right with you,” she said.

He watched her walk to the bandstand and say something to the trumpet player. She had changed in three months—changed a great deal. The memory he retained was of a girl in red. Tonight she wore a blue pleated chiffon that spilled lightly to her shoes. Something else—her hair. It had been a golden blond; now it was platinum. He had no time to decide whether or not he liked the changes, for now she was coming toward him.

“Hi. Wanna dance?”

“Helen, is me. Julio Sal.”

The bell clanged and she did not hear him. Hurrying to the gate, he felt his legs trembling. She met him there, flowed into his arms professionally, yet like a warm wind. It was a waltz. She danced easily, methodically, with a freshness that made him feel she enjoyed it. But she did not remember him—he was sure of it. He was about to speak his own name when she looked up and smiled. It was friendly, but there was some peculiarity about it, an iciness in her blue eyes that made him suddenly conscious of his race, and he was glad she did not remember Julio Sal.

“You been here before?”

“First time,” he said.

“Seems like I seen you someplace.”

“No, no. First time here.”

Gradually the place filled. They were mostly Filipinos. For an hour they danced, until he began to tire. Beyond the wicker fence were a bar and tables. He felt the pinch of his new shoes and longed to sit down. It made no difference. Dancing or sitting with her, the price was the same—ten cents a minute.

“I buy you a drink,” he said.

They walked off the floor to the tables. Each was marked with a Reserved card. The waiter standing at the end of the bar dashed
forward and yanked the card from the table where they sat. The bell clanged. The girl tore a ticket from the roll and stuffed it into a blue purse that matched her dress. Her small fingers tightened at his wrist.

“What's your name?”

“Tony,” he said. “Is Tony Garcia.”

“I like Tony. It's a swell name.”

The waiter was tall, Kansas-like, tough, impersonal.

“Something to drink?” said Julio Sal. “What you like?”

She lowered her face, then looked up with blue, clean eyes. “Could I have something nice, Tony? Champagne?” She took his head in her hands, pulled it against her lips and whispered into his ear, “I get a percentage.” He already knew that, but the touch of her lips, the warmth of her breath at his neck, the scent of her perfume, left him deliriously weak. The bell clanged and she tore away another ticket.

“Champagne,” said Julio Sal.

“It's seven bucks,” the waiter said.

“Seven?” Julio rubbed his jaw, felt soft, cool fingers under the table, squeezing his knee. He looked at the girl. Her face and eyes were downcast, her lips smiling impishly.

“Champagne.”

They waited in silence. Four times the bell sounded and four times Helen's crimson nails tore at the thinning roll of tickets. The waiter came back with two glasses and a bottle on a tray. He gave Julio Sal a slip of paper.

“Nine?” said Julio Sal. “But you say seven.”

“Cover charge.”

“Is too much for to pay, only little bottle wine.”

The waiter picked up the tray and started back to the bar.

Julio called to him. “I pay,” he said.

After he paid, the cork popped. Julio lifted his glass, touched hers. “For you, for prettiest girl in whole California.”

“You're sweet,” she said, drinking.

Julio tested the wine with his teeth and tongue. Only fair. He had tasted better in San Jose, and for a third of the price. The bell clanged, the red nails nibbled, a new dance began. It was a waltz, Blue Hawaii.

Helen's eyes closed; she sighed and swayed to the music. “My favorite number. Dance with me, Tony.”

They walked to the floor and she pressed herself hard against his body. The bell clanged as they reached the orchestra. She tore away another ticket and spoke to the trumpet player. The next three numbers were repeats of Blue Hawaii. Julio Sal was very pleased. She liked the music of the islands. She would like the music of the Philippines better.

She clung to his arm as they walked back to the table. The wine glasses were gone, the bottle of champagne was gone. Once more the table was marked Reserved. Julio Sal called the waiter.

“I thought you beat it,” the waiter said.

“No, no. Only to dance a little bit.”

“That's tough.”

“But she was whole bottle. Only little bit, we drink.”

“Sorry.”

“Bring 'nother bottle,” demanded Julio Sal.

They sat down, Helen holding the few remaining tickets like beads. “It's a shame,” she said. “We hardly tasted it.”

“No shame. We get more.”

The waiter brought another bottle and two glasses. He handed Julio Sal another piece of paper, but Julio wouldn't accept it; he pushed it away, he shook his head. “I already pay. This one for nothing.”

“Gotta pay.”

“No. You cheat me. Nine dollars, not one drink.”

The waiter leaned across the table and the waiter's thick hand clutched the throat of Julio Sal, pushed back his head. “I don't have to take that kind of talk from a Filipino. Take it or leave it.”

Nausea flowed up and down the bones of Julio Sal—shame and helplessness. He smoothed back his ruffled hair and kept his wild eyes away from Helen, and when the bell clanged he was glad she busied herself tearing off another ticket.

The waiter cursed and walked away. Julio Sal panted and stared into his calloused hands. It wasn't the waiter and it wasn't the nine dollars, but why had she tricked him with three encores of Blue Hawaii? Julio Sal wanted to cry. Then there were cool fingers on the back of his hand, and he saw her sweet face.