The Samsons: Two Novels; (Modern Library)

by F. Sionil Jose

  Though he was in his early forties, Juan Puneta looked more like thirty. He had obviously taken good care of his body for he did not have a paunch and his arms were muscular and wiry. He kept cracking his fingers.

  Our sangria came. “Salud,” he said, raising his glass to me, his eyes shining. Then I saw it. The eyes, cagey and shifty, gave him away—not his gait, not his mannerisms. There was in his eyes, now that he was grinning, a certain sharpness. I had never objected to homosexuals—there was no reason for me to do so. In Cabugawan, we had one for a neighbor; he lived with young boys from the other barrios and made a living frying bananas, making rice cakes, and selling them. His cakes—particularly his cochinta and his puto—were superior to any other in our town. To to and I had a couple of classmates, too, and they were entitled to their preferences as long as they did not bother me. I like girls, always did, and I did not care to change.

  I was amused by Juan Puneta because he looked so masculine, so very macho, and yet Lily had told me otherwise. He did the ordering—fried squid to start with, then bouillabaisse, which he said was excellent, and tripe, then dessert and coffee.

  The squid came, deep fried and cut into small pieces, crunchy, almost like chicharrón. Around us was the babble of businessmen, the denizens of Pobres Park, the social elite, and I could pick up snatches of their talk, prices of minerals, saucy gossip, trips to Europe. “You know, Pepito,” Puneta said, getting serious; he had exhausted all the small talk—the weather, the increasing anarchy. “You must really give attention now to organizational work. I listened to you last time, you know. You can really organize in the rural areas. How do you feel about it?”

  He gave some money to the Brotherhood, so I must not antagonize him. I must be nice, polite. Meekly: “I don’t really know, sir.”

  “Don’t ‘sir’ me,” he said in mock anger. “Really, I am not your teacher, and don’t let my age and my Ph.D. intimidate you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He laughed. “Well, if you cannot call me by my nickname, which is Juan, then a plain Mr. will do.”

  “Yes, Mr. Puneta,” I had no intention of calling him Dr., not after the way Mrs. Hortenso had talked against him. “I have not given it any thought, but whatever assignment will be given to me, I will do it.”

  “Excellent!” he enthused, cracking his knuckles again.

  The bouillabaisse came. “This is the specialty of the Casino,” Puneta said. I remembered reading about it as a dish from Marseilles, a thick soup with pieces of fish, clams, crab—seafood chop suey—and I liked it.

  Then he asked me about the former Huk commander in the barrio.

  “He is writing,” I said. I held back, not sure whether I should tell him what Ka Lucio had told me, the handbook he was doing, the list of former members we should see—in Laguna, Tarlac, Pampanga, Nueva Ecija, Pangasinan, Bicol, even in far off Panay, in Mindoro, and in Mindanao. I did not know they had organized that far. I thought the Huk movement was confined to Central Luzon, particularly Tarlac and Pampanga.

  “What is he writing?”

  “His memoirs,” I lied. “He is very sick.”

  “I should see him then,” Juan Puneta said. He seemed thoughtful. “I am sure he needs help.”

  Our tripe came. I had expected us to discuss politics; I wanted to find out how well he knew Philippine communism—the subject of his Cambridge dissertation—and how intellectually sharp he was. I asked him if I could read his thesis, but he dismissed my request with an imperious wave of the hand. “Just one of those academic requirements,” he demurred. “Better read the new collection of essays that I have written; it will be published soon.” Then, without any warning, he asked if I had ever gone whoring.

  I was caught off guard. I fumbled and could not reply. He shook a finger at me and grinned: “You seem more interested in politics than in sex.”

  I expected him to proposition me then, but he continued blithely: “Revolutionaries should not have emotional entanglements with women. It is bad because they will then be vulnerable. You can always go whoring for release.”

  I did not speak.

  He suspected, perhaps, that I was not pleased. “I mean it,” he said. “It is one way by which you can get release. Are you twenty already, Pepito?”

