Back in his own office Tony gazed through the glass window. Yes, the rainy season had finally come.
The rain was no longer just a brief afternoon shower but part of the seasonal downpour. It would last nine days. The bay churned with white caps and waves leaped up and sprayed the seawall. The boulevard was no longer the ebony black it was when the sun drenched the city. The rain had washed the oil away and the asphalt had lost its sheen. The grass on the boulevard islands, on the hotel fronts, no longer had a bedraggled look. It had turned green. The banaba trees bloomed and their clusters of purple brought throbbing color to the green. His first rainy season after six years evoked many images and odors, the smell of grass, of carabao dung, and of the earth being broken for the seed. These came to him in remembered whiffs whenever he strolled along the boulevard and the scent of the new grass under the feet of other strollers reached his nostrils. But the rain and the seed were no longer within his vision; in this land of dinosaurs nothing would grow.
The job Don Manuel gave Tony did not require technical training or an exemplary business sense. It was, as the entrepreneur had said, public relations. He bought a dozen books on the subject to augment Carmen’s books and he went through them earnestly. The books were all loaded with unblushing seriousness on the necessity of not telling everything and of practicing Dale Carnegie’s approach to life.
He had hired a secretary, too—a pretty Ilocana his sister Betty had recommended. She was twenty-one and was taking political science at the university but had to stop schooling because her parents in La Union could no longer pay her tuition.
Tony visited Antipolo almost every week but was not quite successful at reconciliation with his sister. He usually went there in a cab, and on the way, he would stop at a supermarket and buy groceries—sugar, rice, vegetable oil, candy for the boys, and a lot of canned goods because his sister could not afford a refrigerator. His income was, of course, more than what he thought his father-in-law would give him. In addition, he had a representation allowance and could obtain even more cash from the cashier anytime he needed some. His signature on the voucher was as good as cash, and the feeling that he had ready money brought to with it a higher sense of responsibility. He did not want his father-in-law to think that he was taking advantage of the Villa coffers. He meticulously kept the receipts of his expenses until the auditor told him that it was absolutely unnecessary. One of the office cars was also assigned to him, but he used it sparingly, taking a cab when he was on his own. Carmen did not bother him for money, for she had her own bank account plus a generous monthly allowance from her father. To this Tony added his monthly pay, which he gave to her with the simple statement that this was a matter of custom and Carmen accepted it with good humor.
The first public relations survey that Don Manuel assigned to Tony was not difficult. Tony had had experience in public-opinion sampling. In his undergraduate days he had worked on a paper on the non-Christian tribes of Mountain Province. He used the same technique and gathered a fairly representative sample of opinions from varying levels; he talked with taxi drivers, business acquaintances of Don Manuel, students and professors, and salesgirls. He was amazed at what he found. The pervasive resentment against the Japanese had dwindled. Only a few—those with extremely bitter memories of the Occupation—were pathologically opposed to more business contact with the Japanese. As for the steel mill, it hardly mattered that the Japanese had a big hand in it. As Don Manuel had said, if the Japanese were not in it, the Chinese or the Americans would be there and the result, the economic tentacles with which these aliens would encompass the country, would be just as stringent.
It was this observation that Tony wrote in his report and handed to the board. It seemed that the last war was relegated to some forgotten eon. The men around him brimmed with goodwill. His report was actually no more than a confirmation of what Don Manuel and the other directors expected.
Don Manuel was kind, even gallant. He did not gloat over what he had expected all along. But even if Don Manuel did not do this, Tony began to feel that there was little justification for his presence in the Villa organization. He often brooded, and this uneasy feeling disturbed his placid routine. He would then ask Fely, his secretary, to bring out his press releases, measure the clippings, and calculate how much they would have cost Don Manuel if the clippings were paid advertisements. To make his job important, he had an order relayed to all the departments that there would be no press story released—not even a story on a marriage or a baptism of anyone connected with the Villa organization—unless he had put his imprimatur on it.
