The magazine section had not changed—it was still the same dusty corner with drab, unpainted walls, mahogany-varnished tables, and antique typewriters. His friends were at their desks. Charlie saw him first and yelled, “Tony! How’s the Oriental American?” Then it was all noise, Godo standing and slapping him on the back, the usual greetings and the handshakes and ribald remarks about American girls and the inevitable invitation to the squalid Chinese coffee shop downstairs.
They hustled down the cracked stairway, Tony in the middle, Godo—fat, wobbly with flesh and talk—at his right, and at his left Charlie, lean and quiet. The coffee shop had not changed, either. Its red-tile floor was as dirty as ever, and the corners reeked with the implacable smell of cockroaches and ammonia and were as dark as secrets. The shop was called Newsmen’s Corner and it lived up to its name, a nook as greasy-looking as some of the characters who frequented it.
They found an empty table still sodden with spilled Coke and cigarette ash. A waitress, short and dowdy, her lips flaring red, took their orders (soda for Godo, who said coffee made him nervous).
“You are going back to the university?” Godo asked. The exuberance of greeting had subsided and they spoke in even tones. They seemed to soak in impressions, alert, taking in all words as if they were truths to live by.
“There’s no place like home,” Tony said.
“The profound comment of the afternoon,” Charlie said. It was his favorite joke—“profound comment”—and Godo, jocular and looking more like a landlord than a writer, laughed loudly.
“Well, the university is an easy life,” Godo said.
“It is a rat race,” Tony said lightly, but he meant every word.
“Doing any writing?” Charlie asked.
“I never stopped,” Tony said. “Right now I’m on a very ambitious project. A cultural history of the Ilocos. It’s something that has never been attempted before. Someday I’m going there to trace my ancestry. Find out things about my grandfather. The great Ilocano migration, you know. Saw a lot of my people in California, Chicago, New York.”
“Wonderful project,” Godo said. “Show us some chapters when you are through. We may run them in a series.”
Then the talk turned to a familiar theme. “Now, about American women,” Charlie said, a leer spreading across his dark, pimply face. “I haven’t been abroad so I’d like to listen to your wonderful lies.” Nudging Godo, Charlie said, “Tell him about your pickups in that staid, puritan city of Boston. Compare notes.”
Godo had gone to Boston two years back on a fellowship of sorts and had not stopped talking about the trip. But this afternoon he seemed rather reticent. “It’s not necessary,” Godo said. “I’d rather Tony tell us of his experiences. As for America, I still have hopes for its people. Otherwise I feel they are wrong, trying to buy friendship with dollars and scholarships. But we shouldn’t object too much—beggars can’t be choosers, you know. Cliché, but hell, it’s true.”
Tony wanted to steer the talk away from the forthrightness of Godo, which had always exasperated him. “If I only knew you were coming to Boston,” he said, “I could have entertained you.”
“Did you get my card?” Godo asked. “I left one, you know. You were out in Vermont, enjoying the New England scenery no doubt”—another gale of laughter.
“It was a summer job really and I had no choice,” Tony said. “My fellowship was never enough.”
“Be on the lookout now,” Godo said. “Anyone who was in the United States as a freeloader is suspect or is an apologist for American policy.”
“And that includes you,” Charlie said, grinning at his colleague.
“Of course!” Godo said. “Have I ever said I don’t like freeloading? But I’m an ingrate and you know that I accept all that I can and I suffer no compunctions about being ungrateful afterward. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“I can’t understand,” Tony said gravely, “this new nationalism. Haven’t we always been Filipinos? In the university the talk is confusing. And I am suspicious of anything that’s worn on the sleeve.”
“There you go again, mouthing platitudes,” Godo said with a hint of irritation. “When will you and your kind—the bright boys who loudly proclaim themselves intellectuals—stop talking and start working?”
“I have written articles for you,” Tony said. “That’s action within my limitations.”