  “Twenty-four going on twenty-five,” I said.

  “Well, you are at the height of your sexual powers. There is nothing unhealthy about whoring—if you are careful.”

  “I have never tried, sir,” I said.

  “Try it sometime,” he said. “It will keep your mind away from girls who will smother you.”

  “I have not even—” I thought about what Lily had told me, “tried anything tamer—like the sauna and massage.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “You must be a Puritan, then, working with that priest in Tondo.”

  “No, sir,” I said, “I certainly am not.”

  He shook his head and went on grinning: “Well, saunas, that is one place I have never been to.”

  How easily he lied. “But try going to one, find out which is best, then someday”—his eyes twinkled—“we can go together.”

  Much, much later I thought about the bizarre meeting and wondered why Juan Puneta had wanted to see me. He had talked about women, he was bragging about his techniques, how necessary it was to have women under male control. He had a very extensive collection of pornography, he said, which I must see some time. But more than that, I must visit him at his home, and he made a date right there—a week from Friday, at nine in the morning; I should come to his office and we would go target-shooting—no, not in a cat house, at his home, he had a shooting range there. He also collected guns and I must learn how to shoot and shoot well if I am going to be in the vanguard of the Brotherhood. As a matter of fact, he said, if I wished, we could go to his house that very moment. But I told him I had classes in the afternoon, and it was past three.

  He signed the chits, asked if I wanted anything other than the small glass of anisado‡—my first drink of liqueur—I downed it in one gulp and burned my throat. The sangria had gone to work, the anisado, too, and I was voluble and careless. No, I did not want anything more. I should go straight to school; our finals were at hand and I did not want to lose my scholarship. If not for this I would go with him target-shooting, not only in his house.

  He laughed heartily, took me to his car, and drove me off to Recto. As we neared the university and its traffic, he took some fifty-peso bills out of his wallet and handed them to me. I did not want to take them, but he thrust them into my pocket. “It’s not for you,” he said, grinning, “for the Brotherhood. Go to saunas—look for the best, then be my teacher. And after that the target practice.”

  I did not feel that I should tell Professor Hortenso what had transpired—the talk about sex techniques and target-shooting—it was too incredible to recount. But at least Puneta did not proposition me. When I got to my class, I counted the money—it was exactly five hundred pesos. It was the second time I had that much money, and for sure, within the week, Roger and the boys would have another feast in Panciteria Asia or some place fancier. And maybe, at long last, I would also be able to visit Lily where she worked.

  The Colonial is in a three-story boxlike building with a red neon sign in Gothic on its facade. A blue-uniformed guard stood by the ornately filigreed door. He opened it as I got out of the taxi and greeted me, “Good afternoon, sir.” I stepped into a red-carpeted lobby. Giant shell lamps illumined the reception area, and though it was only half past two in the afternoon, it already seemed like dusk, for all the heavy maroon drapes were drawn.

  The reception desk was crowded with business types. It was rush hour, as many of the “guests” had arrived from their lunches in nearby restaurants.

  I walked up to the desk after the crowd had thinned. Two girls were manning it and one asked without smiling, “What is it, sir? Executive or VIP?” Lily had told me the Executive cubicles were more expensive, but what did I care?
I had Puneta’s money.

  “Executive,” I said. I took one fifty-peso bill and handed it to her, then asked, “Is seventeen busy?”

  She looked at the listing before her and said, “No.” She picked up a microphone and called: “Seventeen, ready.” A boy behind the desk handed me a key with a big, white plastic holder.

  “Third floor, sir,” the girl said.

  I went up the carpeted flight; at the landing a boy asked if I would like to shower and steam first. He guessed, I suppose, that this was my first time in the Colonial. “What is your number, sir?”

  I showed my key, and he guided me to the cubicle—so dim I could not see anything. “I am blind here,” I said. The boy laughed; he opened a cabinet at a corner and in a sudden flood of yellow light, they jumped up—the low platform with a foam rubber mattress, an extra towel, rubber slippers encased in plastic.

