Francisco Jose - The Samsons - Two Novels

“ Wen, Manong ,” I said. *

“We are from the same region,” one of the men in the front seat said.

While I could not raise my head, I could look at my tormentor’s shoes. They were black army boots. The van did not smell of bread. In fact, there was no trace of flour or crumbs on the floor. It seemed to have been swept clean and was pervaded by an odor of burnt oil, of machine shops, and the tired sweaty stench of government offices.

We now bounced occasionally. We were traveling over a rutted road, and my face scraped against the steel floor and it hurt, so I rested my face on my arm. Then we were on what seemed like a good asphalt road. We drove straight and fast, perhaps for half an hour. The snort of traffic and of people talking wafted into the van.

The men out front were talking in Tagalog about how they would spend the night at some massage parlor, and one of them was openly wondering if I would be so difficult as to interrupt their evening plans.

The Directorate, I remembered, once had a seminar on how we should behave if we were arrested or taken into custody without the usual procedures. I must remember their faces, the place where they took me, their names if possible, anything I could use to identify them later on. And I must not give them cause to be violent.

The sound of traffic diminished, then disappeared. The van stopped and we got out. I was in an enclosed courtyard — probably a bodega with a bit of sky above. I did not have time to examine my surroundings, for they pushed me into an empty room walled with cement, asphalt tiles for the floor. A high window with bars was open, and there was not a single piece of furniture in the room. An old newspaper and a red plastic pail were in a corner, and when I looked, the pail contained toilet paper and dried excrement that still smelled.

I squatted on the dusty floor, wondering where we were. The only sounds that reached me were the distant honking of a car and the barking of a dog.

I was thirsty, but there was nothing to drink; I pounded on the door, which was locked from the outside, and asked for water, but there was no reply.

Soon it was dark and mosquitoes buzzed all around me. I switched the light on, but either the bulb was not working or there was no power. There was no way I could reach the window, which was a full two meters above me. I tried jumping to find out what was beyond, but could see only the sky.

I lay down as darkness deepened and surrendered to the anonymity, the kind and elusive peace the night had brought. Sleep would not come, and now I tried to recall what acts of conspiracy I had committed that had brought me to this room, what articles of faith I had sundered. And the more I thought, the more I was convinced that I had done no wrong.

Late in the night I was awakened by a scream — a woman in terror. There was something animal and despairing about her cry, as if she wanted help, the kind that would mean salvation. I keened for the sound, trying to figure out which part of the building it came from, but all was darkness; the barred window high above brought nothing but the muffled sound of traffic in the distance, a steady thrum lengthening into even silences, and voices indistinct and disembodied.

I pressed my ear to the wall to extract sounds I could understand, but could hear nothing. Was it really a woman’s scream I had heard? I walked to the door and tried opening it, but it was locked and would not budge.

I lay again on the floor, hoping to hear a sound, a human sound, another scream that would at least show I was not alone in this building, whose breadth and height I had no knowledge of, least of all its location. I did not even know which way was east.

In the dark, I could make out the outlines of the door, the corners of the room. I closed my eyes, prayed for sleep to come, but it would not; I imagined shapes, rays of light, glowing gems of blue, fleeting and iridescent, and in between, grim, grim thoughts about what awaited me. I floated off into sleep — fitful and short.

I woke up with a sliver of sun on my face, the sound of voices beyond my door, but I could not make out the sounds. I pounded on the door and shouted, “Sir, please, if you can hear me. I am thirsty. Paki , †please let me have some water.” I waited for a reply, and when there was none, I said, this time in a shout, that I needed water.

My throat was parched and, strangely, though I had not eaten for a day now, I did not feel weak or hungry. Still no reply. It had begun to get warm so I took off my pants and shirt, folded them neatly and laid them on the floor. I lay down again and waited. I must not lose my strength, I must preserve what I could of it.

Toward afternoon the door was flung open. There was a new man — his crew cut still fresh so that the scalp was still pale. The two others were obviously enlisted men. It was the man with the crew cut, White Sidewall, who told me to put my clothes on, which I did immediately. I asked for water but they ignored me. When I had dressed, they slapped handcuffs on my wrists.

The room where I was confined adjoined another — a hall into which other doors opened. There was nothing in the hall except five iron beds that had not been made. At one end was a table with food and to it they pointed.

Although I was handcuffed, I did not have difficulty with the pan de sal , the cup of lukewarm coffee, and, when I finally got my drink, never before had water tasted so good.

I would be nice to them; without my handcuffs, I could fight — it would be a risk. I could kill one probably before they would be able to kill me, but I was not going to die now. I was not ready to do so.

I tried to make out the things on their beds, comic books, their guns; in a corner was an armalite and loaded magazines. They were all in civilian clothes; only their shoes showed they were military.

My interrogation started shortly after breakfast; the room adjoining the hall was bare of furniture except for a wooden chair and a long varnished table between my interrogators and me. The windows were high and they were open to let in the air, the distant sound of traffic, the whining of an air-conditioning unit.

White Sidewall could be a lieutenant or a captain. His questioning was relaxed. “You had a good breakfast, and you will continue to be fed well. I hope that you will appreciate what we are trying to do. There are snakes all over the land — very poisonous snakes — and we must seek them out and destroy them or they will kill us. It is, really, as simple as that. Now, tell us about the interesting things you saw in China when you went there last year.”

The question really rocked me; he was either joking or had the wrong Samson.

“I have never been to China, sir. The closest I have been to China is Ongpin.”

They scrutinized their pads, scribbled on them, then White Sidewall continued, “What campus organizations do you belong to?”

I thought it best to be honest. After all, it was public knowledge. “The Brotherhood, sir.”

Smiles on their faces. White Sidewall was doing the questioning. “What is your position in The Brotherhood?”

“I am a member of the Directorate.”

“As a member, what do you do?”

“I attend meetings,” I said. “The Directorate lays down policy and prepares a program for the whole year.”

“Did you participate in the demonstrations?”

“Yes, but not all of them.”

“Were you in the demonstration at the American embassy the other day?”

I was sure there had been no demonstration at the American embassy, and while I wracked my head for an answer, a blow sent me reeling to the floor. My ear was seared by pain. I tried to rise, to get back to the chair, but now, the weakness that had eluded me came. My knees were wobbly and I could hardly stand.