“Oh yes,” Godo said. He loved speeches and in his formalistic style was ready to perorate again. “I appreciated your last one—the uses of the past. The writers in the universities, the teachers—I am bowled over by their nationalistic talk. You have everything tagged and placed in a compartment. Go ahead, and while you write facetiously about high and ghostly matters, I go out and meet the people. Ah, the people! And what do I find? Something you never knew and will never understand because you have never been a part of them. Here you are, cooped up in Manila, in your sewing circles, in your coffee clubs, while the people seethe. I know because it’s my job to know. And some day the whole country will blow up before your eyes. It won’t be nationalism and you won’t even realize it, because you have lost touch.”
Godo had not changed, nor had his speeches. Tony felt a touch of superiority not only because of his new doctorate but because he could look at things more dispassionately now than either of them. And so the talk dropped again to the hoary and angry themes that he had long discarded. Oh yes, they tried to be trivial about it, but the distinction between sarcasm and wit became thin and, hearing them talk about culture, the economic chaos, and their insecurity, he couldn’t help pitying them. Look at them, grasping at ideals long outdated because these were what they understood, because it was with such ideals that they could justify their lives. They held on to beliefs that were bigger than they: once it was the Common Man, pervasive and purposeful because the Common Man was salvation. Then it was the Barrios, and now Nationalism, because they had finally gotten down to essentials, groping for identities they all had lost.
“But damnit,” Tony said, “I’ve never doubted my identity. I’ve never lost sight of the fact that I’m Asiatic.”
“Filthy word. It’s Asian, not Asiatic,” Godo reprimanded him.
“Semantics—that’s for gutless aesthetes,” Charlie said. He spoke seldom, but when he did his opinions were strong and his words had a sure, unrelenting sharpness.
“I do hope all this noise will die down,” Tony said. “Then maybe we will be less conscious about being Filipinos. I wish I could write on that. Could you use it if I did?”
“You are always welcome to our pages,” Charlie said. “And more so now that we can attach a Ph.D. to your byline. It’s good for the magazine. Gives us snob appeal.”
“I liked your last piece,” Godo said, “about the uses of the past. But I doubt if you believe all you said. You are always trying to pull someone’s leg, and sometimes it is your own. I gather that the piece constituted your doctoral thesis.”
“Yes,” Tony said proudly. “The ilustrados had much to contribute to the Revolution of 1896, you know. They knew the past and its meaning.”
“It’s not the complete truth,” Godo said firmly. “I disagree with you when you say it’s the whole truth. The ilustrados were not the heroes, nor were they brave. It was the masses who were brave. They were the heroes. Not your Rizal,c who wanted to help the Spaniards frustrate the Cuban revolutionists. Not your Rizal, who loathed revolution. He and his kind—they were not the real heroes. It’s always the small men who are. Bonifaciod and the farmers at Balintawak. The people—you call them contemptible, don’t you.”
“That is not true,” Tony said. “I’m poor, too.”
“Yeah, but you have the attitudes of the rich. Well, the people, the ones you suggest are the rabble, they are the ones who rise to great heights when the time comes. Revolutions for a better life are never made by the rich or the intellectuals. They have everything to lose. Revolutions are made by small men, poor men—they are the ones who
suffer most. They care the least about the status quo.”
“But revolution is so outmoded now,” Tony Samson said, thinking of his father and his grandfather. He was thinking, too, of Lawrence Bitfogel, his roommate for four years in Cambridge, who had told him bluntly the very things Godo was saying. “The ilustrados,” Tony tried to defend his thesis, “you must remember, had the minds to plan, the money, and, most important, the capacity to administer government.”
“Yes,” Godo said, “they also had the mind and the capacity to accept the bribes the Spaniards gave them at the Pact of Biak-na-bato. Paterno—all the merchants and shopkeepers you worship now—they were all bribed.… I’m sorry you wasted so much time on that thesis. Yes, it’s interesting, it’s well done—your article on the past—but it’s not the whole truth. Slash away at the myths. That America gave us democracy, that MacArthur ordered us to fight the Japs as guerrillas. Our job is to destroy myth, not build them.”