  “You put your things here, sir,” the boy explained, pointing to the cabinet. “Lock it and bring your key. The shower and steam bath are in front of the door where you came in.”

  I thanked him, then sat on the pad. I closed the cabinet with the lightbulb, and the room was thrown into darkness again. I took off my shoes but did not strip; I had no intention of taking a shower, much less a massage. The door had a small glass window, but a piece of cardboard had been taped over it so that I had some privacy. The door, however, had no latch and could be opened at any time; the panels between the cubicles did not go all the way down to the floor; there was a narrow slit between.

  I lay on the pad, wondering how Lily would react when she came in. It did not take long. The door opened. “Sir,” she asked tentatively. “Will it be oil? Or lotion?”

  “Saliva,” I whispered.

  She paused, edged closer and peered down. She was used to the darkness and now so was I. Her dark eyes grew wide, then she bent down and embraced me, saying huskily; “Pepe, Pepe.” She started laughing. “Now, sir, would you like your sensation first or the massage?”

  I kissed her, and she responded warmly, her lips tasting of promises. Her hand wandered down.

  “Hell,” I said under my breath. “You do that to everyone!”

  “Pepe,” she said pushing me away. “It is my job, I told you!”

  “Hell,” I repeated.

  “Are we going to quarrel? Did you come here to insult me? You paid fifty pesos for this, have you forgotten?”

  “It was not my money,” I said. It was senseless being sullen over something I could do nothing about. My anger left quickly. I had come here to see her; I knew what to expect. And she had kissed me. After some silence, “Two nights from now, after my last exam, I will take Roger and the rest out—we will have a wonderful dinner—and if you want to come …”

  “I cannot leave till midnight, Pepe. You are my first guest,” she said. “I don’t really like teenagers, and you look like one with your long hair. The boy told me.”

  “What’s wrong with teenagers?”

  “TY, that’s what. Thank you. No tips. Gorios, that’s what we call them. We’d rather have them fat and old—they tip well, most of them anyway.”

  I lay down again.

  “I’d really like to give you a massage,” she said, holding my hand. “I am very good, you know. Hard. I have several Japanese guests; they come really for the massage, and they like me because they say I am ichi bang.§”

  “I just wanted to see you,” I said. “Now that I can afford it. Juan Puneta gave me the money for this.”

  She drew back in surprise, then said, “You should have showered and taken a steam bath. He is there! Now!”

  “He told me he has never been to a sauna.”

  “Shit!” she said. “You want to surprise him?” She stood up and headed for the door, but I held her back.

  “I’ll see Girlie,” she said. “She is his regular. I told you, he just talks with her.”

  “Don’t tell him, promise.”

  She laughed then went out.

  In another minute, she was back. “We are in luck,” she said. “They will be in the next cubicle. We can eavesdrop or even peep.”

  She lay beside me; we were cramped, but that was what I wanted.

  “I have been thinking, Pepe,” she said after a while. “Mostly about myself—what I will do. I’ll go back to school and finish fine arts. But I have forgotten how to draw. I am in demand now—all of us who are young and good-looking. But how long will that be?”

  “You study in the morning,” I said. “Don’t hurry, even if it will take six years. At least you will be prepared for a better job. I hope you have been saving.”

  “What will you finally take?” It was my turn to be questioned, but before I could answer, the door next to ours opened. The girl was saying, “I will really try my best, but very few teenagers come here.”

  The cracking of knuckles was enough to convince me. Puneta’s voice when he replied was so low I could not understand a word.

  Lily whispered, “Didn’t I tell you? He has been asking Girlie to proposition teenagers for him. Five hundred pesos—as high as that!”

  I shuddered; it was five hundred pesos he had given me. “What really does he do here?” I asked.

