The Samsons: Two Novels; (Modern Library) (17 page)

He went to their room, where Carmen was reading the papers in bed, and he sat down beside her. He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Baby,” he said, “when I start working for Papa, don’t you think we should start living alone? Not that I don’t like it here, but we should be able to live our own lives.”

She looked up. “All right, darling. Promise me we will not talk about this subject anymore, because if you do I’m going to say yes.”

He bent over and bit her ear.

“Papa is going to build a cottage at the end of the lot beyond the pool. It will be for us.”

He shook his head. “I mean, if we leave this house we should live away from here.”

“You give me a good reason, darling. If it’s mother you don’t want to see, well, you don’t have to see her at all once the cottage is finished.
Esto
, the entrance will be from the rear, from the other side of the street …”

It was still raining when he reached the boulevard, and the asphalt glistened like a mirror through the dreary, slanting rain. The Villa Building stood alone on a wide lot planted to grass and aroma trees. Its five stories were shielded from the sun, for the building was one of the first in Manila to use horizontal sun-breakers. It was painted in soft cream, was fully air-conditioned, and could have easily passed for a box—well-proportioned and neat—if it did not have an unusual facade that featured a long, sweeping cantilever marquee flanked by two columns of gray Romblon marble. The foyer, too, with its floor and walls of marble, was quietly elegant.

Don Manuel’s office was on the fifth floor or “executive country,” and there was an express elevator to it. Tony was quickly ushered in by the efficient matronly secretary, who often came to the house with Don Manuel’s homework.

A Japanese, whom Don Manuel introduced as a steel expert, and Senator Reyes were getting ready to leave when he went in; they were already at the door, engaged in parting niceties. The senator and his Japanese companion had one thing in common: the porcine face of a man well-fed and contented. The senator’s cheeks were white with talc and he grinned meaninglessly when Don Manuel introduced Tony.

“Ah—” Senator Reyes sighed. His eyes were pouched and flinty. “It’s a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Samson. I respect Ph.D.’s, you know. Well,” he turned to Don Manuel and slapped the entrepreneur on the back, “I hope everything at the university turns out fine. I was there last Monday as you requested. Dr. Samson will surely be a regent next month. Two regents will vacate their posts. Their terms have expired.”

Senator Reyes faced Tony with an expansive mien. “You’ll be big there, son. You have the qualifications and, most important, the best connections …” His laughter was like the crack of splitting bamboo. “And you can even be the dean of your college if you like, let me see to that. And if you have complaints …”

Don Manuel shook hands with the Japanese and then with Senator Reyes. The door was open. “My son,
Compadre
, I’m sorry to tell you, has already left the university. He will start working with me.”

Senator Reyes paused. He looked disappointed. After a pause, “Well, that’s a lot better. At any rate,” he turned to Don Manuel again, “don’t tell me I didn’t try.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tony said automatically. Now it was all clear why Dean Lopez hated him. But it was beyond explaining now and no thought could shape in his mind, no thought, only revulsion.

He followed Don Manuel, who had returned to his wide steel desk. “I didn’t know, Papa,” Tony said, “that you had asked Senator Reyes to intercede for me.”

Don Manuel avoided him. “Wouldn’t you like being a regent? Or dean? Don’t you like the fact that I’m interested in your welfare?”

“I appreciate it, Papa,” he said, the fight ebbing out of him. “But I wish you would understand. I can go up on my own … it may take longer, but I can go up.”

Don Manuel stopped arranging the papers on his desk and faced Tony. “That’s what I like about you,” he said paternally. “You have pride. But remember, you are now in the family. And if I can help you get ahead I’ll do it.”

Then Don Manuel drifted back to the visitors who had gone and his tone became jovial again. “Politicians,” he said, “are a species you have to understand. No, they aren’t difficult at all. All that you must remember is that they are after one thing—money. Once you know that, you can’t be wrong. They are very brassy about it. Gentleman’s language—don’t waste this on politicians. They name their price and it’s up to you to haggle.”

Tony did not speak.

“That’s distasteful to you, isn’t it?” Don Manuel laughed slightly. “Well, that’s how it is. These are the realities. Maybe when this country has become industrialized these politicians will give jobs to their constituents. And if they can’t give jobs, they must help in another way. That’s where a little of their money goes.”

