They accompanied him to the door, telling him to be careful because this was Antipolo and not Rosales, and danger lurked in the crevices and alleys. He stepped out into the night after appropriate assurances that he could really take care of himself here in Antipolo, which was the beginning. Would this also be the end?
The realization that it was swept over him and strangled all hope, all sense of enduring life. He had gone so far, trying to leave Rosales and then Antipolo. He could not return to Rosales now, not anymore, for he could not face Emy, whom he had wronged, or look into the eyes of his son, who would grow up in a world he might not want and might never be able to change. But the boy would be different. He would take after his mother, who would dote on him, teach him, and imbue him with a courage as true as blood. That was it: the boy would be rooted in the land, unlike him who had severed his roots. And while he could hope for the boy and keep him always in his thoughts, Tony could not reach out to him, hold his hand, claim kinship with him. He had sinned not only against Emy but also against this son and, from the depths of him, the agony was wrenched out: Emy, forgive me, forgive me.
There was no warm hand to touch him and tell him everything was going to be all right. There was no Emy to loosen the deadening grip of what he had discovered—that it was she whom he really loved; it was Emy after all who was a part of him, who could have been his salvation if he had possessed but a fraction of her faith.
He was here in this desolate and meaningless geography, this Antipolo. Yes, this would be the end, when all his life he had tried to run away from it, repudiate it, this ugly street and its clinging smell of old ammonia and foul decay. And now he was back, inexorably, it seemed, because there was nowhere else he could turn, not Rosales and Emy, who had sent him away, not the university, which he had discarded, and not Newspaper Row, either, because there his frustration would rekindle itself into that wild, consuming fire that had already burned out men of more vigor and vision than he. Would he end up like Godo and Charlie, afraid of the slightest stirring of the wind, who had sublimated their fears and their insecurity with senseless bravado? No, none of these alternatives were for him.
The knowledge that he had been rejected implicitly by everyone, that there was really no place he could turn to now for one single, saving bit of peace, of belonging, shriveled all his pride. He had never felt as lonely as he felt now—not even in America, in that iron-cold winter, nothing of this terrible loneliness had ever touched him before, for it was too huge, too engulfing to be defined. Although, of course, it was not new, for this loneliness was actually the final growth of that greater loneliness called truth or living that had corroded him from the start without him actually being aware.
Perhaps it would help if he cried just a while. Then the ache would be eased. But only a sob broke in his throat. No tears came to his eyes, and the tightening vise upon his chest seemed to choke all blood and breath.
He turned to the alley that ended in the railroad tracks, and from the distance he heard the unmistakable whistle of the train—the Bicol Express, perhaps—echoing in the early dawn.
Now the vision was clear and reassuring, as if he had vaulted the last terrifying abyss of doubt. It was not so much really what Carmen had done that tortured his mind; he could forgive her easily, for he was, after all, broad-minded and capable of taking a less personal attitude to her treachery—did he not believe in the ulog and in the primordial faithlessness of man’s urges? Perhaps they could still make something out of their marriage and he could still live with her and share with her the beneficence of the Villas, making believe that this was what he wanted, this surfeit of ease.
But it was not as simple as that; it was not so much what she did that was the gentle nudge, the flimsy straw, the last turn of the screw—it was what she had told him, what was behind the act, inconsequential in its implication but too damning, too grievous in magnitude and meaning to be ignored; the act had peeled off the last skein that had shielded him from the truth.
What he would do now was not for Carmen, that would be granting her too much value. It would be for himself more than anyone. It would be the only act by which he could illustrate to himself his own brand of courage. He was, after all, his father’s son.
