The Samsons: Two Novels; (Modern Library) (49 page)

I should not be walking this late; there were robberies and people did not bother reporting them to the police anymore. I knew a little karate and felt a bit safe; besides, what could they possibly extort from a student like me, walking in the rain perhaps to save jeepney fare? When I got to Recto, however, as if by some heavenly signal, the rain abruptly stopped. It was not a long walk to Dimasalang and Antipolo, and I recalled Mother telling me that she and Father walked this distance when they were students to save on jeepney fare.

It all came to me, hazy and cob webbed like some disordered dream, his visit to Cabugawan, the few things he had written that I had read, fragments of ideas, and through it all, I could not quite understand why Mother kept it away from me, this one truth that would have meant so much, particularly when I was young and would be asked who my father was. It became clearer now, Auntie Bettina and Mother, they both wanted me to be like him, a university professor maybe, so that I could also marry properly—an heiress perhaps.

I could do that, of course, look for a rich girl with a face like a hot cake, with pimples as big as tomatoes, but girls like her were not in Recto; they were in the exclusive colleges, and it would never be my luck or inclination to meet any of them because I considered them beyond my reach.

I was surprised when I arrived in Antipolo to find Lucy waiting in the unlighted
sala
; after a first light knock so Tia Betty and Tio Bert would not waken she was there and whispering, “Pepe, is that you?”

In the darkness, I sought her, but she drew away and asked if I had eaten, and curiously, I was hungry again. She switched on the light; there was food on the table; it was cold, but I did not mind. The abominable vegetable stew that we were fated to eat every day tasted unusually good. She hovered by asking where I had been, what kept me so late, and I beckoned her to come close and when she did, thinking perhaps that I would whisper to her, I fondled her thighs instead. She let me, but her hand went quickly to my side and her pinch was a shock of sharp pain.

She would not let me wash the dishes; she would do it in the morning. I tried to kiss her good night but she eluded me, shaking her head and whispering, “I told you … I told you …,” so I went up the stairs on bare feet; my only pair of shoes were wet and I wondered if they would be dry in the morning.

I was awakened by happy voices downstairs and I recognized the voice of Auntie Bettina. I rushed down in my shorts. When she saw me, she let go of the bundle she was holding, rushed to me, and kissed me. “Now, Pepe, help me with these—” She had brought with her those infernal vegetables, camote tops, eggplants, and bitter melons, a bottle of salted fish, coconut candy, half a sack of rice, mudfish squirming in a buri bag, and, at the bottom, snails—the small kind that I used to gather in the irrigation ditches and in the flooded fields. Tia Betty and Tio Bert were full of admonition: “Bettina, you should not have brought all these … and the taxi fare from the station … I hope you found a taxi with an honest meter. Bettina, we can get all these here, and you know, it may even be cheaper.”

They had to rush off to their jobs and Auntie Bettina, too, had to
go to the Department of Education to follow up on her raise, which had not come for eight years. But I did not have to hurry, and when Lucy had put away everything and even roasted a mudfish, we were all by ourselves again, alive to the promise that had not been fulfilled the evening before.

My first class was World Lit, and when I got there Toto said Professor Hortenso wanted to see me. It was very important. I must not fail to see him before the end of the morning period.

I did not have to go to the Faculty Room after World Lit; Professor Hortenso was waiting for us at the door as we filed out. I had Philippine History next, but he said my teacher would not mind if I was ten minutes late. We went to a corner where the boisterous shuffling of students was muted. He asked if I had ever thought of becoming a writer like my uncle.

“Farthest thing from my thoughts, sir,” I said.

“You can start becoming one then. It is not difficult. What is important is for you to arrange your ideas properly, logically. Then just put them down. Toto told me that you can write.”

I looked at him, puzzled.

“Toto said that your report on Manuel Arguilla was held up as a good example of literary criticism by your teacher.”

I did not realize Toto had taken such an interest in me. “Pepe,” Professor Hortenso was saying, “I am the moderator of the student paper. I am also one of the three judges. The examination will be held at seven in the evening, at the small auditorium. There will be about a hundred participants, maybe more. Take it. It could mean a minor post … and it will make you stand out in school. A scholarship, too. And most important, it would mean a little pocket money.”