Mrs. Villa took advantage of Tony’s new function and she always had a story about her in the society pages. Neither writing Mrs. Villa’s press releases nor ghosting occasionally for Senator Reyes, however, gave Tony the justification he sought. Somehow he had to achieve something dramatic and spectacular, to make not only Don Manuel but everyone in the organization look up to him and say: That’s Antonio Samson, and he is earning his money as Antonio Samson and not as Manuel Villa’s son-in-law.
To do this he would have to ask his close friends to assist him. Someday he would have a good story not only on Don Manuel but on his operations as well, and he would have this story featured in Godo’s magazine. He weighed the possibility, the arguments to buttress the soundness of his proposition. Name any five leading entrepreneurs in the country today and you will have Don Manuel among them. Isn’t that enough reason?
Maybe Godo would write the story himself, but if Godo would do that the credit would be Godo’s, and he hesitated, for he remembered that Godo had a set of values that could not be easily eroded. In the end, Godo might even loathe him for having broached the idea at all. Godo had not camouflaged his loathing for the Villas and all those “filthy merchants” who were not creating new industries for the country. An approach to Godo was, indeed, compounded with the subtlest of problems. Still, Tony would have to make the pitch sooner or later, and he would naturally lean on the good old college days and all that mushy sentimentalism as the basis for the favor. He justified the strategy with Don Manuel’s definition of friends: they were not friends if they could not help.
To Tony, a friend was someone who could offer sanctuary. To Don Manuel, a friend was someone useful. But values change as the social stratum rises. Now Tony must look at friends, too, in this utilitarian fashion. They must no longer be the ones to whom he was emotionally tied by youthful references, by common problems, and, perhaps, a common past.
There was Ben de Jesus, for instance, who could be useful to him. He seemed likable enough, maybe because he was in the employ of Don Manuel. He seemed to be a regular fellow and not the stuffed shirt Tony had presumed him to be. And this afternoon Ben had tried to be amiable.
He was, of course, a mestizo like Don Manuel, but his skin was darker and his arms were hirsute. His thick eyebrows gave him a rugged look, but his cleft chin, which needed a shave twice a day, imparted to his very masculine face a certain softness.
Ben had sounded patronizing: “I’ve been married longer than you, so that makes me an authority. Let Carmen come home late once in a while. Like tonight. My wife called up—she is with Carmen. They are in a beauty parlor or clinic or something and they will have supper together. If I were you, Tony, I’d step out occasionally, too, and vary the menu. Carmen wouldn’t mind—if she doesn’t know.”
Ben had laughed, but in his attempt at casualness Tony noticed a tinge of nervousness. Ben’s comment was an attempt to ingratiate himself into Tony’s personal domain, and Tony understood that; understood, too, the gamble Ben had taken. If his wife was a good friend of Ben’s wife, did that mean he must develop Ben’s personal friendship, too? Quickly he decided that it would not be bad to know Ben better, to appear friendly. He was a part of the organization; this was now the primary consideration.
“That’s a good idea,” Tony had said, smiling. “I’m sure Carmen wouldn’t, but I’m so out of touch that I need someone like you to
show me around, to help me with the window-shopping.”
“That shouldn’t be difficult for someone who has lived for some time abroad.” Ben flattered him. “You have taste and there’s a lot of class around this establishment or down the boulevard.”
“Having taste can be different from having an acquisitive talent,” he said.
“You tell me that after you got Carmen?” Ben had laughed. “You should be teaching me tricks.”
They parted on this light note and Tony, feeling kind of wonderful, told Fely, his secretary, to finish typing the article on steel and have the clean copy ready on his desk the following morning.
It was almost midnight when Carmen came home. Tony was still at work when her car stopped in the driveway below their room, and he paused at the desk and rearranged the research materials he had been collating.
The moment she came in she started to gripe about her busy day. “Sometimes I envy you,” she said in a strained voice. “You just sit in the office and never worry about tomorrow.” She planted a dutiful peck on his forehead and went straight to the bathroom.
Tony went on with his work. His notes were voluminous and Fely had not been very good in her transcription. The Ilocano communities on the west coast, the areas where they converged—Salinas Valley, Stockton, and Lodi—and the cycle of their movement from California to Oregon and then to Alaska during the canning season … the notes were not properly arranged. The shower in the bathroom sounded and in a few more moments Carmen would begin her evening ritual, the cream on her face, the ointment on her skin. It was, as usual, half an hour, and when she came out she went straight to bed.
