But for the scenery the trip was uneventful. The city’s fringes marched by—the same ugly houses huddled along the tracks, the muddied water and filth was a moat between him and the houses and their squalid yards. Then the train broke out into the open country, into sodden fields that were now starting to be tinged with green. The houses were no different in their smallness from those on the edges of the city. Why had the country not changed at all? Why were people like Don Manuel hoarding their money in Manila and cutting themselves off from the land that was the beginning and the repository of all wealth?
The sun poured down in a steady stream, saturating the landscape and burnishing the fields and the mountains with dusty blue and streaks of gold. The thatched houses bobbed out of the brown earth and the singing grass. But in this air-conditioned coach Tony could not drink in the air, could not listen to the wind, could only be aware of the nearness of his wife and her domestic talk, her reminiscences of New England and Washington, of the changing colors of autumn, and the reds and golds of the maples and the sycamores.
“Have you ever tried swimming naked in a muddy brook?” he asked as the train sang over a creek, rich brown with mud. “In that dirt?” she exclaimed, a little aghast, and he explained to her that there was a world of difference between the mud in the fields and the mud in the esteros* in Manila. There is, he told her impatiently and with conviction, such a thing as clean mud. “Yes, yes, darling,” she said, “there is clean mud.” And she nudged him in that insinuating manner with which he had become familiar. She was referring to him as clean, wholesome mud, and for a moment anger crossed his mind—but only for a moment, for he had looked out the window then, into the flood of late afternoon, and rising on the horizon was this hump of a mountain streaked with veins of gold, and beyond this familiar blue was Rosales and home. He could not imagine himself being born in another place or growing up in another town, and nostalgia lashed at him, whipped away the anger that had started and stirred that old and nameless longing to see the town again, its crooked and dusty streets, and the neighborhood—the cogon shanties, the bamboo trees creaking in the wind, the carabao dung on the narrow trail that led to the river, and the papayas blooming in the morning. But he was not going home now, just passing through, just winging and dreaming through—and there would be no way by which he could find how it was with Rosales, if it had changed, and Emy, too, if she was all right and healthy and not completely blighted by a past that had made her fair game to the devil. He himself could feel his voice sandpapery and hoarse: “Beyond that mountain is home.…”
She glanced out of the window and smiled that quick, meaningless smile which meant that she understood but was not particularly interested, then went back to the picture magazine she had bought at Tutuban. He sat back beside her, wondering at the way his life had changed, wondering how he ever got here, in this air-conditioned coach beside this fair-skinned and lovely woman. The great distances he had traveled, the bitter winters of New England, the summer in Spain, and the searching among the archives in Barcelona and Seville—all these now seemed shriveled into this hollow moment, this certitude of Carmen and the honeymoon. He sought her hand silently and held it, pressed it, his mind lazily meandering back to remembered images—not to those great distances he had crossed but to those places where he had seen the seed become a plant, to the house he had left, the home with its leaking roof, with plows and harrows rusting below the bamboo stairs, and the chicken roosting under the kitchen, the fence that had fallen apart. The house no longer stood, of course, for it had been dismantled long ago when his father went to jail and the family left Rosales for the uncertain beneficence of Manila. There was no Samson left in Rosales; there was nothing left for him to go back to or to claim but Emy, who lived on the other side of the broken-down fence. And if he did see her again, how would she take him? Would she loathe him for having left her or would she look up to him in wonder and say, Tony, you’ve gone so far, you’ve changed. And deep within his heart, he could feel that overwhelming sense of helplessness, that awful incapacity to hold back what had already happened. If he had stayed behind, if he had not gone to America, perhaps things would have been different for Emy, and that ignominy that had overcome her might not have touched her at all. The coolness of this coach, the softness of the girl beside him, and the racing of this train toward its destination were the realities he could not now ignore. They were the solid shackles around his ankles and his wrists, reminding him of what could no longer be changed.
It was when they had already arrived in Baguio that he recalled that they had not acted like newly weds at all, that they had gone through the trip as if they were an old married couple.