Money. Now I could explain my watch, my bankbook even.

I did not go home for lunch. At noon when I told him I’d go home, Toto said I should stay in school and do some research in the library on newspapering so I would be ready for the exam. I had always been honest with him and when he asked why I did not want to stay, I said simply I had to go home to eat. Again, he treated me to lunch and despite my protests shoved a five-peso bill into my pocket. “Return it when you get your pay,” he said.

The exam that afternoon was not difficult, mostly commonsense stuff about headlines, what to present in news stories, things that one should know by instinct after a casual perusal of any newspaper. The essay-writing part was even easier—a nonsense piece about the role of youth in a changing society. I was perhaps the first to finish, but even so, it was already past nine when I got home.

Auntie Bettina and Lucy were watching Nora Aunor on TV when I arrived. Lucy set the table for me and though I had eaten at six I was hungry. What a wonderful change—vegetable stew with mudfish and the snails cooked in coconut milk. While I gorged Auntie Bettina plied me with questions; she was disappointed that I was not in the state university, but I told her that, with my low grades, to aspire for that was futile. She was happy with just the thought that I was going to school. And Cabugawan and Mother? I was anxious to know about her health, for she never mentioned it in her letters though I always asked. She was all right, she was sewing and saving, and I should not worry because Auntie Bettina was there to look after her.

I told her about my taking the editorial exams and this pleased her. I said that I would sleep on the sofa downstairs, and she could take my bed, but no, she would have none of that. As a compromise, she agreed to take my bed—she would be in Manila for a couple of days—and I could sleep on the floor beside her.

With the raucous sounds of Antipolo finally stilled, I decided to ask her. “Every time I look out of that window, Auntie, I see the spot where Father was killed. Why did you not tell me? Why did Mother not tell me?”

She stirred, then sat on the edge of the bed; her face, in the soft light, was troubled. She bit her lip and when she finally spoke, she was almost pleading. “You have to forgive and forget many things, Pepe. So, they told you—we should have expected it. But your mama and I— We had quite forgotten that they knew. In the beginning, your mother wanted to tell you, but so many things held her back. He was always in our minds, Pepe. I remember how you used to ask me, but when you grew older, you stopped. And remember how I used to tell you, you have a good head? Just like your father. And you look so much like him!”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“I do not know,” she said. “When you were small, Manang and
I— We believed it was best that you did not know. They were first cousins, you know, and that was not good. Your uncle being your father. Do you understand, Pepe?”

“I don’t,” I said, although it did not matter anymore. “They do it all the time now. It would not have made any difference.”

“Then your father got married,” Tia Bettina said. “It was not your mother’s fault, or his. He did not know you were born. Your mother— She wanted his marriage to succeed. His wife was very wealthy. And someday, when you are through with college, I hope you will marry just as well.”

So this was the purpose of my education: to marry well. It was all so clear and simple.

“Why was I not told?” I insisted.

“Does it matter now? What is important for you to remember is that your mother did everything to make life easy for you, to provide for you, and that she did it alone.”

She did not have to tell me this, and I was humbled by it. “Stay in my place, Auntie, just one moment.”

She was silent. I had to know so I asked again: “Whose fault was it? What did Mother do wrong?”

She answered quickly, “Your mother is an honorable woman. Be proud of her. I do not know anyone else who would do what she did, not just with honor but with pride. So you see us quarreling sometimes, but that is just between sisters. I know what she has done, not just for you but also for your father. She would rather suffer.”

“Why didn’t he come and see her? When he visited us long ago, did he know? Why didn’t he take care of her? And if Mother did no wrong, then it was he. It was he!”

She shushed me; I would wake up my relatives. She got off the bed and sat beside me. “Pepe,” she said, “it was not his fault either. No one else’s. They were not fated from the beginning. You will grow older and you will understand. He was a good man; do not hate him.”

I shook my head. “Whatever you say cannot change my feelings toward him.”

“He tried,” she said. “I know. But he died.”

“He was a liar,” I said. “His book—all those principles … he could not even face the simplest responsibility. How could he have written such things?”

