Francisco Jose - The Samsons - Two Novels

“We started together, you know, but she did not like it. Then she told my mama, and we had to go to a doctor. Did you have difficulty stopping?”

“Not really,” I said. “Just a little willpower.”

“And that is what I don’t have,” she said. “Now I am addicted to food. I am very fat, no?”

“You are not, Belinda,” I said. “You are very pretty — even with your braces.”

Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Come,” she took my arm again and drew me to the dining room where the buffet table was ready; no one seemed anxious to eat except us.

They call it merienda cena —some fancy name for afternoon tea or snack, but it was a Rabelaisian spread, giant prawns already shelled, tenderloin strips, fresh asparagus sautéed in butter, finger sandwiches, several dip bowls of eggplant, tomato, and avocado concoctions. On one side were a variety of cheeses I had never seen before, including our own white cheese in its banana leaf wrapping.

Belinda did not bother with a plate and neither did I; we just idled around the long table, picking up pieces of fried chicken, mussels baked in butter, slices of sweet ham and turkey. And the fruit trays at the other end of the table, together with the assortment of pastries and sweets, simply overflowed with big, red apples and grapes of ebony and rose. I had never tasted grapes before, and now here they were as I had always imagined them. If I were nearer Cabugawan, I would certainly pocket a bunch for Mother.

I do not think Belinda noticed it, nor Betsy, how I ate very fast so that, in just a while, I had already tasted almost everything on that table that I had never eaten before, while close by was this gushing talk in Spanish, Visayan, and English.

Then, a tall, handsome mestizo in a gray suit, in his fifties, accompanied by a fat, waddling mestiza of about the same age came in. Betsy rushed to them, kissed them both.

“Happy birthday, hija ,” the man said, bending over and kissing Betsy on the cheek. She came to me, took me to them, whispering, “Papa and Mama.”

Betsy’s father shook my hand, so did her mother.

“We met in Tagaytay during that seminar, Papa,” she said.

“May I know your name, hijo ?” Mr. de Jesus asked, his eyes wandering up from my newly shined black shoes to my mane. His wife, her diamond pendant earrings flashing, was studying me, too.

“José Samson, sir,” I said.

“Samson … Samson. Related to Antonio Samson, the writer?”

“Yes, yes, sir,” I stammered. “An uncle.”

“Ah, no wonder,” Betsy’s mother smiled, her double chin quivered. “You reminded me of him. As a matter of fact, you looked just like him then, except for the long hair. I knew him. My husband, too. His wife — she was my best friend. I even stood as witness at their wedding. What a girl she was. You know, she died not long after the death of Tony. Did you ever know her? I don’t think so.”

“No, Mrs. de Jesus,” I said. “I know very little about my uncle’s life.”

Then without warning, Mr. de Jesus talked to me in Spanish and, when he paused, I looked at him, bewildered. “I am sorry, sir, I don’t speak Spanish.”

“But Tony did,” Mr. de Jesus said. “And he wrote in Spanish, too.”

“He went to Harvard, sir,” I said. “My school is in Recto.”

Mrs. de Jesus looked at me again, then at Betsy, and to her she spoke in Spanish; I could not get every word, but it was obvious she was talking about me.

Betsy blushed and seemed uneasy, and when she replied, it was in English: “Mama, the educated man does not even have to go to school. Education is not Maryknoll or Ateneo — or even Harvard—”

Mr. de Jesus took it from there, and from the drift of their conversation, as he wheeled around, followed by his wife, so that they could greet the other guests, I knew that they had dismissed me, that they did not want me in Tamarind Road again.

Betsy followed them, waving her hand, her face grim as if she was on the verge of tears, then she came back to me. “ Djahe *— djahe ,” she said, “and on my birthday, too.”

“They do not like me,” I said softly.

“Oh, Pepe, don’t say that,” she beseeched me. “This is my party, and I invited you.”

“But they are your parents and they mean much to you.”

“They cannot select my friends,” she said angrily.

“Don’t tell them, but I must leave,” I said quickly and headed for the door.

“Pepe, please stay. I want you to meet my other friends.”

“From La Salle, Maryknoll, and Ateneo,” I said.

She held my hand tightly as we walked to the door. It would be an unlit, gloomy distance to the gate of Pobres Park and then to the bus station, and my shoes were newly shined.

“How was the party?” Father Jess wanted to know.

I did not want to rail against Betsy’s parents. “Very good, Father,” I said.

“Then why the hell are you back so soon?”

“I was ill at ease. I did not know anyone there except Betsy.”

“You will get to know more of that class,” Father Jess said. “And if you study hard, someday you will join them.”

“That is not so grim a fate, Father,” I said.

As I was serving him coffee after supper, I asked if he had any books in Spanish.

He was surprised at my new interest. “No, but I can teach you a bit if you want to learn.” Then, as if lightning struck, “Ha, the de Jesus family impressed you! Now you must learn their language!”

I did not speak.

“It is always good, Pepe, to know what people are saying. Henceforth,” he said, shaking a finger at me, “I will talk to you in Spanish.”

Tia Nena came in with a piece of banana cake she had baked. And for the first time I also heard her speak in Spanish.

In the morning, as I was serving in the six o’clock daily mass — a chore I took on since the death of Toto — going out of the sacristy, I looked at the attendance, which was always small except on Sundays, when we had three masses and the church really overflowed, and there, in the front pew, was Betsy. I could not imagine how she had come at such a time when she should be asleep. When mass was over, Father Jess greeted her and asked her to join us at the kumbento. But Father Jess knew she did not come to Tondo to hear mass. He left us alone.

She was in her usual jeans. “I came here to see you,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said. “But there is really no need, Betsy. I understand everything.”

“No, you don’t,” she said.

I did not want to talk about her party, her parents. “How did you get here?” I asked quickly.

“You gave me your address, didn’t you? I simply asked the driver who came here with the invitation to give me directions.”

“And you came alone and so early?”

“Yes,” she said. “I parked down the vacant lot. I couldn’t get in.” She meant the deeply rutted main street that had yet to be asphalted.

“You can get robbed here, you know. And raped.”

“I had to see you,” she said simply.

I hurried with the broom as she stood by. When I was through, she said, “Let me invite you to breakfast. Please.”

There was no running away from her, and I followed her to where she had parked. She drove a little recklessly, but it was her style. She was a good driver. I did not ask where we were going, I was completely in her hands. She drove up Bangkusay, alive with the riot of children, through Herbosa, then Juan Luna past the Tondo church toward the North Harbor. She drove confidently as if she had been in Tondo all her life.

“This is where the Katipunan was born,” I said. “Even now, this is a radical district. Do you know that during the Huk uprising, there were gun battles here? We have a neighbor who was a Huk commander — more than twelve years he was in jail.”