They arrived at the hotel at dusk and were immediately taken to their room. Now that they were alone an awkwardness commingled with relief came over Tony. It was a strange feeling, both pleasant and unreal, for it was something new. Not that he had never been alone with Carmen before this union was sanctified, but now the pleasure of being together was no longer the delirious thrill that he had expected it to be, for all that he expected of it was the possession and not the discovery of that possession. For a while he lingered by the door, holding her hand, and he would have asked her what she was thinking had not the bellhop come at that moment with their luggage and switched on the fluorescent lamp in the ceiling.
Tony surveyed the suite, the well-ordered sofa and chairs done in rich, red upholstery, the fresh calla lilies and the dahlias as big as saucers in the slim, metallic vases. The paneling of red dao shone in the cold, blue light. No trace of pine scent lingered in the room, which, in fact, smelled faintly of floor wax. Then they were alone again. Night was falling swiftly outside, a phone jangled somewhere in the quiet corridors, and the cold of Baguio finally touched them, told them that the time to make love had come.
Carmen sat on the wide, cream-colored bed and watched him open the lock of the suitcase.
“I think we should do it as we have planned,” Tony said. “About entering this room, I mean.” She shrugged. “You can keep the illusion at least, baby,” he said, grinning. “You shouldn’t wear a Good Friday look—my God, not on your wedding day!”
He went to her, lifted her, and kissed her. The lips on which his mouth fell were warm but unresponsive, and Tony quickly attributed this to Baguio, to the slivers of cold that stole into this rich, intimate room. Or could it be more than the cold? Remembering her condition and the life that was developing within her, he felt an abiding warmth for this girl who had accepted him.
“Esto, we should not have bothered coming here,” she said with an air of boredom. “I didn’t like the look of that bellhop when we came in—and the clerk at the desk. They were practically undressing me. Me, of all people! Now, if we had gone to the summer house, as Papa had suggested earlier, we would be alone just the same.”
“Honeymoons are meant to be spent in hotels, baby,” he said, trying to humor her.
She sighed and placed her clothes on the bed. “It seems foolish, doesn’t it?” she asked but expected no answer. “A two-day honeymoon. A weekend actually, then you rush back to that miserable university for the good of this country’s future, for the benefit of the downtrodden Ilocano race.”
It was her way of showing displeasure and he brushed aside her sarcasm. “You married a teacher,” he said.
“An associate professor,” she corrected him. Her blitheness had returned with a quickness that pleased him.
She rose and hugged him. “If we were now living in that hick town of yours I would be called Maestra, wouldn’t I? Or is it Profesora?”
She laughed and he was glad that he did not have to bend backward again and try to please her, play up to her whims, humor her, because she was this way and women were supposed to be pampered and cuddled until the uneasy days of conception were over.
Outside, beyond the polished glass windows, the pines were already shrouded with the oncoming night, and mist wrapped the darkening trees and the whole la
ndscape in white motionless suds. She moved away from him and idled at the window. She was every inch a bride, lissome and beautiful as he once dreamed his wife should appear to him on his wedding night. Then she turned to him and demanded, almost shrilly, “But must we return so soon? You need a vacation. All the past days you did nothing but work and prepare your papers and your program. You need a vacation. Look at yourself—all bones, and you want to get back to that salt mine.”
“It’s Monday and classes,” Tony said, “and more than that, baby, I’ve already told you—the Socrates Club. Not every teacher in the university …”
“… is a member of this club,” she said coyly. “And all the members are brilliant minds who have gone to Harvard and Oxford.”
She had found her nightgown in the suitcase—a shimmering black, which contrasted with her light, rosy skin. She held it to her bosom, preened before him and, smiling again, said, “Now, will I qualify?” Before he could answer, she dropped the negligee on the bed and continued: “The things that interest men are so trite. God, they bore me. Let’s throw the university out of the window and concentrate on sex.”
He cupped her chin and kissed her. “I’m sorry if I am such a bore,” he said, burying his face in the fragrant curve of her neck.
