Francisco Jose - The Samsons - Two Novels

Larry found himself smiling. “Yes,” he said softly, returning the book to Dean Lopez, “we had wonderful times together.”

Then Larry asked how Antonio Samson died.

“You don’t know?” Dean Lopez asked. He went back to his chair, shaking his head. “It’s a sad story. They say it was an accident. It happened very early in the morning and they said that he was drunk. He had just left a party or something and had gone to visit his relatives in Antipolo. The train engineer said that he tried to stop …”

“God!” Larry said hoarsely.

Dean Lopez nodded. “Tony Samson’s back was to the train. He was trying to cross the tracks. There’s a double track in Antipolo, you know. It was an accident — all that drink. You see now how he had dissipated himself? It’s this thing called civilization and his hurry to get to the top.”

“And his wife?”

“You don’t have to worry about her,” Dean Lopez said with a smile. “That’s the least of the things you should worry about. I’ve never seen her, but they say she is very pretty — a mestiza. And that’s not all. You know who her father is? Manuel Villa. The Villa Building on the boulevard. Real estate, plywood, shipping, steel …”

Lawrence Bitfogel sighed. “So, Tony Samson didn’t have it bad after all. If he had only lived …”

When he called Don Manuel thirty minutes later, Larry was pleased to find the entrepreneur eager to see him. “Yes, Professor Bitfogel. Tony did talk about you. Look, you don’t know how happy I am to know that someone close to Tony is in town. Are you doing anything tonight?”

Larry said no.

“Good!” the voice boomed. “Don’t leave your hotel. Someone will pick you up at seven. I would be very pleased to have you join us tonight for dinner. There are a few friends who are dropping in. One of my boys got elected barrio lieutenant of Pobres Park. And a friend is leaving for Rio and this is his despedida , too. You may be able to take the talk away from business. It’s so depressing—” Larry noticed a sudden softness, almost sorrow, in the businessman’s voice. Then the lilt returned, “Say you will come, won’t you? And if you get bored I’ll have you taken back to your hotel right away.”

“I’d be very happy to come, sir,” Larry said.

He took the warning about being bored to heart — one can never tell what will happen at a dinner with businessmen, who know nothing except how to make money. Afterward, thinking of that evening in the house of Manuel Villa and in the affluent appointments of Pobres Park, he knew that he would never be able to attend a gathering as enlightening and as transcendentally provoking as that again. He never regretted having attended the party in the sense that it had revealed to him the nature of the Philippines and the mighty odds against which people like Tony and well-meaning Americans like himself must pit themselves. It came to Larry with the clarity of lightning; under such onerous pressures, there was not much that Tony could have done.

It was Ben de Jesus and his wife who picked him up, and when he went down to the lobby, they were having martinis at the bar and already had a glass waiting for him. The lobby looked pleasant and cool. The capiz lamps were all lighted. But for the other Caucasians who were there in their charcoal-gray suits, Larry would have felt awkward in his navy blue suit. Ben was in barong Tagalog and his wife, a lumpy woman, wore a blue cotton satin frock that made her look formidable.

After Larry had started to sip his drink, Ben said, “You sure do look like an Ivy Leaguer — three-button suit, crew cut. You are not yet thirty, are you?”

“I am,” Larry said. “I’m thirty-two.”

“I can’t fancy an Ivy League man in this neck of the woods,” Ben continued. His wife, all aglow, punctuated her husband’s small talk with appropriate giggles.

“I’m in government. Agricultural economics,” Larry explained briefly.

“Well, I majored in farm management,” Ben said expansively. They had finished their drink. Ben stood up. He was tall and handsome, and his wife, who was light-skinned, could have been beautiful once. “Farm management — but that doesn’t mean a thing in this bloody country,” Ben continued as they stood below the hotel marquee. Their car, a chauffeur-driven Lincoln, drew up and they got in. “You see, our farms aren’t producing as well as they should. And that’s the reason why I have to be here in Manila, working for Don Manuel. I’m not complaining, mind you.”

“You’re so modest,” his wife said. “Everyone knows that without you Don Manuel’s real estate investments wouldn’t pay.” She turned to the American. “He helped develop Pobres Park — that’s an exclusive suburb — and that’s why he was elected barrio lieutenant of Pobres Park last Sunday.”

“My ever-loyal wife,” Ben said, patting his wife’s chubby hand.

“Congratulations,” Larry said mechanically. “I understand the party tonight is for you.”

Dusk had shrouded the city completely, but when they slipped into the boulevard, the dazzling mercury lamps, the afterglow above the bay, the multicolored lights and star lanterns that adorned the shops, softened the night and momentarily dispelled all the dark thoughts that crowded Larry’s mind. The air, too, had a freshness sharpened with the odor of asphalt.

As they drove on, Ben became more voluble. “There’s a new dance step — the off beat — you should visit our nightclubs and learn it.”

“I have only two weeks here,” Larry hedged.

“Now, now, remember, all work and no play …”

They let it go at that and the talk glided on to less nettlesome subjects — the weather, Christmas, the local color. In a while, they were going up an incline to a street flanked by tall trees; then they entered the wide lawns of the Villas.

When they joined the company on the terrace, Larry knew at once that Don Manuel had already had a lot to drink, although all the guests had not yet arrived. His eyes were bleary, and in the cool light of the lanterns on the terrace, his face was red and there was a brashness in his manner as they shook hands. He seemed frail and anemic but his grip was firm, and it somehow relayed to Larry an initial sincerity. “I’m so glad you came, Professor Bitfogel. You know, I seldom meet Americans like you. Those I meet are usually carpet-baggers.”

Larry was caught off-balance and he turned around to the assemblage for some cue, for some sign that would put him at ease, but the guests — about two dozen men and women who had gathered to bid this Senator Reyes good-bye and congratulate Barrio Lieutenant de Jesus — were all grinning. He was a guest — that was the thing to consider — and he sallied on bravely, Don Manuel’s grip on his arm. “Thank you for the compliment, sir,” he said dryly.

There were the hurried and mumbled introductions: Senator Reyes, looking important and pleased with the world; Alfred Dangmount, the American millionaire; a couple of Chinese; a Japanese who showed his teeth; and an assortment of bejeweled matrons and their husbands, their hair slicked with pomade, fingernails carefully manicured, some of their conversation in Spanish, which he understood. He was led to the main table and placed opposite Don Manuel’s wife. The drinks and the canapes came and he took a gin and tonic. He looked around him again, but when the introductions were over, no one seemed to notice his presence anymore. Only Mrs. Villa seemed to be interested. She leaned over and asked, “How long will you be staying here, Professor?”

“Just two weeks, Mrs. Villa,” he said politely. “I had intended to surprise Tony. We were roommates for four years, you know, and—”