Francisco Jose - The Samsons - Two Novels

I did not see her for two months, but toward January I had a terrible longing for her. I went to Antipolo; I had done her wrong and I wanted to tell her so, that someday, if things turned out all right, I would help her.

I boarded the jeepney, what I would say formed clearly in my mind — words of entreaty, of endearment. I was hungry and hoped to have lunch in Antipolo. Even the vegetable stew seemed appetizing. But when I got to the house, the lock was on. Mila came and said they had all gone out. She invited me into her apartment, said she could send her maid on an errand, but I refused. I waited for maybe half an hour at the door talking with her. I returned the following day, around lunchtime, to find the house locked again.

After mass that Sunday I went to Antipolo with one whole fried chicken, which I bought in Avenida. Tia Betty and Tio Bert were very happy to see me, but Lucy was not around; they had a new maid, a middle-aged Ilocana from Tayug who smoked hand-rolled cigars. I had difficulty bringing the subject up, but finally, when we were having lunch, I asked where Lucy was.

Tia Betty explained; Lucy was summoned home by her ailing father. It was a very pleasant parting, there were no recriminations. My aunt talked about her in glowing terms — maybe to impress her new maid — how industrious Lucy was, how clean the house had been, how polite, how little she ate, almost like a mouse, and how wonderful her vegetable stew was. To all of these, my uncle nodded, grunting approval.

At the university where her sister was supposed to be studying, I pored over the student roster, but her sister’s name was not there. I wrote to Dumaguete. Two months later my letter was returned unopened. I decided that if and when I could afford it, I would be a pilgrim to Dumaguete. I should have understood, I know that now. Lucy would always be in my mind, tormenting me, for I had judged her unfairly when I was not any better.

* Basi: Sugarcane wine.

† Lavandera: Laundress.

‡ Tienda: A shop, store, covered stall (Sp.).

It was not difficult setting up the Brotherhood in the Barrio, but it was a paper organization and would not be able to do much, not until the cooperation of Roger was assured. I did not think he was all that tough; what he wanted from me, I surmised, was recognition. Spending years in Muntinlupa prison was a stigma he could not wash away. He was an “outsider” and he knew it.

Every time I passed his house I always greeted him. I also inquired about his likes and studied his movements. Thus, one afternoon, I followed him to Divisoria where he went to collect protection money. He was alone, and when he got off at Juan Luna, I overtook him before he could cross Recto.

“Roger,” I called.

He turned and, as I suspected, he was no bully when alone. Out of the Barrio, he had no swagger.

“Pepe, where are you going?” He even sounded pleasant.

“I was going to invite you for mami ,” I said. “Let’s go to Avenida — there is plenty of time.”

He tensed with indecision and I put him at ease. “Roger, I really want to talk to you. I’d like to be a Tayo-Tayo member even if I am not Bisaya.”

He relaxed immediately and sounded superior again: “Well, it is not easy, you know.”

“Not even after siopao and mami ?” I asked with an ingratiating nudge. “Please come with me — there are many things you really don’t know about me.”

I put an arm around him in a brotherly gesture; it would also give him an opportunity to make body contact and assure him that I was not armed. The gesture was not necessary, I think; they all knew that though we were in Tondo, Father Jess did not want us to carry weapons.

We boarded the jeepney to Recto, sitting together in the front. I asked him what it was like when he was in Muntinlupa. At first he was reticent, but then I told him that he had this reputation in the Barrio as being the toughest. He nodded, pleased with himself, and slowly he described a bit of the life within prison, the hardships that sadistic guards imposed on them. It was because of these conditions that the Tayo-Tayo gang existed, grew, and spread out from the penitentiary, and because of its rigid code, some were killed in prison riots. The noise and the traffic of Manila eddied around us and his voice turned soft and quiet; now it was easy to understand why he was so aggressive, as if the whole Barrio, his domain, was a kind of prison, too.

There was such a jam at the Avenida corner, we decided to walk over to my karate school, two blocks away. We pitched up a dimly lighted stairway. On the cement floor, the caked mud of years, scraps of paper and cigarette butts; so, too, that stale smell of tobacco, dried sputum, and perspiration that had drenched these surroundings and impregnated them with that unmistakable odor of a humanity gone sour.

“My school is upstairs,” I said. “Come, I want to show you something.”

When we got to the door he asked, surprised: “ Hoy , are you a karatista?” I nodded. He drew away, looked at me, and aimed a playful blow at my stomach. “ Siga —” he said. “Are you going to show me tricks?”

“Yes,” I said, “if you want to watch.”

A few white and brown belts were doing the basic exercises and our best instructor, Rading, was doing his high leap and double kick at the suspended bag. He was a black belt and had won trophies at national tournaments.

Roger watched with unfeigned wonder. “Can you do that?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

As I suspected, no one in his gang really knew karate; their theatrical postures were their imitations of what they saw in the movies, and a lot of it was, of course, phony.

“It’s for self-defense,” I said, “not for offense. That’s very important and that is the first discipline.”

I went to the locker room and took off my shoes. He did the same and watched me put on my robe.

Then I sweated through the exercises, the body bends, the jabs, then the side kicks.

The time had come. I got the practice knife; it was not sharp, but it was pointed and it could kill. “Roger,” I said, “take this and stab me. Any way you like.”

He demurred, his yellow buckteeth showing, his porcine, pimply face embarrassed, for now the other students were watching us.

“Take off your shirt, please,” Rading, my instructor, asked him. “It might get torn.”

“Do you really want me to?” he asked incredulously.

I nodded.

“And if I hurt you?”

“You can always rush me to the hospital,” I said.

He wiggled off his shirt, baring the heart and dagger tattoo on his right arm, and the cobra with bared fangs on his rotund chest. Both were handsomely done. He held the knife firmly and in a half-crouch started circling me. As I suspected, with all his fat, he was clumsy and slow.

He made a wild lunge that was easy to foresee and parry. I stepped aside, grabbed his arm, then threw him down in a heap without letting go of his arm. The padded canvas mat was thick and he was not hurt. I applied just a little pressure on the arm. He was helpless under me, his other arm pinned by my leg.

“Roger,” I said, “you know I could break your arm any time I want.” Then I let him go. He was flustered, embarrassed, and angry at himself.

“Try again,” I urged him, knowing that now, in his embarrassment and anger, he would not only try harder, but would be more reckless. This time, as I had expected, he held the knife differently. He feinted, then struck with a straight thrust. I parried the blow, tripped him in his momentum and, as he fell, twisted his hand so that the knife pointed directly at his chest. He was on his back, pinned to the floor. He gasped in surprise knowing the full impact of what could have happened.