“Just like one big happy family,” Tony said.

“Don’t be so sarcastic about the family,” Don Manuel said. “In this organization, for instance, all the employees are related to one another. The family system—oh yes, I’ve heard young punks in the
business underrating it. And they are right, too. I am all for efficiency. That’s why I’m going all out for this mill. But as long as there’s no substitute for the family, it stays. Besides, what substitute have you for loyalty? You can’t expect loyalty from the politicians. Not even at the price you pay them.”

“So money isn’t everything then,” Tony said happily, as if one last pinnacle of his own beliefs had stood up to the rich man’s battering reason.

“Of course money isn’t everything.” Don Manuel leaned back on his chair and beamed. “The price is not always money. But if you want to know what the price of a man is, or his services, you must be wise.” Don Manuel brought his forefinger to his right temple and tapped twice. “It’s all a matter of understanding what a man wants most. If you can give him that, then he is yours to command. Don’t expect that he will be eternally grateful, because all men hate to be indebted. Every man wants to be independent. As for the price, some men want friendship. If you can give them that, well and good. Money cannot buy friendship but it can
create
friendship. See? It can create the atmosphere. It can create the conditions for all the reasons you need. But, as I said, don’t expect gratitude. You’ll be terribly disappointed. All men act in self-interest. Even the conduct of nations is guided by this unerring rule. It was George Washington who said that, no?”

Tony nodded.

Don Manuel went back to his monologue. “It’s the truth. Everyone has a price. Christ had a price—the Cross and the salvation of mankind. I have a price—the future of the Villas and of everyone in the family. You have a price—and don’t feel that I’m insulting you. Your self-respect. I’m just stating a fact. You are vulnerable where you are most sincere. And I think that is why Carmen likes you. You have self-respect. As long as you know these vulnerable points you will know also how to deal with people. Even our highly touted press has its price. I know. I get my way around business editors. Everyone in this racket can be bought. I have yet to see one who cannot be bought.”

Tony looked at the ceiling and a thought crossed his mind. Godo—he had always been insufferable, but Godo was someone who would not bend to something as crass as money. He had gotten
into trouble because of this single virtue—integrity—and he brimmed with it. He was cynical and brassy, vulgar, loud-mouthed. He was a peasant in manners and attitudes, but he was an aristocrat when it came to honor. Tony shook his head.

“You don’t agree, huh?” Don Manuel asked.

Tony nodded. Godo would yet be his redeemer, the one who could prove to Don Manuel that the price tag does not apply to all human beings. Godo would be his final proof that a man’s reward is in heaven. “I’m not very sure, Papa,” Tony said. “But if there’s anyone I can trust it’s Godo Soler, an editor and an old friend. He may have faults, but one thing I know, you can’t buy him.”

Don Manuel became silent. “Godo,” he said, twiddling his thumbs. “Well, I’ll remember that. Bring him to me someday. Next time there’s a party in the house, ask him to come. No, bring him to lunch—or dinner. I’ll yet find his price, and because he is your friend, I’ll be extra generous with him. It’s not that I want to prove you wrong, Tony. It’s simply I’ve never been wrong.”

One of the office boys came in apparently at the ring of a buzzer, and Don Manuel said, “Bring me a Coke—and Tony, is it coffee?”

Tony nodded. As the boy disappeared at the other end of the room, Don Manuel continued in the same serious vein: “I cannot find it in me to dispute the usefulness of the family system. For the moment it’s doing wonders. You get loyalty because of it—and efficiency. I have heard it said that with industrialization the family system will have to go.”

“I think that’s true, Papa,” Tony Samson said. “In the United States family corporations are a thing of the past.”

“In the United States,” Don Manuel repeated in an annoyed tone. “Must you always bring the United States into the conversation? The conditions in this country are different—that is the first thing you should know, Tony. This isn’t America; this is Asia.”

“I know, Papa,” Tony said, “but the family has to go if there must be industrialization. I remember in college we had a discussion along this line …”

“This isn’t college anymore, son,” Don Manuel said softly.

“I know that, too, Papa.”

“I hope I am not being a bore,” Don Manuel said apologetically.
“No, I don’t think it’s wrong for people to be idealistic. I just ask that people like you be realistic enough to know that the real world is full of compromise.”