She detached herself from his embrace and, turning around, asked him to undo the zipper at the back of her dress. He did this carefully, remembering how once, in his haste to undress her, he had brought the zipper down quickly and it had bitten into her skin. Having finished with the zipper, he kissed her nape.
“I love you,” he whispered.
Matter-of-factly she asked, “Even when I get fat and dowdy like Mama?”
He bit her ear again and whispered, “Yes, even when you are as fat as a circus freak.”
She opened her eyes and looked reproachfully at him. “When the children start coming my breasts will sag. My belly, too. Will you still love me then?”
He laughed and hugged her.
She drew away and started undressing in that casual manner that often amazed him, for it seemed as if she were on a stage, showing off to an admiring audience. She had done it before, undressed before him, and the act had almost become a ritual. She walked to the bed and picked up the negligee again, then stood before him, her fair skin gleaming, the smooth, white flanks shining in the cool blue light; her legs tawny and clean.
“Have I changed, darling?” she asked, letting his gaze caress her.
“No,” he said, holding his head a little backward. “You are beautiful.” And his blood singing, he went to her.
Tony woke up with the sun in his eyes. It was chalky white on everything in the room. Carmen was still asleep, bundled against the Baguio cold in the pale blue woolen blanket they had shared. He watched her for a while—her easy, rhythmic breathing—then kissed her, pressing his tongue through her lips to her teeth and tasting the honey saltiness of her mouth. She stirred, opened her eyes, and embraced him, making happy gurgling sounds.
“I just wish we never had to return to Manila,” she said, yawning. It was their weekend honeymoon all right, and though the thrill of first possession had waned, she had acted like the perfect bride, demanding love.
It was Sunday, and in the afternoon they would have to go back to Manila. The phone rang and Carmen reached for it, muttering in her breath, “Who is it?” The pleasantness was gone and she sounded sulky and injured. Then her face brightened. “It’s Papa,” she said. “He is at the golf club with friends. He came in this morning in Dangmount’s plane and we will have supper with him. What do you say, honey? We can go back to Manila with him in the plane.”
“Yes, Papa,” she said without waiting for Tony’s reply. She gave the phone to her husband.
Tony sat up: “Good morning, sir.”
“Don’t ‘sir’ me now. It’s Papa, Tony.” Don Manuel sounded a bit displeased at the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry, Papa,” Tony repeated, trying out the word with little confidence, and he was pleased to find that “Papa” was not awkward at all.
“That’s better,” Don Manuel chuckled. “The course at Wack Wack was a bit crowded so Dangmount and I decided to fly in just now.” After the hurried explanation for his presence in Baguio he went on: “You don’t have to take the train this afternoon. We can all go home tomorrow by plane.”
“My classes start at nine, Papa,” Tony said, “and it’s rather important that I be there.”
“There’s a lot of time. We fly at daybreak.”
It was pointless to argue. “If you say so, Papa,” Tony said. “And thank you very much.”
“Now, may I have that daughter of mine again?”
Tony handed the phone to Carmen.
“Yes, Papa,” she said. “Yes, right here at the Pines.”
She placed the phone on its hook, turned complacently to Tony, and, as if she were speaking to a secretary, said, “Don’t forget to remind me, darling, I’ll call Manila tonight, so that my car will be at the airport and I’ll drive you straight to the university. That will make you happy?”
“There’s a lot of time,” Tony said.
“I’m glad you accepted Papa’s invitation. He will come here tonight and have dinner with us.”
Tony Samson, unable to say anything that might spoil Carmen’s plans, lay on the bed. But sleep had left him. Even Carmen, soft to the touch, now appeared to him as no more than any other woman. It would have been vastly different if this were Washington, although Washington was now a year past. He recalled again the apartment Carmen had in Massachusetts Avenue, its comforts. Her family—did they really accept him as Carmen had wanted him to be accepted? Why did her father now come to Baguio? Was it to play golf as he had told her or could there be a more significant reason?
