Francisco Jose - The Samsons - Two Novels

I was silent. “And be careful, Pepe,” Mrs. Hortenso said. “Do you know that they have been watching us for the last two days? They were there—” she thrust her chin toward the street corner. “In a jeep. They had cameras. I noticed them yesterday when I went to market. I am not naturally suspicious, but I saw them; they were watching the house.”

I turned to Professor Hortenso. He nodded slowly.

When I had finished, he stood up and said, “Let us go out for a walk.”

Mrs. Hortenso followed us to the door. “Careful, Dad,” she said, her face dark with apprehension.

We walked toward the boulevard, and once in a while, Professor Hortenso would abruptly turn around. There was no one following us. I had not seen him for almost a week. Now I told him about Juan Puneta, how he had taken me to the Casino for lunch, how he had talked about politics — just a little — nothing more, about Ka Lucio.

“He is making a list of people we should contact, and they are all over the country,” I said.

“Good! Good!” Professor Hortenso exclaimed. Then he told me how worried he was; another of the Diliman boys in the Brotherhood had disappeared. That made it five student leaders without a trace. The parents had come to Manila, made inquiries with the police, the army, but there were no leads.

“They must have gone underground already,” I suggested.

“No,” Professor Hortenso said. “I would know. Someone in the Brotherhood would know.”

We had reached the boulevard. “Pepe,” he said, “I don’t know, but I think you should stop seeing Puneta. It is not a question of mistrusting him — I have no evidence for that. But I think he will do us more harm than good; I reread what your uncle wrote, and he is right. We cannot afford to be misled again. Worse, misused — and know it.”

It was almost midnight when I got back to Tondo. I was tempted to take a taxi — I still had three hundred pesos of Puneta’s money — but I was in no hurry and I wanted to be alone to think clearly of what had transpired. I was to meet Puneta in a day at the Casino, as we had agreed, but after Professor Hortenso had warned me, I decided not to see him.

The muddied alleys of the barrio had dried, and in places they were already cemented. We had raised money for the basketball court as well. The church was lighted up, and people were there, the neighbors mostly. And in the center aisle was a coffin. When she saw me, Cora, the older of the two sisters who lived with Ka Lucio, came to me and started to cry.

“Pepe, it’s uncle—”

I had greeted him that morning when I left for the university to review before my exams, and even asked him if he would care to join us at Panciteria Asia. “I will be out of place, Pepe,” he had told me.

And now he was dead.

“Did he have a heart attack? Did he—”

She could not explain; it was Roger who did. Cora had already left for work and it was Nene, the younger sister, who came home from school at noon for lunch. Ka Lucio was prostrate in the living room, his head bathed in blood. Someone had come in and bashed his head. Most probably he never knew who or what hit him. In his old age, he had become so trusting that he always kept the front door open. No one had seen the killer. No noise, no scream, no struggle; it was swift and painless. He had known some peace and quiet here in the Barrio, but death stalked him here, this accursed jungle of tin and rubble and driftwood. He lived through twelve years of jail, through ambushes and travail, only to succumb to a faceless murderer.

“We told the police,” Roger was saying as we went to the bier. I looked at the calm, lean face, peaceful in death. He had never been in this church while he was alive. I still had three hundred pesos, but I told Roger we would not go out anymore, the money would be for Ka Lucio.

* Sakdals: A group of Filipino people.

† Ganta: A measure of capacity; one ganta is equal to five pints.

‡ Anisado: Aniseed wine.

§ Ichi bang: Number one.

It was Betsy who answered the phone when I took the chance and called her not at the agreed upon time. She could sense the urgency although I tried to sound flippant.

“What happened? Can you tell me?”

“Not on the phone,” I said. “Between kisses, I’ll tell you.”

“Are they after you?”

“The way I am after you,” I said.

“I will drive over as fast as I can; I should be there in twenty minutes.”

From Makati, at dusk, when traffic was at its worst, it would take an hour. I walked over to the Rendezvous where my friends would be, but no one was there. I took a table in a corner where I was hidden by the evening throng, students having snacks after their afternoon classes.

The street outside was noisy with traffic, and when I walked out, the stench of garbage piled high along the gutters assailed me. Our slogans were plastered all over the stone embankment, on the walls of buildings. The new ones screamed, dark red: Marcos Hitler Diktador.

It had always made me feel good, waiting on the sidewalk for Betsy to come in her mustard-colored Volks. She wove out of the traffic to where she always picked me up. I darted out and got into the car, and as she shifted into first gear, I leaned over and kissed her cheek.

We got out of Quiapo quickly and onto the boulevard, hardly speaking, except for niceties, her term paper on Japan, her quarrel with her mother. Her answers were perfunctory.

We had no favorite motel; we went to what was nearest and most convenient. We rarely went to a place twice, for I did not want her to be subjected to the indignity of recognition. At M. H. del Pilar, we turned into the first motel — a prewar residence in the Malate area now converted into something tawdry but profitable. A boy standing by the row of garage doors pointed out to us an open one and we drove in. He followed us and lowered the door. Betsy went out and quickly went up the stairs. I followed her to the small anteroom and closed the door; there was the usual pair of drinking glasses, the frayed menu on the table, and beyond, the double bed with mirrors on its side; the air conditioner and the radio were on. She kissed me, the honey, the salt, the sweetness of it all, lingering in my mouth.

The buzzer rang, and she freed herself, reached into her bag for the money, but this time, I shook my head. “I have a little,” I said. “Let me take care of this.”

She smiled, then went to the bedroom and closed the door.

The boy came with the registry, a jug of ice-cold water, and an extra sheet. He laid the registry on the table, and I signed my real name as I always did together with a nonexistent residence certificate with lots of sevens in it. I gave him twenty-two pesos, and after he had thanked me and left, I put on the latch. We had all the time now. Betsy did not care anymore if she got pregnant, but I did not want to inconvenience her. In a few days, she would be in Bacolod for the semester break to say good-bye to relatives, friends, and her kindergarten school.

Afterward, I told her that Ka Lucio was dead, and that the list and manual he was working on could not be found. She took the news quietly. “We have enemies,” she finally said, trembling.

“It’s been more than a year now, Betsy,” I said. “Do you think you can trust me?”

We were lying on our backs, holding hands. “Pepe, I trusted you the first time I met you. How can you ask such a question?” She sounded disconsolate.

“Though I sometimes feel I don’t understand you, I trust you completely, told you things,” I said.

“What things?”

“My life, for instance.” I had difficulty forming the words. “You said we have enemies. We have to do something, other than those demonstrations. Suppose, after this semester, I decided to go to the mountains.”