  “I told you,” she said. “He comes here almost every day, at this time, when we have the most number of guests, or shortly after five, rush hour. He takes time in the steam room, in the shower, looking at all those pricks. Then he comes in, but refuses a massage. He always takes Girlie, waits for her if she is busy.” She got off the pad again, motioned me to peep through the slit between the rooms.

  I bent over; the other cubicle was as dark as ours, but I could see the girl sitting on the pad, and the pale, handsome profile of Juan Puneta.

  “Enough,” I said, pulling her back to my side.

  Her face was close to mine. “Even your hair smells sweet,” I said.

  “Wait till I have had five guests,” she said. Then, seriously, “Pepe, I am worried about you. There is a general— Army officers come here, you know. This general, he is very proud of his prick. They call him a general’s general. I have never serviced him, but the girls who have say it is really big. Well, he told one of the girls that the army is really going to be harsh on the demonstrators.”

  “They are already doing that.”

  “It could be worse. What will happen to you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe, in the end, I will go to the mountains.”

  “You will be alone and you will be hungry.”

  “That would not be anything new,” I said. “I can live on coconuts, green bananas, and papayas.”

  “The mosquitoes and the leeches will finish you. And you will have malaria and other fevers.”

  “At least I will not be getting gonorrhea. No saunas there.”

  “You are wrong,” she raised her voice above the whisper we were conversing in.

  I kissed her chin. “No nightclubs then,” I said.

  “And no fucking.”

  “I can always masturbate.”

  “Suppose I did that for you? Suppose I went with you?”

  “Is that all you will do? You have no skills, really. You cannot take dictation and type. I don’t think you can carry loads.”

  “You make me feel so worthless,” she said.

  “But you are good enough for me.”

  “Will you really take me if I came along?”

  She sounded serious. “No,” I said.

  “I will wait for you then.”

  “Shit,” I said. “You will wait forever.”

  The other room was now aglow; Juan Puneta was finished and was obviously dressing. I was tempted to rise and go to his room and confront him, but it was his money that I was using, and besides, I was not ready to make an enemy of him.

  “We can peep through our door,” Lily said, standing, and that was what we did. Puneta went out quickly, and I wondered if he had his Continental with him.

  “No,” Lily said, “he always comes here
alone, by taxi, I think.”

  I had time so I tarried even after Lily had changed the sheets. She had asked me to linger—there was no one waiting for her. She would have been informed if there was.

  “Your unlucky day,” I said. I gave her a fifty-peso tip, which she did not want to take, but I thrust it down the pocket of her white skirt. Before we reached the reception area, she kissed me; then I stepped out into the blinding sunlight.

  I went to Professor Hortenso’s house the next day, for he had left word for me in the office of the school paper. Mrs. Hortenso opened the door, but before she did she peered out of the grilled window into the street.

  “Come in, Pepe,” she said as if she was in a hurry, then bolted the door. “Have you eaten?” She knew I had rushed from school to Dapitan and the plates were ready on the table. She was thoughtful and kind. Someday, I told myself, if and when I got married, it would be to someone like her.

  Professor Hortenso sat beside me while Mrs. Hortenso came out with a plate of steaming rice, fried bangus and shrimp sinigang. I was really hungry. He watched me eat, and between gaps of silence he talked about the finals we were going through. No, I found the examinations easy, and I did not even have all the textbooks; I just listened to the lectures instead of letting my mind wander.

  “You will maintain your scholarship then,” he said happily. “You have to. The university will no longer accept activists who are not bona fide students, and those who are on the leadership list are under surveillance; they have to be good to stay, not only in the scholarship rolls but in the university itself. The army is applying pressure.”

  I was silent. “And be careful, Pepe,” Mrs. Hortenso said. “Do you know that they have been watching us for the last two days? They were there—” she thrust her chin toward the street corner. “In a jeep. They had cameras. I noticed them yesterday when I went to market. I am not naturally suspicious, but I saw them; they were watching the house.”

  I turned to Professor Hortenso. He nodded slowly.

  When I had finished, he stood up and said, “Let us go out for a walk.”