He brought to mind the grandfather he had never seen, the acolyte who served God and had written in Latin of ambition and humility. And he wondered how that brave and illustrious forefather had died, if in that last moment of lucidity and conscience he had believed, had no cankering doubts, as Tony now doubted—not only the wisdom but the very existence of a just and powerful God who rewarded virtue and goodness so that these might be perpetuated and spread like blessings upon the face of a land that was damned. You kill Him who doubt Him. The thought came briefly, but in this hour, surrounded by poverty’s bleak conquest, by need’s sorriest shapes, he could feel no piety, not the slightest twinge of regret for what he must do. It was no sin. It was no sin, and if there was sin, it was not his but those of his fellow men who had shaped him, who had molded him so that in the end he had no choice but to succumb to the illusions of his own righteousness when he was neither right nor beyond cavil. He could still atone for all this, could still wipe out the huge and shameful blot, could be contrite and win virtue again, but he could not pray. My God, he repeated in anguish, I am doing no wrong; I cannot repent, I cannot pray!
There was no shred of doubt in his mind now. He had been deluded; for he was human after all, and the desires that were stirred in him were really as ancient as life itself. He was not the first to have succumbed to them. He accepted his humanity now and, therefore, recognized his capacity for sin. With a little more striving—and courage—he would have been redeemed not from God’s hell but from the endless turmoil only conscience could make. There was honor in death, and if he was a traitor, or a weakling, he would not depart as one.
How many times had he conjured it and never realized that it was the only way, the only honorable thing for one like him to do? He had been weak, he knew this fully now, and the knowledge was seared upon his breast with all the pain and wisdom a child attains when, for the first time, he reaches out to a living flame. And this … this would be his only act of strength and, perhaps, faith. He would do it now or he would not be able to think of it seriously on the morrow, when the sun would be true and it would deceive him again as it had already deceived him—in Boston during that bleak winter when he subsisted on nothing but stale bread, and even in his hometown, in Pangasinan, when he thought he would never be able to go to college. It was too late to write a letter, and besides, a letter would do no good. It would even be useless. In the first place, he did not want to be melodramatic about what was inevitable, for he could not blame anyone for it, not even Carmen. It would perhaps be a bad joke that she would not dare discuss in public when she found out—as surely she would.
He looked at his watch, and the luminous dial shone in the dark. It was almost five and the morning star still blazed like a solitaire among the lesser stars winking out from the black bowl that arched above.
Antonio Samson breathed deeply. It was strange that he could not detect the usual odor redolent of human decay, of rot and blackish mud in the canals along the tracks. The air that he sucked in seemed fresh and clean instead. It could be the night, he told himself, for the night bathed everything, and he could not see the wobbly houses and all their sorry shapes.
He stooped and touched a rail. The steel was cold and unfeeling. The sentiment was again a cliché, but the wheels of the train—like Fate—would be warm.
I’ll be a mess, he thought, and shuddered, but only for an instant. “I’ll be a mess,” he repeated, this time aloud, and for the first time in his life he really did not care how it would appear or how it would feel when Death finally came.
CHORUS
Lawrence Bitfogel, specialist in agricultural economics, arrived in Manila in early December. He was being thrown into the godforsaken dump called Vientiane, in Laos, and Manila wo
uld be his last civilized stop before proceeding there. So, for the two weeks that he would be in the Philippine capital, he had arranged for himself a full schedule that would set his perspective in better alignment. For him the Philippines was now a more interesting object of study after he had stayed in South America for two years. He had seen the influence of Spanish civilization in the continent and the far-reaching impact of that civilization upon the traditional society of the Indian peasant. He wondered if the pattern of feudal exploitation and development such as that operating in South America had been transposed to the Philippines. This scholarly interest was, of course, secondary. What he wanted most was to see Antonio again and check on the “little lies” Tony had told him about the country. The bare-breasted damsels and the trial marriages in Mountain Province—how Tony Samson had spiced his stories!
