Francisco Jose - The Samsons - Two Novels

It was almost three o’clock when he returned to Santa Mesa. On the lawn of the big house the orchestra still played languorously. Most of the cars that lined the street leading to the house were still there, a formidable phalanx of shiny machines, their drivers gathered in groups, talking and waiting for their plate numbers to be called by a loudspeaker at the gate.

He avoided the lawn and the people. He hurried to the driveway, past the terrace to the rear entrance, and up the main stairway to the room where he and Carmen had lived the past year. The air conditioner hummed, and through the closed windows the music from the garden below stole into the room. He flicked the switch by the door and the chandelier exploded into dazzling pink.

From the closet in the adjoining room he brought out his old suitcase of battered leather, well-scuffed at the corners, its tattered stickers stubbornly clinging — Hotel Colon, Barcelona. He laid the suitcase on the bed and opened the cabinet at the foot of the bed. Most of his things were there. He had never acquired a collection of either clothes or knickknacks — just five suits, half a dozen barong Tagalogs, photographs of college life, and an assortment of paper-weights. He took these to the suitcase, then he went to his books, to the typewriter he had bought in Rome, now rusty with disuse. Near it were the manuscripts he had been working on, his own thesis and his grandfather’s Philosophia Vitae.

Should he take these, too? These materials that marked his beginning and his perdition? He viewed them, these fragments of the past whereon he stood. And in this cool, quiet room lavished with comfort, the futility, the smallness, and the terrifying finality of his failure reached out to him, clutched at him. It was of no more use, it was of no importance now for him to go on working with this sham — he who had been corrupt from the start, when he did not believe in what his father and even his grandfather had believed in. He was heaping blasphemy on the past and on what his grandfather had done. If he were honorable (to this question he steeled himself)… but there was nothing firm left to prop him up. What remained was this corroded frame that could not stand up to this one fearful gust of discovery: he had defeated himself.

He looked at what he had hoped to finish, at his grandfather’s work, and the meaningless sorrow that swept over him became a strength that surged to his hands. There were no tears in his eyes. He felt his breath strangling him as he bent down. With a firm hand he grabbed his manuscript and tore it apart. He did not hear the sound of paper being rent. Inside him was only emptiness. His heart began to be torn to shreds when he finally took hold of his grandfather’s Philosophia Vitae. It was so fragile, so easy to destroy that he did not even have to try.

When he was through, the papers were all about him, the meaningless scraps, the work, the heritage that had lasted a hundred years and had lain undisturbed in an Ilocos convent until he had stumbled upon it. A weariness came over him. It seemed as if he had been meandering in a desert or a swamp only to find that there was no bearing, no end to the wandering. The desert was sand without horizon, and the swamp was muck and slime forever. He had journeyed far, he had learned much, but he needed to go still farther, to the mountains of Bontoc, to the ulogs and eyries that were almost forgotten, only to be recalled again now. He would not find them in the desert or swamp of Santa Mesa. The beginning of knowledge, after all, lay not in the land that he had traveled but in the dark and anonymous folds of his own mind. He must hurry now, he must hurry. But where?

Carmen came in then, looking fresh and sinless. Seeing his things on the floor, the manuscripts and the old book for which she had paid good money now nothing but torn scraps, she stepped back and asked, “You did this? You must be out of your mind!”

Before he could speak she saw the suitcase and confronted him. “Are you going somewhere without even telling me?”

That was all the interest she showed. She was not eager to know his answer and she walked across the room, stepped on the litter covering the floor and sat at her dresser. She studied her makeup. She was not going to change her clothes. She merely primped, then stood up.

The weariness still clotted his mind, but he watched her attentively.

“I asked if you are going anywhere,” she said, turning around, satisfied with the reflection in the mirror. “My God, Tony, you don’t expect me to clean up this mess, do you?” She glared at him, her eyes lovely as ever.

“I don’t expect you to do anything,” he said. How strange. No anger welled within him and neither the curiosity nor the grief that had gripped him earlier returned. He turned his back on her, went to the suitcase, and brought the lid down. But the suitcase would not close. “And as for my going away,” he said, almost mumbling, “I don’t think it matters to you, so there’s no need for you to know where I’m going or what I’m going to do.”

Casually, she asked, “Where are you going?”

He removed one of his summer dacron suits, then pushed the lid again. This time it clicked shut.

“I’m leaving. It’s best for both of us.”

His mind was clear, as clear as on those mornings when the sunlight was pure. But the words, tainted with hatred, took shape: “You should take a bath and change your clothes. That way you’ll be cleaner. I’m sure you must be full of dirt — lying on a strange bed. God knows who was there before you.” He spoke evenly, as if he were stating a simple fact.

Carmen did not speak.

“I hope you understood what I just said,” Tony said. “I just said: you are a whore.”

Carmen did not move. “Tony, you don’t know what you are saying,” she said, aghast.

Tony turned to her and smiled grimly. “I know,” he said. He studied her face. God, she was pretty — the nose, the questioning eyes, the lips, those full, red lips. “Tonight,” he went on, measuring every word, “I followed you to the motel. I waited for a while, but it took you so long. Ben must be losing his virility.”

“It’s not true,” Carmen said desperately, backing away from him.

Tony followed her to her dresser where she slumped down. “I told you once that I’d kill you if you ever did this, remember? It was in Washington. It was freezing and there was no coffee in the pot, remember? And after I had gotten up and made you a cup I said, ‘I’ll do anything for you, be your servant, as long as you are true.’ Remember?”

In the quiet glare of the chandelier above them, her face was frightened and pale.

“You’re scared,” Tony said, enjoying himself, standing before her.

“Tony, don’t hurt me.”

Tony smiled in spite of himself. “How can I do that? Haven’t you always said that I should be civilized like you? Well, I’ll be civilized. If I touched you I’d soil my hands.”

“What can I say?” Carmen choked on the words.

“Nothing,” Tony said.

“Please be more understanding …”

“What more do you want? I am leaving without touching a hair on you.” He strode to the tall narra cabinet and opened it. When she followed, he barked at her, “Leave me alone. I have a lot to pack.”

Carmen lingered. Strange, there was no high drama, no passionate remonstrances. This was the Big Scene in his life and he was, like her, acting “civilized.” This was what she wanted and he was acting according to her script.

“Will it matter if I explain, if I tell you how it happened? You must know at least how I feel — there were so many things we did together, told each other.…” Her voice suddenly had the warmth and tenderness he had missed all these months.