Francisco Jose - The Samsons - Two Novels

“Why did you not tell me?”

“I do not know,” she said. “When you were small, Manang and I— We believed it was best that you did not know. They were first cousins, you know, and that was not good. Your uncle being your father. Do you understand, Pepe?”

“I don’t,” I said, although it did not matter anymore. “They do it all the time now. It would not have made any difference.”

“Then your father got married,” Tia Bettina said. “It was not your mother’s fault, or his. He did not know you were born. Your mother— She wanted his marriage to succeed. His wife was very wealthy. And someday, when you are through with college, I hope you will marry just as well.”

So this was the purpose of my education: to marry well. It was all so clear and simple.

“Why was I not told?” I insisted.

“Does it matter now? What is important for you to remember is that your mother did everything to make life easy for you, to provide for you, and that she did it alone.”

She did not have to tell me this, and I was humbled by it. “Stay in my place, Auntie, just one moment.”

She was silent. I had to know so I asked again: “Whose fault was it? What did Mother do wrong?”

She answered quickly, “Your mother is an honorable woman. Be proud of her. I do not know anyone else who would do what she did, not just with honor but with pride. So you see us quarreling sometimes, but that is just between sisters. I know what she has done, not just for you but also for your father. She would rather suffer.”

“Why didn’t he come and see her? When he visited us long ago, did he know? Why didn’t he take care of her? And if Mother did no wrong, then it was he. It was he!”

She shushed me; I would wake up my relatives. She got off the bed and sat beside me. “Pepe,” she said, “it was not his fault either. No one else’s. They were not fated from the beginning. You will grow older and you will understand. He was a good man; do not hate him.”

I shook my head. “Whatever you say cannot change my feelings toward him.”

“He tried,” she said. “I know. But he died.”

“He was a liar,” I said. “His book — all those principles … he could not even face the simplest responsibility. How could he have written such things?”

“Believe me, Pepe,” she was now distraught. “He was the best Gabugawan could produce. He was good, honest. You should be proud of him, now that you know.”

“I will always remember him in shame,” I said.

She went back to bed after patting me on the shoulder. A baggage train thundered by, throwing its light on the walls, shaking the house. From down the alley, a balut vendor called out, then the faulty silence of Antipolo once more.

I could not sleep; questions crowded my mind. “Auntie?”

She stirred. “Yes, Pepe?”

“How did it start?”

“Your mother and he— They were both here, in this house, but they knew each other in Cabugawan.”

“What was he like? His picture in his book …”

“He was good-looking,” her voice quiet with remembering. “And he was very good in school. A full scholar. That was how he managed to study in the United States. The best university there. He also went to Spain — and yes, he spoke Spanish. Imagine someone in our family speaking Spanish! He looked just like— Look in the mirror. Same eyes, same wide brow. And he also read a lot.”

“I don’t want to be a teacher,” I said.

“Not like me, but like him.”

“I will not marry into a rich family.”

“It is too early to tell,” she said, smiling.

“And I am sure I will not dishonor any girl or bring into this world an illegitimate child.”

The July night was cool, frogs announced themselves noisily in the ditch below, and the raucous talk of late passersby walking on the tracks drifted to us, broken and incessant. Far away, the siren of a police car or an ambulance wailed, the snort of jeepneys making their last rounds. It was long past midnight, but I could not sleep. There was this last question that ached to be asked, the answer to which could, perhaps, unravel a skein without end. Finally: “Did he really commit suicide?”

My aunt was silent for a time then, almost in a whisper: “I had hoped your mother would tell you everything. After your father died, she visited Carmen Villa. It was a very difficult meeting. She was in a sanitarium, she was deaf and very thin. Your mama, she never believed Manong Tony was killed in an accident. They had lived for years here, and he knew the tracks. Carmen Villa confirmed what your mama thought. Carmen told her it was to show his integrity, when he did not have to, when she never doubted it. There were no letters saying good-bye. Your mama— She agreed with Carmen Villa. But how can we tell you this? It was bad enough that you are a—”

“Bastard!” I finished it for her.

She was silent again. “To tell you that your father killed himself, no … you will not understand.”

A cock crowed, and after some time Auntie began to snore softly. The world was asleep, and I was still awake, my mind open to the stirring wind, my ears alert to the sounds of my own torment, which had hounded me since I learned who I was. But now they filled me with a loathing beyond words, made me want to flee not just Cabugawan but even this Antipolo where my father had lived and died.

Auntie Bettina returned to Rosales Sunday afternoon, but before she left she admonished: “Whatever you think, just remember one thing: We love you. You will have many problems, but we will always be there. And your mother — please, do not hurt her anymore.”

“I will not steal again,” I said. “But I am not too sure that I can keep the promise.”

“It was a youthful mistake,” she said.

“I wanted the money,” I said flatly.

“You will get it someday, like your father.”

“Don’t remind me of him.”

“You will also write,” she said, leaving me at the gate, for her bus was getting ready to move. She waved at me before going in, and I stood at the railing till the bus had pulled away.

She was right, of course, about my writing, for on that day Professor Hortenso left a message with Toto, and Toto was all smiles as he went with me and the professor to his apartment in Dapitan. It was not a long walk. And for Toto, it was an honor to be invited with me to Professor Hortenso’s house for lunch.

His wife had prepared the meal just for the two of them and though she welcomed us good-naturedly, I was quite sure she was displeased at our unannounced presence. Still, she must have gotten used to many an unexpected guest. She asked to be excused while she worked in the kitchen.

We had talked of nothing but the Brotherhood all the way through P. Noval, although I knew, of course, that he had something important to say, but there was time for that. We were almost through with the sour shrimp soup and Mrs. Hortenso was preparing the coffee. Professor Hortenso got up from the dining table, walked over to his desk in one dingy corner, and brought out a bottle of Fundador. I had sipped whiskey once but never brandy, and to my protests he said, “There is always the first time. Just don’t drink it too fast. It is stronger than rum or cuatro cantos. Sip it.”

He passed the glasses with a flourish, his eyes crinkling in pleasure: “We have to celebrate. Pepe, you are the new literary editor. One of the judges wanted you immediately to be the managing editor, but you are a freshman.”

Toto was looking at me, wonder in his eyes.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, “I know you said good things about me. I cannot thank you enough.”

He took off his glasses; he looked younger without them. “But that is it! I was the last to go over the papers. You were one of the ten newcomers. I did not say a single word about you. The three other judges did all the talking — they were all for you, the way you wrote your essay, ‘The Role of Youth.’ They simply loved it, the probity, the freshness.”