THE WOMAN WHO HAD TWO NAVELS
477
up his brother Tony and Rita Lopez, bidding them to supper but
warning them that something was wrong: they must not press the old
man with questions.
During supper that night, the old man was silent-not with the
brooding silence of the old days but with a silence as vacant as the
look he cast on the bright table, festive with flowers and champagne
to celebrate his return. Immediately after dessert, he asked to be ex–
cused; he felt tired from the trip, he said, and wished to retire early.
He kissed Rita on the check, and his two sons accompanied him to his
room, where they helped him undress and put him to bed.
When they returned to the living room (which was also Pepe's
office) Rita was bringing in coffee. They felt tired, and too shocked
to speak-as though somebody had suddenly died. They pulled the
sofa up to a window, sat down in a row, and sipped the coffee in
silence, watching the rain pouring outside and the ferryboat lights
twinkling back and forth in the storm. When they started to speak
they whispered.
"But he must have been writing you boys," said Rita. "What did
he say?"
"Nothing that explains
this,"
replied Pepe.
"Father's letters are as reserved as his talk," added Tony, with
a smile. Tony was in his white friar's habit; he had not had time to
change into the black soutane the religious wear in Hong Kong when
they go out in public. "But I began to smell something," he continued,
"when the first letter came, and then the second, and then the last
one-but still no mention about his being able to say at last:
'Nunc
dimittis servum tuum, Domine'"
He grinned at Pepe over Rita's head as he chanted the Latin
words, the opening line of the Song of Simeon, and Pepe bleakly
smiled back. When they were kids their father took them every even–
ing to attend Compline--over at the cathedral on Sundays; up at the
Dominicans on weekdays-just to hear that song. He told them what
the words meant:
"Now let thy servant del1art, Lord"-and
he said
that when he had at last returned to his own country he would, like
Simeon, be able to say :
"Nunc dimittis
. . ."
"That's the Canticle at Vespers, isn't it?" asked Rita, seated be–
tween the brothers, sipping her coffee. She used to sing with the
cathedral choir.
"The Canticle at Compline," corrected Tony.
"Compline, yes. The Song of Simeon-when everybody stands up."
"But you and I," smiled Tony to his brother, "would peer around
and wink at each other."
