Francisco Jose - The Samsons - Two Novels

“I wrote as simply as I could, like you said.”

“Simplicity,” the professor was expansive. “Not simple. You know the difference.”

I nodded.

“It was unanimous. You will be the literary editor, which means you are third in line. And next year, you can be managing, like I said, or even the editor. You have no one to be grateful to but yourself. You don’t owe me anything.”

“You told me, sir, to take the exam. Toto gave me hints. No, I am grateful just the same.”

The brandy burned my throat. Toto must have been drinking in the sacristy for he emptied his glass without wincing.

Mrs. Hortenso joined us for the same weak coffee in the living room, her handsome face streaked with perspiration, which she wiped with her apron. The living room was shabby and cluttered with magazines and pamphlets, the old rattan furniture covered with crocheted doilies. But if the house was threadbare, it was certainly rich with books. One wall was lined with shelves and the books were even laid atop one another so that no space was wasted.

Mrs. Hortenso saw me looking at the titles. “That’s where his salary goes,” she said. “Why, if he could, he would also pay for the publication of the articles of Juan Puneta.”

Professor Hortenso scowled at her, but she did not mind him. I had heard of Puneta — a man of great wealth, a champion of nationalist causes, a graduate of one of the English universities; he also had the reputation of being unabashedly on the side of virtue.

Mrs. Hortenso must have noted my questioning look. “If you’ll be with the organization long enough, you will surely meet him. And you will be able to know what he has between his ears. He thinks he is a writer, too.”

Professor Hortenso looked at her again, and I could see he was not pleased with the revelations his wife was making. Mrs. Hortenso continued blithely: “I wonder who reads all the things my husband writes. I do, of course, because I have to proofread them.”

The professor’s countenance changed and he smiled at her.

“I hope you will not be a writer,” Mrs. Hortenso said, appraising me, “even if you are urged to be one. I hope in the end you will do something else. Otherwise, I will have nothing but pity for whoever your wife will be.”

“I will not get married, ma’am,” I said.

“He will be a priest,” Toto added.

She laughed then left us to do the dishes, for they had no maid. By ourselves, Professor Hortenso became serious. “Tell me, Pepe,” he asked, “what are your plans?”

“I don’t know, sir,” I said. “I told you I need money.”

“I understand that,” he said. “But what will you write? What will you do after school? What can you do for the Brotherhood? You are a member, you know — an important member. And most of all, you can write. How will you use your time?”

I was tempted to brag about my karate lessons, how good I had become with the flying kick, but Toto would probably not understand. “I don’t really like writing, sir,” I said, “unless I have to. It is easy for me, stringing words together, but my thoughts sometimes come faster than I can write them.”

“What do you like to do then?”

“Eat,” I said quickly. I would have added “fuck,” but that would have shocked Toto.

They laughed and I joined them. “He is always making jokes,” Toto said, thinking perhaps I was being funny and did not realize how honestly, how truly I liked to eat. I always look back, for instance, to my first week in Manila — the comida China , the steak, the whole fried chicken, the pig innard halo-halo , and that exotic lunch at the Japanese restaurant. To have the stomach full, to savor all new and wonderful tastes — how I longed for these. I wanted to tell them that the Brotherhood bored me, that I joined only because I did not want to say no to Toto, that if I had to be a writer so that I could make a little money, I would do that — it would certainly be safer, perhaps more mentally exacting, but I would not have to deal with psychos and those poor addicts. I would write for money, be a politician, be a member of the Student Council only because these positions meant money, scholarship, the things that would make life comfortable and worth all the sweat and the saliva.

Professor Hortenso was saying, “Your essay was easily the best and it should be in the first issue of the paper. We will offprint about a thousand, distribute them within the organization, to other schools, paste them on bulletin boards. Then the Student Council, and afterward, maybe secretary, and, finally, president. With this essay, you will be very popular on the campus. Your election is almost assured.”

We would have stayed longer talking about politics and the Brotherhood, but he had a class at three and I was eager to rush home to Lucy.

As we walked toward the boulevard for the ride to Dimasalang, Toto was all questions: “What did you put in that essay? You made such an impression on Professor Hortenso, he even told me you could easily be the best editorial writer the paper ever had. I always knew you could write, ever since that paper you wrote on Don Quixote. ”

“I read Cervantes three times. And not in comic books.”

“What did you say in the essay?” he was insistent.

“What they wanted to hear,” I said with some disgust. “What else would I say? I can dance to any tune they play, I anticipate their moods, their desires. I was not being honest, the way I am honest with you. Those blasted judges — sorry, Toto, but I suppose this includes Professor Hortenso — they are full of shit. They expect us to be full of shit, too. I just wrote what they wanted. It was so damn easy to fool them.”

“Pepe!” he sounded aghast. “You are joking again.”

“I am not,” I said. “What do you think the role of the youth is?”

We paused and he turned to me, his eyes afire with purpose, with vision and all the blather that the Brotherhood had pounded into him. “To look toward the future,” he said in a tone almost exalting. “To see to it that the mistakes of the past will not be committed again. To create a society that is egalitarian, that is dedicated to the upliftment of the masses. To serve the people, that is what!”

“Bullshit!” I shouted at him. “Now listen, my friend. The youth have no role. They have no jobs. They have no money. They are not in power and they do not make decisions. If there is going to be a war, they will all be dumped into the army. And they will be killed like young men everywhere have been killed — whether or not they believe in the war. Having no role is their role.”

He stared at me, unbelieving. “You really think that?”

I nodded.

“And still wrote differently?”

I nodded again.

He took a deep breath, then it came, “Son of a whore! Cheat, liar!”

“Son of a whore yourself,” I flung back. “I did it for something. Can you not see that? How can I pay back the five pesos you loaned me? The siopao you stuffed into my stomach? Get it into your simple head that I need the money, the scholarship. I am honest with myself, Toto, and with you. So, damn you, don’t you ever call me a liar. You are my friend so I am telling you this. Now—” I poked a finger at his face. I had become really angry with him, and we had stopped on the sidewalk. “Now, shall we go on being friends, or is this the last time I will talk with you?”

Toto bowed and shook his head; when he turned to me again and we started walking, his eyes, even with his eyeglasses on, were misty. “I understand, Pepe,” his voice quavered. “Yes, we will always be friends. But can you not see?” His face was taut and pale. “It is so clear. You had to do this, to lie, to cheat — things you really don’t like to do — and only because you—” his voice was now hoarse, “you … we, Pepe … we are poor. The Wretched of the Earth —read it some time. We — the poor — have no choice.”