Francisco Jose - The Samsons - Two Novels

“You, your money …” he said.

She turned and pressed close to him. He could not see her face clearly, but he could define the glaring dark eyes.

“You have too much of it,” he said with conviction.

“All right,” she said, lying on her back again. “But remember, it’s what makes the world go — not an old, rotting book that may not even sell as a collector’s item. You know that very well. You’ve seen all those first editions in the secondhand-book stores, the one near Dupont Circle. In Greenwich Village …”

“Let’s not start this again,” he said hotly.

“You started it,” she said, her voice betraying a hurt. “You wear those big chips and dare everyone — even me — to knock them off.”

“Is that what you found here?”

“You could have asked me a long time ago and I would have told you.”

“And yet you married me?” Tony pressed on.

She did not speak.

“At least,” he said, “you can be kind and say that you made a mistake.”

She turned to him again. “I was in love with you. What is it that you want? Have you forgotten that I can always ask Papa?”

To her it all seemed so simple: I can always ask Papa — omnipresent, omnipotent.

“I want only one thing: to be myself,” he told her.

“Aren’t you?” she flung at him. “Really, now you are asking for blood. Esto , even coming here is asking too much. The past is past and no one can alter it.”

But the past still demanded attention, and that was not all — there was need for continuity, too, and belonging to a huge and primeval wave. He knew all this now and the knowing evoked transcendental joy. He was, after all, not a drifter in the vast ocean of want. Now, if he could only return to his teaching and once in a while write, maybe about the urgencies he believed in.… If he could only forsake the drudgery of his commerce, maybe he could do more for some future searcher to covet and, maybe, the self-justification that had eluded him for so long might yet take shape under his very hands. There flashed again, vivid and taunting, the face of the old man he had talked with in Po-on earlier in the day, and finally the faceless vision of the gentleman, the ancestor, who, perhaps, could have been in this very room with a pen in his hand. How did they in their listless youth face the chasms between fact and fancy? One refused to pioneer, to forsake the barren land, and the other wrote a book and then, on his puny legs, led a whole clan on a journey to a strange, new land.

But what happened to them? And what happened to his father, who had tried to be brave in his own, narrow way when the times demanded another form of courage? He could look back now to Cabugawan, his birthplace and his stigma, and he would find the answers there.

“Baby?” He spoke tentatively.

“Please,” she still sounded angry, “I’ve already told you that I’ll buy it. I will buy everything you need if the priest won’t give it for free.”

He stood up and walked to the window. Beyond the wide, vacant churchyard the whole town lay quiet and asleep. They would most probably leave in the morning and she would surely be glum. To her this was not a vacation — it was a meaningless jaunt into some benighted towns. But he would not mind. What was important now was getting back to the city to glean the small parts of himself that he had scattered to the shiftless wind. If he could only teach and write again — he must teach and write again.

Standing there, pondering the implications of Cabugaw, he wondered how soon morning would come sneaking into this musty room.

* Apo: A respectful form of address.

† Marunggay: A tree whose leaves and young fruit are cooked as vegetables.

‡ Nangca: The jackfruit tree or its fruit.

It was too easy to be true, and looking at the lean, handsome face of Don Manuel on the cover of the Sunday Herald , Tony felt achievement glow all over him. Godo had been very thoughtful; he had sent this advance copy on a Wednesday when the board was to meet, so that Tony could show the magazine to everyone. Below the smooth, angular face of Don Manuel was the title in bold type: Man of Steel.

He immediately delved into the magazine and was even more amazed. Godo had given Don Manuel a six-page spread with the fewest ads, and the story included the latest photographs of the steel mill and statistical graphs on the steel needs of the country.

The article brimmed with authority and prestige because it sported Godo’s byline. Tony read it, tried to ferret out any of Godo’s barbed cynicisms that would easily nullify the story, but after going through the article twice he found not a single line in it that went sour. Don Manuel was right after all — friendships were important. He had invited Godo to the house only twice, and on the third visit he had made the pitch. Godo had not acted smart-alecky. He had said, I’ve done it for people less significant, and now, sell me Don Manuel. It had not been easy, of course, for by then Don Manuel’s many transactions, particularly the timber concessions in Mindanao, were under fire. But the mill was significant; it symbolized national aspirations and dignity. Steel was the foundation of modern society. The barrio could not rise from the dung heap unless it was energized by domestic steel mills that would cut down the huge imports of steel. That was it: steel was the bedrock of progress.

But it was not so simple. Tony had boned up on steel, and after the many board meetings he had attended and the conversations with Don Manuel, he had stored up a vast amount of knowledge. He had told Godo: we have limitless iron-ore deposits, and only the fringes of these deposits — in Mindanao, the Visayas, and Luzon — have been tapped. The figures are merely illustrative, but here they are: we export iron ore to Japan for processing at a mere thirty centavos a ton, and when we get this back in pig iron or elementary steel materials, do you know how much we have to pay? Three hundred pesos a ton. The opponents of Philippine steel are, of course, the American importers in Manila. Once a steel mill in this country is set up they will lose a very profitable market. And their arguments are downright silly. So what if our coal is bad and low grade and we don’t have coke! That is cheap and we can import it. Japan imports coke. And that is not all — hydroelectricity is becoming cheaper and our hydroelectric projects continue to be built. I’ve seen them in Mountain Province, and the Bontoc Igorots have been transferred from their ancestral homes because many new dams are being built there. Two are already finished. And there is this new Swiss process that is going to be very cheap. We can adopt it here. We don’t have to cling always to America’s apron strings. It’s not only being patriotic or nationalistic to ask that we support a local steel industry now, it’s also good business. It will absorb the surplus agricultural workers of the lethargic barrios. It’s nationalism — and Godo took the bait.

Don Manuel was in his office. Without a word Tony laid the magazine before the entrepreneur. The older man stood up, looked at the magazine, then went to his son-in-law and slapped him expansively on the shoulder. “I don’t have to tell you how happy I am about this, son.” His eyes were shining.

The board meeting that followed was short. Not much was discussed except the prospects of speeding up the work. Senator Reyes announced that the latest applications for dollar licenses by Dangmount and Johnny Lee were approved. Don Manuel had a word or two to give Dangmount — he should use his influence with the American community to get more contracts for the firm. The same appeal went to Johnny Lee, who took down notes in Chinese and bared his teeth in futile attempts to smile.