Francisco Jose - The Samsons - Two Novels

I did not see her for two months. I would not bring her malas —bad luck — like her mother had surmised, the way my father had brought malas to Carmen Villa. When she came back, however, we were simply fated to see each other again. I was now a member of the Educational Committee of the Brotherhood; Professor Hortenso was its chairman. We had to meet twice a month, often at Hortenso’s house — just eight of us — not only to map out the information campaign for our growing membership but also to counter the now insidious propaganda of rival youth organizations that envied us, and the fact that thirty-three of our members had already succumbed to Metrocom and police guns. We kept this roster in all our publications to illustrate how committed we were.

A week after my appointment as managing editor, Professor Hortenso invited me to lunch. Mrs. Hortenso had cooked goat caldereta and I felt guilty, eating like a hog because it was very good; it may have been for their supper, too. “But there is more, Pepe,” she said when I hesitated after the third helping. She stood up, went to the kitchen, and brought out the pan, which was, indeed, still half full.

“It is my favorite, Mrs. Hortenso,” I complimented her. “And you cook very well. The only other cook I know who can do it well is Tia Nena in the kumbento. ”

“I always knew priests ate well,” she said. “Maybe you should add Juan Puneta to your list of caldereta cooks. He said once, didn’t he, Dad,” she asked her husband, “that his caldereta is excellent.”

Professor Hortenso continued eating. “You don’t have to believe everything he says,” he said under his breath.

“Ha!” Mrs. Hortenso exclaimed. “Look who’s talking. You believe everything he says.”

Professor Hortenso looked up from his plate and glared at his wife. I did not want to witness a family quarrel, but I could not stand up and leave.

Mrs. Hortenso was undaunted. She turned to me, wanting me to be her ally. “I hope you do not misunderstand, Pepe,” she said. “I believe in these things you are doing, else I would not want to live here,” she cast a condescending look around her, the unpainted and grimy adobe walls, the naked lightbulb above us, the cracked cement floor, the cheap Binondo furniture. “He finished with honors, you know — the first Filipino to do so at Cambridge. He — You know, we are not poor. And he was offered a good job here with a British company — old-boy ties … fraternities, that is what you call them here.”

“Please, honey,” Professor Hortenso said, “don’t talk like this.”

“But he refused. He refused help from his parents. He refused to teach even in the State University where he would be getting twice what he is getting now. Teach at the diploma mill, that is where he feels he is needed. And I agree with him, of course. Over there at UP, those pampered rich, they do not need an education.…”

“Honey,” Professor Hortenso protested again, “please, don’t make us look like martyrs.”

“But we are,” she fairly screamed at him. “Living here; the kids not going to the best schools, you working yourself to death — and that bastard Puneta taking all the credit for the articles and speeches you write for him!”

“Please,” Hortenso raised his voice, “this has gone far enough.”

I was now all attention for Mrs. Hortenso, for her mobile, pretty face, the eyes flashing fire. “Pepe, do you know?”

I shook my head.

“Don’t listen to my wife, Pepe,” Professor Hortenso told me, a wan smile on his face. “She is tired and …”

“I am not tired,” she hissed at him. “And I am not angry at you or at Pepe. Here,” she thrust the plate of caldereta toward me; I took another helping.

“It was he who wrote Puneta’s doctoral dissertation. And what did he get?”

Professor Hortenso flung his arms in the air in a gesture of futility.

“Nothing. Nothing! And Puneta promises and promises. And what does he give the Brotherhood? Why, my husband gives more of his own money, his time. I give more …”

“Don’t brag, honey,” Professor Hortenso said.

“I am not,” she said, glaring at him again. “I am just stating the truth. How much have you spent for those pamphlets? Remember how I went to Papa and got money so that you could have the last pamphlet released from the printer? Remember?”

He had given up; he merely smiled and let his wife speak on. “A beggar who gives five centavos gives more than the millionaire who gives five hundred pesos!”

Professor Hortenso looked at his watch and rose. “Pepe, we will be late,” he said. Our meeting was at three, but it was only one o’clock. I stood up reluctantly, for I wanted to hear more about Juan Puneta. I would ask Lily when I got back, and this time, I would ask for details.

Mrs. Hortenso, now calm and serene, followed us to the door and dutifully kissed her husband on the cheek. “Dad,” she said as we stepped out, “it is going to rain.”

A darkening sky, clouds that obscured the sun since morning. We were both optimists. We walked to the boulevard to save fifteen centavos because from there we could get a jeepney that would go directly to Taft. We had time and Professor Hortenso wanted to talk.

“I hope you will keep to yourself what my wife told you,” he said.

“Is that what you want, Professor?”

He nodded. Then, after sometime, he continued wearily, “I have been bothered by people like Puneta in a very profound way. You see, he belongs to the oligarchy, but he is educated, he has liberal ideas, and is willing to help. He has helped.…”

Silence. We were nearing the boulevard. We would have to cross and walk a little distance to Central Market and get our jeepney there.

“I know it could be very wrong, that he is merely using us,” he said pensively. “There is enough warning, enough literature on the subject. You know, the most impressive is your uncle’s book, particularly the last chapter.”

I knew what else he had to say, and I was no longer listening. The elite, the masses not making revolution, collaborating with those in power …

We crossed on the overpass. “But we have to be pragmatic,” he continued firmly. “We cannot say we will reject their money because it is not pure, because it is tainted. Besides, we get to know their weaknesses so that they will not subvert the revolution as they did the last time. The important thing is that we — you and I — we know. If we are careful, we will not be fooled as they were fooled in the past!”

We got off at Taft and walked toward the bay, but as his wife had warned, it had started to drizzle, and the drizzle turned into driving rain that clattered like pebbles on the tin roofs and marquees. We ran up Herran and stopped in a souvenir shop on Mabini, where we hoped we could get a taxi to Roxas Boulevard, to the Puneta Building.

When we got there finally, we were half an hour late and dripping wet. I had not expected Betsy to be a member of the Educational Committee, and when she met us at the foyer and shook my hand, Professor Hortenso smiled. “Well, it is good to know that you know one of your committee members.”

We went up in the elevator to the eighth floor, Betsy asking me in a whisper why I did not write to her; I told her I did but had not mailed it.

When we got to the office of Puneta — one of several — she whispered again. “After this I want to talk with you. Let us go some place where we can be alone.”

The rest were already there, drinking coffee and eating neatly chopped sandwiches of cheese and ham. I was still full of caldereta , but I ate again.

Juan Puneta, tall, mestizo, always cracking his knuckles, welcomed us; he was particularly warm to Professor Hortenso, whom he called Nonong, embracing the professor as if he were a long lost brother.