Francisco Jose - The Samsons - Two Novels

“You cannot ask the poor for sacrifices,” I said. “We are already poor. What can we give? How do you measure the patriotism of the poor?”

The giggling had stopped and now everyone was listening.

His eyes turned upward, to the unpainted ceiling; his words were soft but clear, as if he had searched his conscience for them: “I ask,” he said finally, his eyes roving around the room to each of us, “that you give faith, your presence, your little support — centavos, if they are needed — your muscle, your time, your numbers. When there is a demonstration, you should be there, leading because you are the leaders. When there are petitions, you should sign them. When there are errands, run them. What can the Brotherhood give you in return? I tell you: nothing, nothing but strength. Alone, you are nobody. The Brotherhood gives you numbers. Unity. And with the masses with whom you will be welded, for whom you will be working … you will be doing something for the future that is yours to shape in any way you like. It will not be for people like me; we are getting on in years. It will not be for your parents. It will be for you because you are young and the whole world is ahead of you. The Brotherhood will ask you to work till you sweat blood. And your reward is not here, now, but in the future — if you live that long.” A long pause. “If you believe in yourselves then do not deny yourselves … this is all that I can say, and I am sorry,” he turned to me, “that I cannot, myself, promise you something more substantial. But,” he smiled, “you are always welcome at my house and there is always coffee and cookies.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. I did not like speeches, but Professor Hortenso was honest. I clapped and the others followed.

We started to break up, and as we headed for the door Hortenso came to me, placed an arm on my shoulder. “I am glad you asked that question,” he said. “It enabled me to reexamine my own premises.” He was shaking his head, grinning. “I can get carried away by rhetoric, like most politicians. There’s nothing like a good question to bring one back to earth.” He then asked if I would join him for a cup of coffee.

Almost everyone had filed out into the street. Toto and I were the only ones left in the room. I could feel his nudge on my back.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Very much.”

He disappeared into the kitchen, talked to someone there, and a woman emerged. “My wife,” he said, and she smiled at us, a tiny woman in her early thirties, beauty in her full lips, thin straight nose, high cheekbones, and eyes that sparkled. She must have been listening to everything, for her eyes were on me. So this is where they really lived, this dingy apartment no better than my auntie’s in Antipolo, and I wondered how much he made teaching and why he had time to serve us coffee. It must have been brewed over thrice for it was very weak. There was also a stained saucer with a few limp cookies, but the siopao still held. It was already four in the afternoon and Professor Hortenso was going to talk on. Toto obviously wanted to stay longer, but now my thoughts were straying to Lucy, who would be waiting and her welcome would be far better, more to my liking than this cup of stale coffee and soggy cookie.

Sheer patience and deference to Toto made me stay and listen to his prattle about the economic classes, the need for hothouse ideology and all that razzle-dazzle about the future of Filipino society. Though I had grown to like him for his forthrightness, for his hospitality, instinct told me I did not have to listen to him. I was from Cabugawan; he was not telling me anything I did not know — the exploitation, the squalid hypocrisies. And much as I appreciated his candor and honesty, the kind of activism he was proposing was not for me, it was for Toto, perhaps, quiet, introspective, his eyes always burning. I was concerned with more earthy matters, mami espesyal and Lucy, than in battering the bastion of Pobres Park or the high walls of Malacañang.

He finally came around to asking my name — the dreaded question that would fling me back to that harsh and brutal past I had tried to leave behind. A pain more ancient than memory, as once again: “Are you related to Antonio Samson?” He must have gleaned it from the membership form Toto had asked me to fill out. “Yes,” I mumbled, expecting the next question. “I— He is an uncle, my mother’s first cousin.” Under my breath I cursed the lie I had to live. Toto regarded me as though I was as pure as virtue, glowing with kindness and honesty. While this turmoil raged within, Professor Hortenso went on equably: “I hope that you have read it — his classic on the ilustrados. What shall I call you? What do your friends call you?”

“Everyone calls me Pepe.”

“Well, Pepe, there you are, your own uncle providing you many of the answers, perhaps the answers to all the questions you are asking. He explains why the revolution failed and he reminds us, and clearly, too, what mistakes to avoid. The most perceptive book on our history ever written, and it was written by your uncle. You should be proud, Pepe, the way I am proud that his nephew is now a member of the Brotherhood. He is dead and I was told it was a horrible accident. It is a shame, really, that he was only able to write one book when he could have written more. I am sure he must have manuscripts lying around. You must look into that and see if they can be brought out. He could have easily been the brains of the Second Revolution — its genuine ideologue. I have very little to contribute, really”—he sounded so humble—“except my little time and that is not enough.” His eyes shone and I could not look at him straight for I was uneasy. I looked down instead at my battered shoes, at the doormat of shredded old tire that had gone awry, the rubber slippers there — probably his — the scuffed tile floor that was dirtied with the comings and goings of people. He enthused: “Antonio Samson had proven one thing — and you should know it and be proud of it: that with his background we know for sure leadership need not come from the social and economic elite, that it should spring from the masses.”

In a sense he was justifying himself, but I really did not know much about him then, how he graduated from a splendid English university. I resented it, his implication that it was good to be poor, that the poor had superior virtues, qualities to be rhapsodized about because they were poor; there was nothing noble, nothing exalted about going hungry, about having to live in Cabugawan, and though I had not meant to be rude, I think that was how I sounded when I said, “He married a very wealthy girl. Perhaps that was what he was working for all the time.”

The professor drew away; shock was splattered all over his face, and it stayed there for some time. Then, perhaps thinking I was just making light of a relative, he ignored my remark and went on: “There is nothing wrong with being wealthy — I hope you did not misunderstand. We all want to be comfortable, that is a common human aspiration. But precisely, it is not possible for as long as the ceiling to our aspirations is low. It is actually limited by our rich, by our oligarchy, and our government, which serves the upper classes but not the people.”

No need for me to linger; his words bored me to my very bones and made me feel sorry for him, for he was sincere and he would die at the barricades together with Toto. I made another move to the door but Professor Hortenso held my arm. “Pepe, we need your help.” I did not want to embarrass Toto, and for his sake — mustering all the light and sweetness I was capable of, although I was about to retch the putrid words of valor, of commitment — I said, “You can depend on me.” He and his wife obviously believed me, for they both grabbed my arm and shook it so hard I thought they would wrench it off.