There was plenty of skepticism at first; even Toto thought I was starting out wrong, with more imagination than was practical.
Yet something was missing; all through my first days in the Barrio, I kept thinking of Cabugawan, how very much the people in my village and in Tondo were alike, how they had come to this place, too, with nothing. The government had reclaimed this land from the sea and it was not meant to be a warren of squatter homes. But no one could turn away the hordes of jobless who had taken over the railroad flanks of Antipolo, the vacant lots in Quezon City, and this huge scab of idle land that was meant for commerce.
Ennui hounded me no matter how hard I worked on the school paper, in church. I swept the tile floors and scrubbed them where the mud of many rainy seasons had caked.
I swept the ceiling, too, of cobwebs and helped in the kitchen, although Tia Nena did not want me there. She was often quiet when the three of us ate at the small table in the kitchen. It came bit by bit that she was once in Mandaluyong—the mental hospital.
I tried not to worry about Mother and Auntie Bettina, and I did write to them, saying that I had moved to Tondo, that I had a job, and Mother had answered—it took so long, almost a month—saying how glad she was. She was proud of me, she hoped for me to be somebody, when all I wanted really was to see movies and eat Tia Nena’s wonderful cooking, something she learned when she worked for a Spanish family in her younger days.
I had reveries of Lucy and our first encounter, how we had wrestled and done it on the floor. Memory burned bright; I could not blot her from my mind or diminish my sense of loyalty even when I recalled her affair with my uncle. As she had explained, it was business. Auntie Betty and he were no longer sleeping together—she was in her menopause and sex repelled her. At first Lucy felt that she should leave, but Uncle Bert had not made any physical demands at home, for there Lucy was always a servant. Lucy was helping a sister in college who was “brighter” and could make a future for the farming family in Dumaguete. At first, Tio Bert’s offer was just fifty pesos, but Lucy told him she was a virgin, so he increased it to a hundred—the most he could afford. They would meet during lunchtime, maybe three times a month, near his Binondo office, then they’d trot over to a small hotel with a side entrance in an alley off Juan Luna, and they would spend an hour or two together. It was fifty pesos each visit, fifty pesos that went a long way in helping out the father in Dumaguete and the sister in Manila, who was their only hope.
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.).
Unite, Don’t Be Afraid
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.<
br />
“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.
I released him and he rose, white-faced and shaken.
“Pepe,” he said in a gasp, “you are very good.”
“That’s really nothing,” I said. “You should see what I can do if someone attacks me with a bolo.”
We dressed slowly, then went down, hardly speaking, and walked over to the noodle restaurant below the karate school and ordered mami and siopao. He had no appetite and toyed with his food.
“Please, Roger, do me a favor.”
He looked at me, his face expressionless.
“Don’t ever tell anyone what we did just now,” I said.
He was surprised.
“Not even Toto knows that I take karate,” I continued, which was true. “And if Father Jess knows, I would lose my job. And I won’t be able to go to school anymore. He does not like violence.”
He was now grinning. “Oh, no … no, I will not tell anyone. But, hoy, you should really be a Tayo-Tayo. You will be a very useful member. You can teach us many things.”
“What will the others say?” I asked. “You have been calling Toto and me syoki* … maybe you should join the Brotherhood instead.”
He squirmed, obviously embarrassed. “I will explain. That’s what we call all sacristans anyway,” he said. “As for your group, maybe I became religious. Ha! Father Jess asked me. And who can refuse Father Jess? Why don’t you ask him to invite us for merienda at the kumbento?”
“Lutong macao,” I said. “Can I ask you for other things?”
“Anything. As long as I can do it.”
“You can,” I said. “First, we should form a basketball team. Then we will cement the basketball court so we can play the whole year. We can also use it for meetings. For dances. Your boys should really try to police the whole village—I mean, do the work of real policemen so that there will be no thieves, at least in our place. And our women will be safe. Then we will cement the walks so they will not be muddy.”
He looked at me, eyes blinking.
“You will make a good president, Roger. You have organizational ability. Anyone who can organize your boys the way you have has real talent. I can be your secretary and Toto—you know he is very honest—can be the treasurer. And when everything is ready, we will have a program. Perhaps a dance. But you will have to make a speech. All presidents do.…”
I was going too fast, hindsight told me this; he was grinning, then his face clouded. “But my men, you know, they are not educated.”
“They will be members, but this group will be called the Brotherhood. There will be younger people—Ilocanos, Bikolanos, Pampangos, not just Bisaya. And there will be girls.…”
He laughed. I ordered another siopao, which he now devoured. When he boarded the jeepney back to Tondo, although he had not had even a sip of gin, he was so talkative he could have been mistaken for a drunk.