It was early dawn when the Super-Constellation flew in and the lights of the city spread out below and sparkled like jewels spilled out of a basket. It was a full two weeks before Christmas, but the small airport was already decked with Christmas lanterns and multicolored lights, and from the jukebox of the restaurant across the customs zone, “Jingle Bells” blared forth in all its raucousness. Indeed, as Tony had told him, he would not feel homesick in Manila, because the city and the Filipinos had long been hopelessly Americanized. The airport, just as Tony had described, was ramshackle and dirty. It seemed flooded with that stale odor common to all government buildings—of cuspidors and disinfectants and tobacco—and the customs officials were extraofficious. He did not mind these things too much, for, as he said, he had taken a liking to the Philippines and to that thin, smart-alecky Filipino who had shared a room with him in Cambridge for four years.
The surprise he planned never materialized, for that same afternoon Larry learned of Tony’s death.
One cannot live with a fellow for four years without feeling an attachment to him. And now he was too late even for the wake.
He arrived at the campus shortly before four, and for once in his travels, the new scenery did not catch his eye. Thinking about it afterward, all he recalled of that trip from the agency to the university was the greenery flitting by, the paper lanterns, the wooden houses, and the stretches of grass. He could not quite accept the fact of Tony’s death, of all people. And he recalled one of Tony’s jokes, adapted from the original Scottish tale, about half of the populace of an Ilocano town committing suicide when a funeral parlor operator, as an advertising gimmick, made it known that all funeral services for a week would be free.
He thought grimly about death and the possibility of its striking him, too quickly and without a by-your-leave. There was so much promise in Tony, so much virgin hope and dogged dedication. Young men like him—and Lawrence enthused once more over those intellectual jousts in Maple Street—young men like Antonio Samson should not die before they have proven themselves.
With this, Dean Lopez readily agreed, and when the aging professor learned that this inquisitive American had been a roommate of Antonio Samson, his manner softened. “The good die young,” he said, rising from his swivel chair and offering the American a bottle of Coke, which the dean’s secretary had brought in.
Larry took the bottle, said thanks, and was silent again.
“I had high hopes for him,” Dean Lopez said. He moved to the window and looked out at the sunny campus. “You know, I would have seen to it that he got far in the academic world, but he had other ideas. Did you know that he quit the university and forfeited everything?”
The dean had wheeled around. Larry shook his head. “That’s unusual. It was the last thing he would have done.”
“I thought so, too,” Dean Lopez said, “but you know how young people are. They have ideas—particularly those who have gone to the United States and returned with Ph.D.’s. They think they can change the world in one sweep. I’m not saying that Antonio Samson was immature. He was very close to my heart. Why, everyone knows that it was I who helped him get that scholarship.”
“I know that,” Larry said. “He told me so himself. He held you in very high esteem, sir. He wanted to work under you, to follow your direction especially in this project he was working on—the Ilocano migration. I gather that you are an Ilocano, too.”
Dean Lopez smiled. “Well …” after a long pause, “he was impatient. In this country people must have patience.”
“I always had the impression that he was patient,” Larry said softly. “When he was working on his doctorate, particularly, I know the research problems that he encountered. Anyone without patience would have given up.”
Dean Lopez nodded. After another awkward silence he resumed talking: “His doctoral dissertation—his study on the ilustrados and the Philippine Revolution—is already out. His wife had it published about two months ago. And I hear that his notes on the Ilocano migration will also come out soon.”
Dean Lopez strode to the bookcase behind his desk and picked out a new, shiny volume. He handed the book to the young American.
Larry opened it, the words swam before his eyes, and in the acknowledgment he saw his name together with those of the other people Tony Samson had consulted. And in his mind’s eye there loomed again the old room and Tony Samson bent over the walnut table, laboring in longhand, his frail figure bundled up in his woolens, while outside snow fell and glistened on the windowpane. He remembered, too, their long discussions about vested groups, wars, and revolutions, about the aristocracy and the bourgeoisie always banding together to protect their business interests and collaborating with whoever the victors were when the bloodletting was over. It’s a pattern that will always persist in whatever climate, in whatever country, Lawrence Bitfogel had said, and Tony Samson had answered that it was not always so, not in the Philippines, anyway, because the ilustrados were also revolutionists.
Larry found himself smiling. “Yes,” he said softly, returning the book to Dean Lopez, “we had wonderful times together.”