“I’m very tired, darling,” she said.
“After the beauty parlor?” Tony asked, closing the folder on the Salinas community. “You were supposed to relax there.”
She grumbled something inaudible. He was growing sleepy, too, and in a while he quietly slipped into the bed with her. It was late and he was not particularly stimulated tonight, but out of habit he cuddled close to her and ran an inquisitive hand quickly up her satiny thighs. He had expected the familiar tuft of pubic hair, soft and furry under her silken underwear.
He drew back, amazed and incredulous all at once. She had suddenly come to life and the answer she gave to his unspoken question was an angry push and a retort: “You think of nothing but that. You are getting to be a shameful bore.”
“Baby,” he sat up and was looking at her face, at the frown. “So, you aren’t going to have a baby after all. Why didn’t you tell me right away? When did it come?”
“Do I have to tell you everything?”
“Yes,” he said, “you must tell me everything.” He stood up and held her hands and he was surprised to find them cold. “When did it happen? Don’t tell me it was delayed three months. Is that possible? Has this happened to you before? No, you said it never happened before. I remember it—that afternoon we were at the Boie and you were so worried …”
“Of course it’s possible,” she said, shaking away his hold. “Accidents can happen and they do happen. You have to be a woman to understand these things. Esto, there was a time Nena de Jesus didn’t have it for three months—and then it came. Well, you have to understand these things. Do I have to be so goddam clinical about it?” She had raised her voice, but even in her anger Tony could sense something wrong, something missing, and he knew it at once: there was not enough conviction, enough sincerity, in what she was saying.
But he was not sure of himself, either. Tolerantly, “I’d be happier, honey, if you tell me the truth. Come on, I want the truth. Nena was with you the whole afternoon … was there an accident or something.”
“Oh, stop acting like a policeman,” she said coldly. “I just had an abortion, that’s all. Nena took me to her doctor. There’s nothing to worry about. It was all very sterile and efficiently done. He gave me some pills, just in case …”
The truth clawed at him. “Did you have to do it?”
“It was necessary,” she said peevishly. “I’m young. I can have children when I’m past thirty.”
“And you don’t think of me at all? Don’t you think you should have told me before you did this?” He had never been angry with her before, but now this rage coiled within him quickly and sprang up and he cried out, “You are a murderer, that’s what you are!”
A clamminess came over his hands and in his stomach was a sickening turn, a nausea. When he spoke again his voice was hoarse and there seemed to be a rock in his throat: “You are rotten, you are no good. I can expect this from a tramp, but not from you … of all people, you!”
The suddenness of his fury must have shocked her, for she backed away from him. “I didn’t know this would upset you, really, darling,” she said supplicatingly. “I thought I was the only one responsible, since it was in my belly anyway!”
“It was mine, too,” he said.
“It was more mine than yours,” she said, almost casually. “Oye, I’m not trying to say that we should have no children. But I’m not thirty yet, darling. There are many years still ahead of us. We can have them afterward—a dozen if that’s what you want.”
But it was too late now and not all the honeyed words could bring back the life that was lost. What was marriage without children? There came briefly to his mind the mist-shrouded mountains of Bontoc, the ulog, and the girls who lived in it. They loved by another code and they did not have this preoccupation with creams and diets. They worked hard in the fields, half-naked. To them a marriage was not sanctioned, it was not real, until the woman became pregnant. And only then did the marriage become sanctified, only then.
“You love yourself too much, you really don’t care for children. You shouldn’t have gotten married at all—that would have made you happier. Are you thinking now that we’ve made a mistake?” he asked, his voice rimmed with hate.
She evaded him with amazing agility. “Do you or don’t you love me?” she asked.
Tony walked to his desk.
“Oye, I asked you a question.” She was behind him.
“The time is rather late for that kind of talk, isn’t it?” he asked.
“I want to know.”
“I love you—and you know that,” he said, facing her.