Tony loved Don Manuel’s clichés. His father-in-law was being emphatic.

“What I’m trying to say,” Don Manuel said, “is that poverty has its place, but what would happen if poverty were to become a symbol of the elite? Then there would be no more reason for people to want to work harder.”

“I know, Papa,” Tony said. “Poverty is degrading.”

Don Manuel stood up and paced the floor. “I knew poverty. I’ll tell you how it was when my father was just starting to build his furniture factory. He had to wake up at dawn to count the lumber that came in. We had to walk to school, all the way from Ermita to Intramuros. That’s a good long walk, even now. I’ve known how it is to be hungry, to be broke, and to be unhappy. Father would give us no more than five centavos a day. Five centavos! And one pair of shoes until they were worn out and our toes and soles stuck out.”

The rich man cracked his knuckles. “He was a tyrant, but he taught us well.” A long pause, then the talk veered quietly to what Tony had to do. The simplicity of his job amazed him; he was to be the official spokesman of the Villas. Henceforth, there would be no business negotiations unless he had spoken on the plausibility of having these negotiations exploited for the good name of the Villas. He was to be a troubleshooter and a member of the brain trust. He was to be a public relations man, he was to be a facade-builder.

“I don’t want to sound ungrateful, Papa,” Tony said, latching on to every word, “but there must be some other thing I can do.”

“That’s honest of you,” Don Manuel said kindly. “Not many people can say that, Tony. Well, there aren’t many like you. But you are different. We are all crude moneymakers, but you, you are different. And you can start making yourself useful right now by telling me if there’s anything wrong with teaming up with the Chinese, Japanese, and Americans. I want an honest opinion, Tony. You can give me the answer next week.”

Don Manuel led Tony to the door at the left side of the room. It led to a room with cream-colored drapes and a thick rug. The businessman tugged at a line and the draperies opened to a rain-shrouded view of the bay and the boulevard.

The desk was not as modern as Don Manuel’s, but it was huge. One side of the room was lined with empty, glass-fronted shelves. And on a low table beside the desk was the latest electric typewriter—its soft red color glowing handsomely in the light.

“You’ll love working here,” Don Manuel stated proudly. “All this is yours. Your secretary will be outside. Look for one right away—that’s your decision. When I need you I’ll just buzz you, and son, do please jump when I do.”

“Yes, Papa,” Tony said.

Alone in this comfortable room, Tony felt lost for a moment. He sat in his upholstered swivel chair and turned around. Those shelves—they would soon be filled with his books. His hand caressed the electric machine. It did not seem real, his being in a place as comfortable, as conducive to easeful thinking as this. How supremely convenient it was for him simply to accept the fact that now he was no longer a Samson but someone drawn into the magnetic circle of the Villas and therefore a nonentity without a mind all his own.

He could see his personal landscape and in it there was nothing extraneous. Everything fitted handsomely. He would probably build a house in Pobres Park like Ben de Jesus, Senator Reyes, Alfred Dangmount, and all the rest, and see how well Carmen had learned interior decorating in the United States. He would not interfere with her plans; all he would require would be a small room, a study where he would be able to work. And someday he would grow a paunch in his job and learn to play golf. He would have money stashed away somewhere—that was most certain because he had married Carmen Villa. He would have an affair, too, probably a dozen at that, not because such affairs were necessary but because they were inevitable concomitants of his status. A beautiful secretary, perhaps? Or one of Carmen’s close friends? Or the wife of one of his associates in the office? These were the handsome possibilities. As for children, there would be at least five—and several more who would naturally be illegitimate. Carmen would send the girls to the Assumption Convent, where they would learn French—or to Madrid, where they would polish their Spanish and acquire a European accent. As for the boys, they would go to La Salle, of course, or to the American School, or
to San Beda. Not Ateneo—my God! That school had become too common and too crowded with plebeian characters. And after La Salle there would be trips to Europe, not America. Going to America—that was also now too common. Everyone, absolutely everyone, had gone there. And then when the children had grown up they would have to take their pick from the Villa crowd. That was the only way to perpetuate the system that he had joined. There was no fighting against it because the system, which afforded him such delicious comforts as he had never known before, was bigger and more formidable than Antonio Samson.