Then Larry asked how Antonio Samson died.
“You don’t know?” Dean Lopez asked. He went back to his chair, shaking his head. “It’s a sad story. They say it was an accident. It happened very early in the morning and they said that he was drunk. He had just left a party or something and had gone to visit his relatives in Antipolo. The train engineer said that he tried to stop …”
“God!” Larry said hoarsely.
Dean Lopez nodded. “Tony Samson’s back was to the train. He was trying to cross the tracks. There’s a double track in Antipolo, you know. It was an accident—all that drink. You see now how he had dissipated himself? It’s this thing called civilization and his hurry to get to the top.”
“And his wife?”
“You don’t have to worry about her,” Dean Lopez said with a smile. “That’s the least of the things you should worry about. I’ve never seen her, but they say she is very pretty—a mestiza. And that’s not all. You know who her father is? Manuel Villa. The Villa Building on the boulevard. Real estate, plywood, shipping, steel …”
Lawrence Bitfogel sighed. “So, Tony Samson didn’t have it bad after all. If he had only lived …”
When he called Don Manuel thirty minutes later, Larry was pleased to find the entrepreneur eager to see him. “Yes, Professor Bitfogel. Tony did talk about you. Look, you don’t know how happy I am to know that someone close to Tony is in town. Are you doing anything tonight?”
Larry said no.
“Good!” the voice boomed. “Don’t leave your hotel. Someone will pick you up at seven. I would be very pleased to have you join us tonight for dinner. There are a few friends who are dropping in. One of my boys got elected barrio lieutenant of Pobres Park. And a friend is leaving for Rio and this is his despedida, too. You may be able to take the talk away from business. It’s so depressing—” Larry noticed a sudden softness, almost sorrow, in the businessman’s voice. Then the lilt returned, “Say you will come, won’t you? And if you get bored I’ll have you taken back to your hotel right away.�
��
“I’d be very happy to come, sir,” Larry said.
He took the warning about being bored to heart—one can never tell what will happen at a dinner with businessmen, who know nothing except how to make money. Afterward, thinking of that evening in the house of Manuel Villa and in the affluent appointments of Pobres Park, he knew that he would never be able to attend a gathering as enlightening and as transcendentally provoking as that again. He never regretted having attended the party in the sense that it had revealed to him the nature of the Philippines and the mighty odds against which people like Tony and well-meaning Americans like himself must pit themselves. It came to Larry with the clarity of lightning; under such onerous pressures, there was not much that Tony could have done.
It was Ben de Jesus and his wife who picked him up, and when he went down to the lobby, they were having martinis at the bar and already had a glass waiting for him. The lobby looked pleasant and cool. The capiz lamps were all lighted. But for the other Caucasians who were there in their charcoal-gray suits, Larry would have felt awkward in his navy blue suit. Ben was in barong Tagalog and his wife, a lumpy woman, wore a blue cotton satin frock that made her look formidable.
After Larry had started to sip his drink, Ben said, “You sure do look like an Ivy Leaguer—three-button suit, crew cut. You are not yet thirty, are you?”
“I am,” Larry said. “I’m thirty-two.”
“I can’t fancy an Ivy League man in this neck of the woods,” Ben continued. His wife, all aglow, punctuated her husband’s small talk with appropriate giggles.
“I’m in government. Agricultural economics,” Larry explained briefly.
“Well, I majored in farm management,” Ben said expansively. They had finished their drink. Ben stood up. He was tall and handsome, and his wife, who was light-skinned, could have been beautiful once. “Farm management—but that doesn’t mean a thing in this bloody country,” Ben continued as they stood below the hotel marquee. Their car, a chauffeur-driven Lincoln, drew up and they got in. “You see, our farms aren’t producing as well as they should. And that’s the reason why I have to be here in Manila, working for Don Manuel. I’m not complaining, mind you.”
The Samsons: Two Novels; (Modern Library) Page 26
