The Samsons: Two Novels; (Modern Library) (18 page)

He stood up and went to the window. The sea again, the rain, memories rushing in and stirring up and about, inchoate and yet alive. When he was in Antipolo, or when he was in the States, wandering in the gilded wilderness of that continent, he seldom looked at the sea. And at night, if there was no rain, there would be stars. How long had it been since he last looked at the stars? He knew them when he was in Rosales, going home in the dark or playing in the dusty street where the lamps were not strong enough to banish the vast attraction of the sky. How was Rosales now? And Emy?

A dull ache passed through him and he assured himself that this was what he had always wanted—this progress, this change. The world was changing and if in the process he was changed, too, well, he could not stop the inevitable any more than he could stop time. I’ll be all right. Tony Samson repeated the words carefully in his mind. I’ll be all right—and he wished to God that he would be.

W
hen Senator Reyes invited Tony to lunch, it had never occurred to Tony that there would be a measure of rapport between him and the politician who had made a career of nationalism.

Don Manuel bantered with them in the foyer. “Be careful, Tony. He might take you to one of those joints where they serve nothing but peasant food.”

“I’ll take him to a place where they sprinkle cyanide on those who don’t know what Filipinism means,” Senator Reyes chortled.

“Ahhh …” grunted Alfred Dangmount. He was on his way to his car, too; the board meeting had just ended and the directors were filing out of the elevator. “Take him to that place where they spike the drinks with
cantaritas
,” the American said, grunting again.

The American’s sally raised more remarks, but Tony didn’t catch them; by this time he had already gotten into Senator Reyes’s air-conditioned Cadillac. Within, the scent of cologne was a refreshing change from the antiseptic smell of his office.

Senator Reyes was a master politician. “It is seldom that I have a scholar, a Ph.D., with me. So don’t be alarmed if I ask too many questions and pick your brains,” he said, flashing what seemed to be
a genuine smile. The senator’s eyes crinkled. His teeth were yellowish from cigar-smoking.

“The pleasure is all mine, Senator,” Tony said.

They went to one of the new Spanish restaurants on the boulevard—a low, adobe building that was air-conditioned. Its interior was dim, and although it was high noon, the cartwheel lamp that dangled from the low ceiling was lit. Senator Reyes guided his guest to a corner table, but before reaching the place he had to stop at a table to slap an anonymous back.

They sat down without ceremony, and as the headwaiter rushed to them, Senator Reyes ordered two dry sherries. “I shouldn’t have any complaints,” he turned to Tony, shaking his head. “And I don’t want to sound hypocritical, but I do have troubles and I sometimes wish I could earn a living without having to pay too heavy a price.”

“Whatever the price,” Tony said, “I am sure that you can afford it.”

Senator Reyes became somber and again he shook his head. “I suppose that I should be envied then? People are blaming us for the mess in this country, but people should blame themselves occasionally. Who is to blame? Politicians for giving the people what they want? They expect us to do the impossible, to cast aside all morals, all concepts of justice. And when we do, we are pounced upon. A man comes to me and says, Senator, please see to it that my boy gets accommodated in the Foreign Service. That’s where I want him, because there his views will be broadened and he will be able to travel free. I want someone in my family to be an ambassador someday! I ask this man if his son is qualified, if he has passed the Foreign Service examinations. And this man—one of my trusted friends and leaders—says to me angrily: Senator, if my son were qualified, I would not have to come to you for assistance!”

Tony knew the rest and he could have told the senator why the road to power was often covered with slime. But the owner of the restaurant came to their table; he was a swarthy, pot-bellied Spaniard, and he greeted the senator effusively in Spanish, then started talking about his difficulty in getting dollar licenses that would enable him to import the senator’s favorite sherry. To this, Senator Reyes said, also in Spanish, “You can save the sherry for me; as for your other customers, you can serve them goat urine—they wouldn’t know the difference.”

Tony Samson laughed and was joined heartily by the Spaniard, who, after more pleasantries, moved away from his most important customer of the day.

“You speak Spanish?” Senator Reyes turned to his guest.

