Francisco Jose - The Samsons - Two Novels

I went home to a special breakfast of fried eggs and adobo — a rarity in our house. Mother and Auntie Bettina were all smiles, but they never asked how it was. I had become a man.

Lakay Benito had wrapped the wound with a clean rag. I was not only a bleeder. In another day, the wound had swelled and frightened me again, I had to show it to him. “Big, overripe tomato,” he chuckled, his eyes shining, “Pepe, a few more years and I predict you will make your women very happy.”

* The beer bottle has four corners ( cuatro cantos ).

† Bangus: milkfish.

‡ Brujo: A sorcerer; herbolario: an herbalist or folk medicine man.

§ Carzoncillo: Men’s shorts that are tied around the waist with a string. Usually made of cotton, often knee-length.

‖ Oración: Prayer, usually in Latin (Sp.).

So much for the loss of my virginity.

At school my thoughts always meandered to the remembered feel of skin, silky motions, musky scents. I could hardly wait for the morning class to be over so I could hurry home and find out how efficient were the Masters and Johnson instructions, how true their thesis. But for all the grace of Lucy, I did not miss a day of school; a dogged sense of doing what was expected of me or perhaps a belated acceptance of duty kept me there.

One day, Toto, whom I had taken to be a serious student, asked if I wanted to join a student organization in the university, The Brotherhood. They were recruiting new members and I had seemed to him an excellent candidate.

“It is a very active organization,” Toto said. “You will like it; we discuss contemporary history in our meetings. And you know so much.”

I would be nice to Toto; after all, he occasionally invited me for a Coke and once or twice for siopao and coffee, although I had not been able to reciprocate. He was a scholar and also had a job as an acolyte for a priest in Tondo. He said he was an orphan and did not have to worry about saving money.

I had other ideas. I tried to hold off but I remembered his acts of kindness, the Coke, and the siopao , and he even gave me a paperback book that his priest boss gave him, a novel, Man’s Fate , by André Malraux.

Gratitude! Why do I always have to be grateful? Why couldn’t I do things because I liked to do them and not because I wanted to repay a favor? I came to Manila, to this university, not because I wanted to but because I did not want to displease Mother and Auntie Bettina. I tried to get home early, although there was no specific demand that I do so, because I wanted to be grateful to Tio Bert and Auntie Betty for the room and for the dinengdeng. And I did not try to impose myself on Lucy when my relatives were at home not because discretion demanded it but because I was grateful to her for being my first, grateful that she gave herself to me, and not because I was worried that she might lose her job if we were found out.

And here I was being grateful again to Toto, whose friendship I did not seek but who had nonetheless become my friend and was someone I could tell everything to, although I did not tell him about my father or Lucy.

We went to the small noodle restaurant at Recto and had siopao espesyal , and because Auntie Bettina had not arrived yet with my money, Toto paid again.

We walked from there to a cramped wooden apartment in Dapitan where the meeting was to be held. I had expected a big group, but there were only four of us. Five others straggled in. Perfunctory introductions were made as we came from several nearby schools — Far Eastern, Santo Tomas, PCC, National U, UM. We filled the small living room cluttered with newspapers, pamphlets, and that cheaply varnished furniture found in abundance in Misericordia. We had soft drinks without ice and an open can of chocolate cookies that was soon empty.

The meeting did not start till after two. I had become restless and told Toto that I wanted to leave, but then a man in his early thirties arrived and everyone stood up. Toto had told me a little about him, so here he was — the epitome of virtue, of intellect — a lean man with a mop of dry, uncombed hair in a cheap cotton shirt that was not properly ironed. He was a political science professor at my university and I recalled a poster in the corridor about his public lecture on nationalism and the oligarchy that was crammed to overflowing when it was held at the Student Hall. He looked undernourished and dried up, but there was this warm smile on his face as he greeted us and tried to have a word with everyone, and for Toto, a patronizing arm around the shoulder. He apologized for being late. The Brotherhood, he said, was now being put through an inquisition. The dean, he said, was particularly vexed with him, with his nonacademic activities, and had wanted him to resign. He was able to convince the dean otherwise, he said, by appealing to his sense of decency, his compassion, but at the same time, implying that the Brotherhood may do something drastic if this happened — a student strike, for instance. He must work quietly now, stay in the background, and henceforth, it was the students who must be in the forefront, doing the hard chores of organization, of demonstration, if the Brotherhood was to thrive.

I listened with amusement; the man was angling for sympathy. He started talking about the Brotherhood in tones almost sacramental. This is the answer to the problems of the young, of inequality, disunity, and corruption. If the nation had been exploited by imperialists, if the caciques were despoiling the land and making serfs of freemen, it is because the young have not banded together to spell out the future in their own terms. The Brotherhood would make war on the enemies of democracy, and the young could triumph in this war for the Brotherhood is theirs to use.

The harangue lasted for a while. I looked at the rapt faces around me and then I chanced a glance at Toto and was surprised to see him looking at me; I winked at him and he seemed ill at ease that I had caught him observing my reaction to the speech. I never liked speeches, whether by professional politicians or professors turned politicians. I had lived long enough in a village to know who exploits the little people — the landlord, yes, and the money-lenders, too. But it is the riffraff who really take advantage of their own kin. I had planted vegetables in the yard and when the eggplants were ready, who would come but our neighbors, asking for them when they could easily have planted their own.

He was through and he looked around. I realized that we were a carefully selected group.

“Any questions?” he asked perfunctorily and was surprised when I raised my hand. I was the only one to do so. I glanced at Toto, at his shock, as if I had just committed the worst indiscretion. But hell, I am not a robot that will go where it is pushed. The professor turned to me, his eyes expectant: “Yes, please.”

I asked plainly, “What can we expect from the Brotherhood? Why should I give it loyalty? What do I get in return?”

I had caught him unaware and he fumbled for words. “Please clarify your question” he said. “Am I to understand that you expect benefits from such a membership? Is that what you want to ask?”

I nodded. “You see, sir,” I said, “when a politician comes to our village and makes a pretty speech about corruption in government, about how he intends to change things when he gets elected, we know it’s just words. But sometimes, particularly before the election, he gets our muddy road fixed. And of course, there is the five pesos he distributes to those who can vote.”

They all laughed and even Professor Hortenso smiled. “I cannot promise you these things,” he said. “As a matter of fact, you may not get anything from the Brotherhood. It is you who will give to it. As duty, perhaps, if you can look at it that way.”