Francisco Jose - The Samsons - Two Novels

“That is not true,” Tony said. “I’m poor, too.”

“Yeah, but you have the attitudes of the rich. Well, the people, the ones you suggest are the rabble, they are the ones who rise to great heights when the time comes. Revolutions for a better life are never made by the rich or the intellectuals. They have everything to lose. Revolutions are made by small men, poor men — they are the ones who suffer most. They care the least about the status quo.”

“But revolution is so outmoded now,” Tony Samson said, thinking of his father and his grandfather. He was thinking, too, of Lawrence Bitfogel, his roommate for four years in Cambridge, who had told him bluntly the very things Godo was saying. “The ilustrados ,” Tony tried to defend his thesis, “you must remember, had the minds to plan, the money, and, most important, the capacity to administer government.”

“Yes,” Godo said, “they also had the mind and the capacity to accept the bribes the Spaniards gave them at the Pact of Biak-na-bato. Paterno — all the merchants and shopkeepers you worship now — they were all bribed.… I’m sorry you wasted so much time on that thesis. Yes, it’s interesting, it’s well done — your article on the past — but it’s not the whole truth. Slash away at the myths. That America gave us democracy, that MacArthur ordered us to fight the Japs as guerrillas. Our job is to destroy myth, not build them.”

It was useless arguing — they would not understand, they did not have his training and his background. “I’ll try to do that,” Tony said, affecting a tone of humility; then he changed the subject abruptly: “But I’ll not be able to write for you in the near future. As a matter of fact, I’m getting married.”

The maneuver worked and Godo turned to him: “To whom?”

“Don’t ask because I won’t tell. It’s a surprise. But don’t worry, I’ll invite you to the wedding. Next week or next year.”

“Charlie has to get married soon, too,” Godo said. “It is a wonderful institution, but never marry for any reason except love. Then you won’t have regrets. Somehow every problem seems easy to solve. Money, I’ve come to realize, is one of the easiest problems to overcome. It’s when something happens to your inner self — that’s something money can’t solve.”

“Another profound comment of the afternoon,” Charlie said lightly.

But Godo was dead serious. “That’s the truth and you better think about it.”

“How is your wife?” Tony asked solicitously, recalling the frail and lovely freshman whom Godo had met when they were in their senior year and with whom Godo had eloped. Tony still had a clear image of Linda — her quiet, soft features and her long, flowing hair, which she wore in a tight bun.

“That’s what I mean,” Godo’s bluster was gone. “When you marry for love, every problem seems easy to solve. Well, she has not been doing very well. After two children— It would have been easier for her if she were healthy, but you remember Linda, Tony, she was always sickly. She has to have an operation soon. I don’t worry about that. You can always steal or sell your soul to the devil and rationalize such an act with a clear conscience.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony said.

“Thanks for the sentiment,” Godo said, smiling. “I really don’t ask for much. Just a chance to have my wife and children go through life with the least physical pain. That isn’t much to ask, is it? But in this bloody country, when a millionaire has a cold he goes right away to a fancy clinic in New York. And me, I can’t even afford to have my head examined. Hell, there’s justification in the old class struggle — I don’t care what you call it — but does a rich man have more right to live simply because he has more money?”

“You could have married for money,” Charlie said.

A smile spread across Godo’s flabby face. “I like that,” he said. “But, as I have always said, I have no regrets.” He turned amiably to Tony. “So don’t commit that mistake, chum. Don’t marry for any reason other than love. And who is she? Your cousin? She is pretty, and I recall, too, that you were more than cousinly with her the last time I visited you in Antipolo.”

“No,” Tony said, a flush creeping over his face. He was instantly reminded of Emy, of how once she had been a part of his life. Godo and Charlie had met and had come to know her during the times they dropped by to borrow books or to talk, for it was she who usually prepared the coffee. Perhaps all along they had suspected.

“That’s too bad,” Charlie said. “Did you fall out of love or something?”

Tony smiled wryly. “It wasn’t that, really. But you know how it is; we are cousins.”

“Oh now, this isn’t the eighteenth century,” Godo laughed. He had fully regained his humor. “Don’t tell me you are still bothered by taboos. Write a letter to the pope and he will give you a quick dispensation.”

Tony tried to laugh the joke away, but the old hurt was back, and above his personal anguish he heard Godo cackle: “Well, if you are not interested in her you can give me her phone number. If she won’t object to a married man … or Charlie here, he may yet change his mind. Why, I was envying you, Tony boy, that setup you had in Antipolo.”

“I haven’t been in touch,” Tony said, “and she is not in Antipolo anymore.”

The talk glided on and Tony tried to be casual, tried to steer away from all reminiscences that gravitated to Antipolo and Emy, but no matter how hard he tried, his thoughts always swept back to her, to those precious bits of the past embedded in his mind. She was once more with him, the memory, the feel of her, and the day would never be the same again.

Strange how thoughts of her didn’t bother him very much anymore, particularly in the past few months. This might have been because of his involvement with Carmen — or could love wither like maple leaves in the fall? But the withering away was not complete; her name always brought an undefinable pain to his chest — a sharp, sweet pain that came quietly with all the silent urgings of that thing called conscience.

No, he could not forget Emy, not only because she was the first but because she was the past — his dear, dead past, without which he had no currency. No, he could not brush her memory away as he would dust from a book. Emy was in him, as real as his breathing and for as long as he lived.

* Ilustrados: The first Filipinos, usually of means, who studied in Europe (beginning in the 1880s) in order to become “enlightened”; literally, “learned” or “well informed” (Sp.).

† Fiambrera: A lunch basket or nest of pots use for keeping food hot.

‡ Pan de sal: A salted bun.

§ Derecho: Right (direction).

‖ Merienda: An afternoon snack; galletas: cookielike biscuits.

a Marcelo H. Del Pilar: Filipino writer in the 1880s.

b Huks: A Communist-led revolutionary group that fought for agrarian reform in the Philippines after World War II; it grew out of an anti-Japanese resistance movement in Luzon during the war.

c José Protasio Rizal (1861–1896): Filipino physician, poet, novelist, and national hero, considered to be a founder of Filipino nationalism.

d Andres Bonifacio (1863–1897): Philippine patriot and founder and leader of the nationalist Katipunan society; instigated the revolt against the Spanish in August 1896.

The drugstore, Boie’s, was on the ground floor of a pink building, a refreshing pink in the dazzling heat. Tony hurried to the mezzanine coffee shop where Carmen was to meet him and scanned the crowd. Carmen would stand out in any gathering — fair skin, pretty face, shapely figure — she could easily draw all eyes once she walked into a room. Tony often wondered why she had accepted him at all. But Carmen was different from her sisters; she took up philosophy and letters instead of the usual liberal arts courses. She was open, too, in her preferences and outspoken in her views. She could be what she desired because she had money to shield her from all forms of noise, to enable her to damn all that did not agree with her.