Francisco Jose - The Samsons - Two Novels

How many times had he conjured it and never realized that it was the only way, the only honorable thing for one like him to do? He had been weak, he knew this fully now, and the knowledge was seared upon his breast with all the pain and wisdom a child attains when, for the first time, he reaches out to a living flame. And this … this would be his only act of strength and, perhaps, faith. He would do it now or he would not be able to think of it seriously on the morrow, when the sun would be true and it would deceive him again as it had already deceived him — in Boston during that bleak winter when he subsisted on nothing but stale bread, and even in his hometown, in Pangasinan, when he thought he would never be able to go to college. It was too late to write a letter, and besides, a letter would do no good. It would even be useless. In the first place, he did not want to be melodramatic about what was inevitable, for he could not blame anyone for it, not even Carmen. It would perhaps be a bad joke that she would not dare discuss in public when she found out — as surely she would.

He looked at his watch, and the luminous dial shone in the dark. It was almost five and the morning star still blazed like a solitaire among the lesser stars winking out from the black bowl that arched above.

Antonio Samson breathed deeply. It was strange that he could not detect the usual odor redolent of human decay, of rot and blackish mud in the canals along the tracks. The air that he sucked in seemed fresh and clean instead. It could be the night, he told himself, for the night bathed everything, and he could not see the wobbly houses and all their sorry shapes.

He stooped and touched a rail. The steel was cold and unfeeling. The sentiment was again a cliché, but the wheels of the train — like Fate — would be warm.

I’ll be a mess, he thought, and shuddered, but only for an instant. “I’ll be a mess,” he repeated, this time aloud, and for the first time in his life he really did not care how it would appear or how it would feel when Death finally came.

Lawrence Bitfogel, specialist in agricultural economics, arrived in Manila in early December. He was being thrown into the godforsaken dump called Vientiane, in Laos, and Manila would be his last civilized stop before proceeding there. So, for the two weeks that he would be in the Philippine capital, he had arranged for himself a full schedule that would set his perspective in better alignment. For him the Philippines was now a more interesting object of study after he had stayed in South America for two years. He had seen the influence of Spanish civilization in the continent and the far-reaching impact of that civilization upon the traditional society of the Indian peasant. He wondered if the pattern of feudal exploitation and development such as that operating in South America had been transposed to the Philippines. This scholarly interest was, of course, secondary. What he wanted most was to see Antonio again and check on the “little lies” Tony had told him about the country. The bare-breasted damsels and the trial marriages in Mountain Province — how Tony Samson had spiced his stories!

It was early dawn when the Super-Constellation flew in and the lights of the city spread out below and sparkled like jewels spilled out of a basket. It was a full two weeks before Christmas, but the small airport was already decked with Christmas lanterns and multicolored lights, and from the jukebox of the restaurant across the customs zone, “Jingle Bells” blared forth in all its raucousness. Indeed, as Tony had told him, he would not feel homesick in Manila, because the city and the Filipinos had long been hopelessly Americanized. The airport, just as Tony had described, was ramshackle and dirty. It seemed flooded with that stale odor common to all government buildings — of cuspidors and disinfectants and tobacco — and the customs officials were extraofficious. He did not mind these things too much, for, as he said, he had taken a liking to the Philippines and to that thin, smart-alecky Filipino who had shared a room with him in Cambridge for four years.

The surprise he planned never materialized, for that same afternoon Larry learned of Tony’s death.

One cannot live with a fellow for four years without feeling an attachment to him. And now he was too late even for the wake.

He arrived at the campus shortly before four, and for once in his travels, the new scenery did not catch his eye. Thinking about it afterward, all he recalled of that trip from the agency to the university was the greenery flitting by, the paper lanterns, the wooden houses, and the stretches of grass. He could not quite accept the fact of Tony’s death, of all people. And he recalled one of Tony’s jokes, adapted from the original Scottish tale, about half of the populace of an Ilocano town committing suicide when a funeral parlor operator, as an advertising gimmick, made it known that all funeral services for a week would be free.

He thought grimly about death and the possibility of its striking him, too quickly and without a by-your-leave. There was so much promise in Tony, so much virgin hope and dogged dedication. Young men like him — and Lawrence enthused once more over those intellectual jousts in Maple Street — young men like Antonio Samson should not die before they have proven themselves.

With this, Dean Lopez readily agreed, and when the aging professor learned that this inquisitive American had been a roommate of Antonio Samson, his manner softened. “The good die young,” he said, rising from his swivel chair and offering the American a bottle of Coke, which the dean’s secretary had brought in.

Larry took the bottle, said thanks, and was silent again.

“I had high hopes for him,” Dean Lopez said. He moved to the window and looked out at the sunny campus. “You know, I would have seen to it that he got far in the academic world, but he had other ideas. Did you know that he quit the university and forfeited everything?”

The dean had wheeled around. Larry shook his head. “That’s unusual. It was the last thing he would have done.”

“I thought so, too,” Dean Lopez said, “but you know how young people are. They have ideas — particularly those who have gone to the United States and returned with Ph.D.’s. They think they can change the world in one sweep. I’m not saying that Antonio Samson was immature. He was very close to my heart. Why, everyone knows that it was I who helped him get that scholarship.”

“I know that,” Larry said. “He told me so himself. He held you in very high esteem, sir. He wanted to work under you, to follow your direction especially in this project he was working on — the Ilocano migration. I gather that you are an Ilocano, too.”

Dean Lopez smiled. “Well …” after a long pause, “he was impatient. In this country people must have patience.”

“I always had the impression that he was patient,” Larry said softly. “When he was working on his doctorate, particularly, I know the research problems that he encountered. Anyone without patience would have given up.”

Dean Lopez nodded. After another awkward silence he resumed talking: “His doctoral dissertation — his study on the ilustrados and the Philippine Revolution — is already out. His wife had it published about two months ago. And I hear that his notes on the Ilocano migration will also come out soon.”

Dean Lopez strode to the bookcase behind his desk and picked out a new, shiny volume. He handed the book to the young American.

Larry opened it, the words swam before his eyes, and in the acknowledgment he saw his name together with those of the other people Tony Samson had consulted. And in his mind’s eye there loomed again the old room and Tony Samson bent over the walnut table, laboring in longhand, his frail figure bundled up in his woolens, while outside snow fell and glistened on the windowpane. He remembered, too, their long discussions about vested groups, wars, and revolutions, about the aristocracy and the bourgeoisie always banding together to protect their business interests and collaborating with whoever the victors were when the bloodletting was over. It’s a pattern that will always persist in whatever climate, in whatever country, Lawrence Bitfogel had said, and Tony Samson had answered that it was not always so, not in the Philippines, anyway, because the ilustrados were also revolutionists.