Francisco Jose - The Samsons - Two Novels

Tony surveyed the suite, the well-ordered sofa and chairs done in rich, red upholstery, the fresh calla lilies and the dahlias as big as saucers in the slim, metallic vases. The paneling of red dao shone in the cold, blue light. No trace of pine scent lingered in the room, which, in fact, smelled faintly of floor wax. Then they were alone again. Night was falling swiftly outside, a phone jangled somewhere in the quiet corridors, and the cold of Baguio finally touched them, told them that the time to make love had come.

Carmen sat on the wide, cream-colored bed and watched him open the lock of the suitcase.

“I think we should do it as we have planned,” Tony said. “About entering this room, I mean.” She shrugged. “You can keep the illusion at least, baby,” he said, grinning. “You shouldn’t wear a Good Friday look — my God, not on your wedding day!”

He went to her, lifted her, and kissed her. The lips on which his mouth fell were warm but unresponsive, and Tony quickly attributed this to Baguio, to the slivers of cold that stole into this rich, intimate room. Or could it be more than the cold? Remembering her condition and the life that was developing within her, he felt an abiding warmth for this girl who had accepted him.

“ Esto , we should not have bothered coming here,” she said with an air of boredom. “I didn’t like the look of that bellhop when we came in — and the clerk at the desk. They were practically undressing me. Me, of all people! Now, if we had gone to the summer house, as Papa had suggested earlier, we would be alone just the same.”

“Honeymoons are meant to be spent in hotels, baby,” he said, trying to humor her.

She sighed and placed her clothes on the bed. “It seems foolish, doesn’t it?” she asked but expected no answer. “A two-day honeymoon. A weekend actually, then you rush back to that miserable university for the good of this country’s future, for the benefit of the downtrodden Ilocano race.”

It was her way of showing displeasure and he brushed aside her sarcasm. “You married a teacher,” he said.

“An associate professor,” she corrected him. Her blitheness had returned with a quickness that pleased him.

She rose and hugged him. “If we were now living in that hick town of yours I would be called Maestra , wouldn’t I? Or is it Profesora ?”

She laughed and he was glad that he did not have to bend backward again and try to please her, play up to her whims, humor her, because she was this way and women were supposed to be pampered and cuddled until the uneasy days of conception were over.

Outside, beyond the polished glass windows, the pines were already shrouded with the oncoming night, and mist wrapped the darkening trees and the whole landscape in white motionless suds. She moved away from him and idled at the window. She was every inch a bride, lissome and beautiful as he once dreamed his wife should appear to him on his wedding night. Then she turned to him and demanded, almost shrilly, “But must we return so soon? You need a vacation. All the past days you did nothing but work and prepare your papers and your program. You need a vacation. Look at yourself — all bones, and you want to get back to that salt mine.”

“It’s Monday and classes,” Tony said, “and more than that, baby, I’ve already told you — the Socrates Club. Not every teacher in the university …”

“… is a member of this club,” she said coyly. “And all the members are brilliant minds who have gone to Harvard and Oxford.”

She had found her nightgown in the suitcase — a shimmering black, which contrasted with her light, rosy skin. She held it to her bosom, preened before him and, smiling again, said, “Now, will I qualify?” Before he could answer, she dropped the negligee on the bed and continued: “The things that interest men are so trite. God, they bore me. Let’s throw the university out of the window and concentrate on sex.”

He cupped her chin and kissed her. “I’m sorry if I am such a bore,” he said, burying his face in the fragrant curve of her neck.

She detached herself from his embrace and, turning around, asked him to undo the zipper at the back of her dress. He did this carefully, remembering how once, in his haste to undress her, he had brought the zipper down quickly and it had bitten into her skin. Having finished with the zipper, he kissed her nape.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Matter-of-factly she asked, “Even when I get fat and dowdy like Mama?”

He bit her ear again and whispered, “Yes, even when you are as fat as a circus freak.”

She opened her eyes and looked reproachfully at him. “When the children start coming my breasts will sag. My belly, too. Will you still love me then?”

He laughed and hugged her.

She drew away and started undressing in that casual manner that often amazed him, for it seemed as if she were on a stage, showing off to an admiring audience. She had done it before, undressed before him, and the act had almost become a ritual. She walked to the bed and picked up the negligee again, then stood before him, her fair skin gleaming, the smooth, white flanks shining in the cool blue light; her legs tawny and clean.

“Have I changed, darling?” she asked, letting his gaze caress her.

“No,” he said, holding his head a little backward. “You are beautiful.” And his blood singing, he went to her.

Tony woke up with the sun in his eyes. It was chalky white on everything in the room. Carmen was still asleep, bundled against the Baguio cold in the pale blue woolen blanket they had shared. He watched her for a while — her easy, rhythmic breathing — then kissed her, pressing his tongue through her lips to her teeth and tasting the honey saltiness of her mouth. She stirred, opened her eyes, and embraced him, making happy gurgling sounds.

“I just wish we never had to return to Manila,” she said, yawning. It was their weekend honeymoon all right, and though the thrill of first possession had waned, she had acted like the perfect bride, demanding love.

It was Sunday, and in the afternoon they would have to go back to Manila. The phone rang and Carmen reached for it, muttering in her breath, “Who is it?” The pleasantness was gone and she sounded sulky and injured. Then her face brightened. “It’s Papa,” she said. “He is at the golf club with friends. He came in this morning in Dangmount’s plane and we will have supper with him. What do you say, honey? We can go back to Manila with him in the plane.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said without waiting for Tony’s reply. She gave the phone to her husband.

Tony sat up: “Good morning, sir.”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me now. It’s Papa, Tony.” Don Manuel sounded a bit displeased at the other end of the line.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” Tony repeated, trying out the word with little confidence, and he was pleased to find that “Papa” was not awkward at all.

“That’s better,” Don Manuel chuckled. “The course at Wack Wack was a bit crowded so Dangmount and I decided to fly in just now.” After the hurried explanation for his presence in Baguio he went on: “You don’t have to take the train this afternoon. We can all go home tomorrow by plane.”

“My classes start at nine, Papa,” Tony said, “and it’s rather important that I be there.”

“There’s a lot of time. We fly at daybreak.”

It was pointless to argue. “If you say so, Papa,” Tony said. “And thank you very much.”

“Now, may I have that daughter of mine again?”

Tony handed the phone to Carmen.

“Yes, Papa,” she said. “Yes, right here at the Pines.”

She placed the phone on its hook, turned complacently to Tony, and, as if she were speaking to a secretary, said, “Don’t forget to remind me, darling, I’ll call Manila tonight, so that my car will be at the airport and I’ll drive you straight to the university. That will make you happy?”