It was useless arguing—they would not understand, they did not have his training and his background. “I’ll try to do that,” Tony said, affecting a tone of humility; then he changed the subject abruptly: “But I’ll not be able to write for you in the near future. As a matter of fact, I’m getting married.”
The maneuver worked and Godo turned to him: “To whom?”
“Don’t ask because I won’t tell. It’s a surprise. But don’t worry, I’ll invite you to the wedding. Next week or next year.”
“Charlie has to get married soon, too,” Godo said. “It is a wonderful institution, but never marry for any reason except love. Then you won’t have regrets. Somehow every problem seems easy to solve. Money, I’ve come to realize, is one of the easiest problems to overcome. It’s when something happens to your inner self—that’s something money can’t solve.”
“Another profound comment of the afternoon,” Charlie said lightly.
But Godo was dead serious. “That’s the truth and you better think about it.”
“How is your wife?” Tony asked solicitously, recalling the frail and lovely freshman whom Godo had met when they were in their senior year and with whom Godo had eloped. Tony still had a clear image of Linda—her quiet, soft features and her long, flowing hair, which she wore in a tight bun.
“That’s what I mean,” Godo’s bluster was gone. “When you marry for love, every problem seems easy to solve. Well, she has not been doing very well. After two children— It would have been easier for her if she were healthy, but you remember Linda, Tony, she was always sickly. She has to have an operation soon. I don’t worry about that. You can always steal or sell your soul to the devil and rationalize such an act with a clear conscience.”
“I’m sorry,” Tony said.
“Thanks for the sentiment,” Godo said, smiling. “I really don’t ask for much. Just a chance to have my wife and children go through life with the least physical pain. That isn’t much to ask, is it? But in this bloody country, when a millionaire has a cold he goes right away to a fancy clinic in New York. And me, I can’t even afford to have my head examined. Hell, there’s justification in the old class struggle—I don’t care what you call it—but does a rich man have more right to live simply because he has more money?”
“You could have married for money,” Charlie said.
A smile spread across Godo’s flabby face. “I like that,” he said. “But, as I have always said, I have no regrets.” He turned amiably to Tony. “So don’t commit that mistake, chum. Don’t marry for any reason other than love. And who is she? Your cousin? She is pretty, and I recall, too, that you were more than cousinly with her the last time I visited you in Antipolo.”
“No,” Tony said, a flush creeping over his face. He was instantly reminded of Emy, of how once she had been a part of his life. Godo and Charlie had met and had come to know her during the times they dropped by to borrow books or to talk, for it was she who usually prepared the coffee. Perhaps all along they had suspected.
“That’s too bad,” Charlie said. “Did you fall out of love or something?”
Tony smiled wryly. “It wasn’t that, really. But you know how it is; we are cousins.”
“Oh now, this isn’t the eighteenth century,” Godo laughed. He had fully regained his humor. “Don’t tell me you are still bothered by taboos. Write a letter to the pope and he will give you a quick dispensation.”
Tony tried to laugh the joke away, but the old hurt was back, and above his personal anguish he heard Godo cackle: “Well, if you are not interested in her you can give me her phone number. If she won’t object to a married man … or Charlie here, he may yet change his mind. Why, I was envying you, Tony boy, that setup you had in Antipolo.”
“I haven’t been in touch,” Tony said, “and she is not in Antipolo anymore.”
The talk glided on and Tony tried to be casual, tried to steer away from all reminiscences that gravitated to Antipolo and Emy, but no matter how hard he tried, his thoughts always swept back to her, to those precious bits of the past embedded in his mind. She was once more with him, the memory, the feel of her, and the day would never be the same again.
Strange how thoughts of her didn’t bother him very much anymore, particularly in the past few months. This might have been because of his involvement with Carmen—or could love wither like maple leaves in the fall? But the withering away was not complete; her name always brought an undefinable pain to his chest—a sharp, sweet pain that came quietly with all the silent urgings of that thing called conscience.
No, he could not forget Emy, not only because she was the first but because she was the past—his dear, dead past, without which he had no currency. No, he could not brush her memory away as he would dust from a book. Emy was in him, as real as his breathing and for as long as he lived.