But Roger did not support the Brotherhood immediately, as I had hoped he would. Looking back, I now realize I had underestimated the native and intuitive wisdom that made him a leader. He did not put it to me directly, how my book learning, my karate, and my being a student were of no consequence, if not utterly useless, in the treacherous and slimy world he knew and dominated through his cunning.
In the weeks that followed I was to catch stray glimpses of it in conversations when he dropped by the kumbento for a cup of coffee and crackers with Tia Nena’s blessings. I had first thought of their rituals, of their secret tattoos, as juvenile antics until I learned they were invoked as a matter of life and death. For it was with these that the gang was welded together in a far more stringent way than the Brotherhood could ever unify its members.
I once told him of my escape from the maniacal drug addict whose car I jumped from, and he had merely smiled patronizingly and said that I had been in no real danger. We talked about how it was in Muntinlupa, what solitary confinement for a month was, the beatings, the sordid indignities; karate was useless, for when one was killed in the penitentiary for infringing on the gang taboos, he was disposed of with skill, the victim unaware. And bloodshed—had I ever seen a man who was being punished, forced to eat his own ears, which he himself had to broil before his judges? And had I ever played bowling with a decapitated head in the cell block alley during a prison riot? The perversion of Kuya Nick … ha! Did I know that sodomy was practiced as a matter of course in the penitentiary?
I had considered all these at first as macho drivel, but knowing that Roger did not have that kind of fetid imagination, I soon came to believe his stories and marvel at how he had lived through them without going insane.
Now, at least, his relations with me were warmer, and he was less pugnacious. Maybe Roger was always patronizing toward Toto because Toto never crossed his path, but as I see it now, he was protective of Toto. Roger could talk condescendingly to him, but only Roger did that, no one in his group had that privilege. I did not understand why until Toto told me that Roger had also come from the Hospicio, but had strayed too far. Toto was the key. But the lock was never turned until much, much later, and when it was finally done, when Roger and his group finally joined, the cost was too great.
After I had set up the Brotherhood in the Barrio I had more time for Lily. She had been reluctant to join and be an auditor, for, as she said, she already had a past—an illegitimate baby that had died, fathered by an American she no longer saw. She was a salesgirl at a Chinese store in Avenida and was away all day, from early morning, when she would battle for a seat on a jeepney at Bangkusay. She attended our Sunday meetings during which we worked out athletic and social programs and even an excursion to Bataan across the bay.
She was out in the alley once, in a printed green dress that had known many washings yet was so becoming, and I wondered aloud why all that beauty was going to waste.
“She would make a good bed partner,” I said more to myself than to anyone, but Toto heard and the ferocity of his reaction surprised me.
“Animal!” he screamed and I turned around to see him glaring at me, his face contorted with rage. “Can there be no other thing but filth in your mind? Don’t you ever know how to show respect? Have you never learned that?”
I rose, and still in a jocular tone said, “Friend, I was just making an observation. Don’t be so angry. I have not done anything to you.”
Then it struck me; all through the days that I had known him, this girl often drifted into our conversation and I had missed it all. Quickly, I added, “Sorry, Toto, I had forgotten you love her.”
He sat down on my cot, his voice quickly drained of anger. “Yes, yes, I love her—and there is nothing I can do.”
And much, much later, I learned how he would have married her had she permitted it because he wanted to give her child a name, his name, although everyone knew the baby was not his.
I once visited her at the Avenida dry goods store where she was supposed to receive eight pesos daily, the minimum wage, but actually got only six. Her shoes and clothes were more expensive for they were all bought on installment. But even in her plain cottons, she was the prettiest in that shop, in the Barrio even, and I often wondered if her Chinese boss molested her. Her disgracia was brought about by a lonely Peace Corps volunteer named Paul Simpson, and it was possible that Lily may have thought that the American was the key to the good life, to America and its cornucopia of Avon cosmetics, double knits, and Detroit excesses that clotted Manila’s streets. Escape from poverty was often possible only through migration to the United States, but the quotas were full, the visas were difficult to get, and thus, whether it was in the anonymity of some rural village or in Tondo itself, it was many a girl’s dream to be married to an American. And those Angeles bar waitresses—dark and homely and raucous—were actually envied when, through some inexplicable alchemy, they were able to entice their American lovers into marrying them. Not so with middle- and upper-class women; while they liked American men, they often balked at the idea of getting married to them, not so much because there was no genuine emotion involved, but because they would be excoriated, mistaken for prostitutes and washerwomen with whom the Americans in the bases trucked.
The Samsons: Two Novels; (Modern Library) Page 41