She kissed him blandly, then went back to bed. Tony sat down, leafing through all that he had written. It was useless. He could not concentrate. He took a paperback book from the shelf above the desk, a detective story, but after a few minutes he gave that up, too. He lay beside her, watched the rhythmic rise and fall of her belly and the almost childlike smile on her face as she slept. She was lovely and at this moment pure, like an angel, beyond the reproach of a constant and damning conscience. Yet it was to her own self that she had sinned, not so much to him.
She is a murderess—the thought ate at him, but it did not persist. She was his wife—this was the finality to consider. She was his wife, the key to the good life that was proffered to him and which he had gladly accepted.
CHAPTER
10
Some unscholarly notes
I have never felt the need to unburden myself as I do now. I could easily go to Godo, but I must be prudent and should not jump to conclusions. I miss my classes. They had given me pleasure, for the classroom was my forum. There I could speak freely of the history that to me is self-evident; there I could narrate my hopes and, most of all, my fears. I looked upon my students in the light of my own experience; I did not hesitate to tell them that I not only had the authority of facts, but that it was my conviction that our worst enemy was ourselves, our vanity, our pride, and our desire for honor.
I marvel at my own resilience sometimes, and I am beginning to understand why it is possible for me to get along with D. I know why he is a success; he told me the other day that he follows all the Commandments, particularly the eleventh: Never get caught! But he is a peasant and a loudmouth, and these shortcomings may one day prove to be his undoing. There is no doubt about it: he gets things don
e, perhaps because he is a Kano, and maybe, because he knows power and he traces its very origin. From him, at least, I have learned never to trust clerks.
I sometimes tell myself that if I were only someone like R I wouldn’t be opening my mouth too much, particularly if I am not too seriously involved with my own statements and speeches. The final draft of the speech on steel appealed to him because I now see his vision of himself in Philippine history. More than anything, he sees himself as the champion of the new class, the entrepreneurs, although he himself belongs to the old import-export elite. It is because of his desire to be on top of the wave, on the frontline of innovation, in the phalanx of progress, that he now champions this steel mill. Of course, there is money in it for him. I will not be surprised if he cuts not a single line from the speech introducing his bill that will make the new steel industry not only tax-exempt but also the recipient of government subsidy until that time when it will be able to rise on its own feet.
And because I helped prepare it, I am both flattered and angry at myself for having been in this situation, where I no longer know how to define my own independence. And yet I find myself agreeing with what R publicly declares. Steel is the basis of industrialization. It is a part of our life, it is all around us, in the very air we breathe. We cannot move without steel; it is the basis of our transport system. The clothes we wear were woven, tailored on things made of steel. The can opener with which we open tinned goods, everything we touch has been processed by steel.
But in the end, and this I now say to myself: steel rusts.
I do not know if I did right today when I faced the settlers from Cotabato; I suppose there was nothing I could have done even if I wanted to help them, for they came with nothing on their side save brave words, and an appeal to the sentiments of men like D. It is true, after all, that they were dispossessed by the Villa Development Corporation when the corporation set up its cotton plantation. They had this small-town lawyer and, if I must now recall my own experience in Pangasinan, this lawyer must have milked them dry. There was something in his manner, in the ingratiating way he talked with me, that made me sure he had taken those poor people for a ride, feeding them false hopes. What could I tell them? It is true I speak their language; it is true that my origins are no different from theirs, but I cannot dissuade Papa to act on their behalf, for I already know what he would say if I tried. He was not, after all, breaking any law. He has always been that smart. He did everything properly—the application for the land rights, the declaration of the property as public land; if he bribed his way through some government bureau in Manila or in Cotabato, that is his business. I did not want to see the entire delegation, because to do so would have been most painful. I suppose Papa did right in having me see the leaders not only because I could speak Ilocano but, perhaps, because he knew that I could explain to them in careful terms what the problems were. It is not easy to undo what has been done. Papa does not usually go around attending to details. If he had to do this, he certainly would have no time. His men out there certainly must have told him everything was going fine, that the land for expansion was taken from public lands.
The Samsons: Two Novels; (Modern Library) Page 15