* Ilustrados: The first Filipinos, usually of means, who studied in Europe (beginning in the 1880s) in order to become “enlightened”; literally, “learned” or “well informed” (Sp.).
† Fiambrera: A lunch basket or nest of pots use for keeping food hot.
‡ Pan de sal: A salted bun.
§ Derecho: Right (direction).
‖ Merienda: An afternoon snack; galletas: cookielike biscuits.
a Marcelo H. Del Pilar: Filipino writer in the 1880s.
b Huks: A Communist-led revolutionary group that fought for agrarian reform in the Philippines after World War II; it grew out of an anti-Japanese resistance movement in Luzon during the war.
c José Protasio Rizal (1861–1896): Filipino physician, poet, novelist, and national hero, considered to be a founder of Filipino nationalism.
d Andres Bonifacio (1863–1897): Philippine patriot and founder and leader of the nationalist Katipunan society; instigated the revolt against the Spanish in August 1896.
CHAPTER
3
The drugstore, Boie’s, was on the ground floor of a pink building, a refreshing pink in the dazzling heat. Tony hurried to the mezzanine coffee shop where Carmen was to meet him and scanned the crowd. Carmen would stand out in any gathering—fair skin, pretty face, shapely figure—she could easily draw all eyes once she walked into a room. Tony often wondered why she had accepted him at all. But Carmen was different from her sisters; she took up philosophy and letters instead of the usual liberal arts courses. She was open, too, in her preferences and outspoken in her views. She could be what she desired because she had money to shield her from all forms of noise, to enable her to damn all that did not agree with her.
She was not in the coffee shop, so Tony returned to the ground floor, to the stacks of paperbacks there, and was soon browsing.
How would it be if his mother were still alive and he took Carmen to her? How would his father have reacted—the stern, broken man who was incapable of repentance? It was in Washington that he told her about Rosales and his family. The student party they had attended had become a bore, and in the warm Washington dusk they had decided to walk home, loaded as they were with canapes and wine. Yes, that
was it; it was the vermouth that had loosened their tongues, and under the elms, as they walked hand in hand, feeling alive, he told her why he was in Washington searching in the archives for papers on the revolution. Oh yes, his father had been so right about learning and college, but he, Antonio Samson, went to college not merely because the idea was propitious, but because he wanted to find out if he was made of the same stuff as his father. With wine in his head he had felt compelled: “Let me tell you about my father and about our town. It was never a haven for those who were weak. It was only for those who were strong. And my father was strong in his own, silent way. Do you know that he was not afraid to die?” But she didn’t want to hear about death and suffering, not then anyway, because she wanted perhaps to be noble or was in no mood to have the evening spoiled. “I’m afraid to die,” she had said plaintively, “and I’m a coward and I’m mean. I haven’t any virtue, and what’s more I think I am already drunk.” She had laughed gaily and so he would not tell her more about his old man, whom he loved and hated because he was so simple in a world that had grown terrible and complex. “Let me tell you then,” he had insisted, “about myself when I was young.” And under the elms, keeping in step with her, he spoke of the creek where he had bathed, of the old man who horsewhipped him. But he did not tell her, though he wanted to, of what his father had done—the hacendero* he had killed, the municipal building he had burned; he did not tell her how he saw a squad of Pampango soldiers slap his father again and again until his mouth bled. His father no longer fought then, for his hands were cuffed; he merely spat the blood out at their faces and said, “You will not be masters forever.” That was the image he treasured most of his old man, bloodied but defiant. “I’ve known the vehemence of his anger,” Tony told Carmen, but there was no sorrow in his voice, only the placidity of remembrance. “I have long since known what I must do. No, I’m not going to fight another useless revolt as my father and my grandfather before him did. What happened to both of them? They lost all of their land to the thieves who called themselves leaders. No, I’ll do the fighting in my own way and live while I can. The weapons have changed.”
The Samsons: Two Novels; (Modern Library) Page 7