“Get up, darling,” Carmen said, pulling the woolen blanket away from him. In another instant she was over him, all arms and kisses and warmth and woman scent.
“Food is what I need,” he said, biting her ear.
The boy who brought in their breakfast was silently efficient and he left as quickly as he could. Sipping her coffee and still in her negligee, Carmen became thoughtful as she returned to the clear glass window. The pines outside were covered with mist. “Once, I dreamed of this day. In college we read a lot of books, most of them things you wouldn’t think colegialas† would be capable of taking a glimpse of. But there we were, reading and looking at pictures when the nuns weren’t looking. You know, the kind of stuff that gets discreetly shown under false covers in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower …”
“Monsieur, feelthy pictures,” Tony blandly imitated the French vendor.
Carmen laughed heartily. “Oye, do you know that in the last week of our high school the nuns asked a priest to lecture to us about the facts of life? It was funny. We were all giggling in the rear. Here was this priest, fat and kindly looking—a German or a Belgian, I don’t remember—rattling off the facts about the sperm meeting the ovum. It was funny, I tell you.”
“What I want to know …” Tony stretched his hand across the table and held her hands, “is it someone other than me who made you really aware of these basic facts?”
She pouted: “You know damn well that you were the first. Esto, what more proof do you need?”
“I’m satisfied,” Tony said. “But then I was away for a summer in Europe and I heard when I was away that you were dating this fellow who works for your father—Nena’s husband, this Ben—”
He wasn’t able to finish. A piece of bread struck him in the face, and before he could recover, Carmen had rushed to their bedroom and slammed the door after her. Only after some mushy explanations did Carmen open the door.
Thinking about the incident later, Tony was vaguely amused, yet at the same time surprised that he had asked the question at all. Through those years when he was exposed to the morality of the American campus, he no longer attached value to chastity, and he believed that he would not care about a woman’s past as long
as he loved her. He brought to mind that dilapidated room in Antipolo and again, that sharp, sweet pain of remembrance stabbed at him. He had changed; yes, he had changed so much that now he could afford to say, Carmen, I don’t care how many men you have had. I love you, that is all that matters.
At eight Don Manuel was in the lobby. In the crackling glow of the fireplace where a pine log burned, he looked young, almost like an older brother to Carmen. He smiled. “Just the three of us,” he said. “I have so many things to tell you and I can hardly wait.” Explanations: how the summer house where the newly weds should have stayed needed a greenhouse, how badly he fared in golf the whole day. They walked with Carmen in the middle, holding their arms, to the dining room, where they were seated at a corner table. Carmen bantered about Tony learning golf, and just before the coffee and the dessert came, Don Manuel dropped the amiable air and became serious.
“I’m not satisfied with the service we are getting from our advertising agency,” he said with a hint of impatience. “Look, we give them more than fifteen percent commission on the ads they prepare. They also charge us a retainer—five thousand a month—and that is not peanuts. And you know what they do? They can’t even cook up a sensible reply to all the accusations against this steel mill we are putting up. It will be the only one of its kind in the country. So what if the Japanese get a sizable chunk of the profit? After all, they are helping put it up. And what difference does that make? If it isn’t the Japanese who make the killing, it’s the Americans—as if we have no surfeit of Americans here telling us what to do. They just want us to be hewers of wood and drawers of water for as long as they can manage.”
“What do you want me to do, Papa?” Tony asked. He already sensed that Don Manuel did not come to dinner to talk about golf.
“Nothing much as far as your talents are concerned. I’ve read some of the stuff you have written, Tony. That article on the uses of the past, for instance, your thesis on the Philippine Revolution—I’ve glanced through them. I know how you teachers regard businessmen as nothing more than money-mad people. You’d be surprised if you went around more with some of my friends. I’m money-mad, all right, but that doesn’t stop me from honing on new ideas. And you have many bright ideas, Tony, brilliant ideas.…”
The Samsons: Two Novels; (Modern Library) Page 11