“Believe me, Pepe,” she was now distraught. “He was the best Gabugawan could produce. He was good, honest. You should be proud of him, now that you know.”

“I will always remember him in shame,” I said.

She went back to bed after patting me on the shoulder. A baggage train thundered by, throwing its light on the walls, shaking the house. From down the alley, a balut vendor called out, then the faulty silence of Antipolo once more.

I could not sleep; questions crowded my mind. “Auntie?”

She stirred. “Yes, Pepe?”

“How did it start?”

“Your mother and he— They were both here, in this house, but they knew each other in Cabugawan.”

“What was he like? His picture in his book …”

“He was good-looking,” her voice quiet with remembering. “And he was very good in school. A full scholar. That was how he managed to study in the United States. The best university there. He also went to Spain—and yes, he spoke Spanish. Imagine someone in our family speaking Spanish! He looked just like— Look in the mirror. Same eyes, same wide brow. And he also read a lot.”

“I don’t want to be a teacher,” I said.

“Not like me, but like him.”

“I will not marry into a rich family.”

“It is too early to tell,” she said, smiling.

“And I am sure I will not dishonor any girl or bring into this world an illegitimate child.”

The July night was cool, frogs announced themselves noisily in the ditch below, and the raucous talk of late passersby walking on the tracks drifted to us, broken and incessant. Far away, the siren of a police car or an ambulance wailed, the snort of jeepneys making their last rounds. It was long past midnight, but I could not sleep. There was this last question that ached to be asked, the answer to which could, perhaps, unravel a skein without end. Finally: “Did he really commit suicide?”

My aunt was silent for a time then, almost in a whisper: “I had hoped your mother would tell you everything. After your father died, she visited Carmen Villa. It was a very difficult meeting. She was in a sanitarium, she was deaf and very thin. Your mama, she never believed Manong Tony was killed in an accident. They had lived for
years here, and he knew the tracks. Carmen Villa confirmed what your mama thought. Carmen told her it was to show his integrity, when he did not have to, when she never doubted it. There were no letters saying good-bye. Your mama— She agreed with Carmen Villa. But how can we tell you this? It was bad enough that you are a—”

“Bastard!” I finished it for her.

She was silent again. “To tell you that your father killed himself, no … you will not understand.”

A cock crowed, and after some time Auntie began to snore softly. The world was asleep, and I was still awake, my mind open to the stirring wind, my ears alert to the sounds of my own torment, which had hounded me since I learned who I was. But now they filled me with a loathing beyond words, made me want to flee not just Cabugawan but even this Antipolo where my father had lived and died.

Auntie Bettina returned to Rosales Sunday afternoon, but before she left she admonished: “Whatever you think, just remember one thing: We love you. You will have many problems, but we will always be there. And your mother—please, do not hurt her anymore.”

“I will not steal again,” I said. “But I am not too sure that I can keep the promise.”

“It was a youthful mistake,” she said.

“I wanted the money,” I said flatly.

“You will get it someday, like your father.”

“Don’t remind me of him.”

“You will also write,” she said, leaving me at the gate, for her bus was getting ready to move. She waved at me before going in, and I stood at the railing till the bus had pulled away.

She was right, of course, about my writing, for on that day Professor Hortenso left a message with Toto, and Toto was all smiles as he went with me and the professor to his apartment in Dapitan. It was not a long walk. And for Toto, it was an honor to be invited with me to Professor Hortenso’s house for lunch.

His wife had prepared the meal just for the two of them and though she welcomed us good-naturedly, I was quite sure she was
displeased at our unannounced presence. Still, she must have gotten used to many an unexpected guest. She asked to be excused while she worked in the kitchen.

We had talked of nothing but the Brotherhood all the way through P. Noval, although I knew, of course, that he had something important to say, but there was time for that. We were almost through with the sour shrimp soup and Mrs. Hortenso was preparing the coffee. Professor Hortenso got up from the dining table, walked over to his desk in one dingy corner, and brought out a bottle of Fundador. I had sipped whiskey once but never brandy, and to my protests he said, “There is always the first time. Just don’t drink it too fast. It is stronger than rum or
cuatro cantos.
Sip it.”