“Not really, sir,” Tony said. “Crammed for three months, that’s all—and then, of course, there’s the two years in the university, which no one can escape.”

“Tell me about the cram course,” the senator said. “I am interested about attitudes toward the Spanish language.”

“It was a matter of urgent necessity,” Tony said. “Before I left the country on this scholarship, I knew that the basic documents I would have to go through would be in Spanish. I taught myself. Then, at Harvard, well, the three-month cramming did help. But I have to think first when I speak, although I can say without being immodest that I do read Spanish very well and, perhaps, write a little, too. Of course, I cannot hope to approximate your skills.”

The senator thrust his hands at Tony in protest. “No flatteries, no flatteries, please, or else it’s you who will have to pay for this lunch!”

While they sipped their sherry, Senator Reyes reminisced. “I am supposed to be a Spanish scholar—that is to say one of my interests is Spanish literature. Did a little writing in the language. Were you ever in Spain?”

“Yes, Senator,” Tony said. Now there drifted to his mind the remembered places: Barcelona and its Gothic quarter, the narrow streets and the bars of Barrio Chino, the painted tiles in the doorways.

“Wonderful country,” Senator Reyes said. “And Sevilla—were you ever there?”

“Yes, sir,” Tony said. “I did some research in the Sevilla archives.”

The waiter came and took their orders—paella for both—and Senator Reyes made desultory remarks about the bad paella in Barcelona. From there the politician guided the talk to where he deemed it should go. “Politicians have no time to think,” he said, and Tony could sense real regret in the senator’s voice. “What I’m trying to say is that I have ideas, but I have no time to thresh them out. For instance,” the senator leaned over and tried to sound like a conspirator, “how I would like to make a speech on nationalism as a cultural instrument, as an ideology creating a oneness in this country. But what materials can I cite? What antecedents will support me? It’s
easy to speak, but I must have historical authority. Even one in my position must have that.”

Tony Samson sat back and above the clatter of silver at the next table, above the sensuous guitar-strumming near the bar, he could make out the sound of the flute, the wide ring of young Catalans dancing the saldana before the cathedral in Barcelona.

After a long pause, he said he had come across the problem many times and had found partial answers in Barcelona when he was there tracing the footsteps of Rizal, Del Pilar, Lopez-Jaena, and all the
ilustrados
who propagandized for reforms. “There must be some merit in the Spanish people,” he said with feeling. He almost said, there must be some merit in tyrants. “After all, Rizal and his friends worked for reforms not in Manila but in Barcelona and Madrid.”

“Yes,” Senator Reyes said excitedly; “this is an aspect of our history that is not quite understood. And what else did you find? Did Rizal and Del Pilar have anything special to say about what I’m thinking of?”

“The
ilustrados
,” Tony Samson brightened up. “I think I can speak about them with authority. I studied them—what they did, what they wrote. They created a national unity, Senator. Without them, there would perhaps be no Filipinas as we know it today. But they made errors, of course—and it was a matter of attitude, more than anything. Let me tell you how they tried to define the limits of freedom, how desperately they tried to prove that there was a true and indigenous Filipino culture so they could claim equality with the Spaniards. That was it—all they wanted was equality. Oh no, I’m not saying that they were not sincere, that they did not love their country, but you must realize that in those days they were second-class citizens even though they had studied in the best schools in Europe. You see, they were not Spaniards, their skins were not white, their noses were not high, and because of these shortcomings, they could never be rulers.”

“But you could be barking up the wrong tree,” Senator Reyes said. “My dear fellow, look at my skin. It is as dark as the bottom of a pot, my nose is like that of a prizefighter.” He laughed raucously.

“You are missing the whole point, Senator,” Tony said. “Equality could be won on paper. But once it was won, that was the end of it.
Freedom and the fight for it must be constant. It must never cease. And do not forget that men can be enslaved by their own people, by their own prejudices, by their own rulers.… What I am saying is that the
ilustrados
were not the real patriots. They wanted nothing more than equality. They didn’t want freedom. It was enough that they could dine with their rulers, could argue with them. But it is another thing to be free. And that is why I do not consider Rizal a hero. He was great in his way, but Marcelo H. del Pilar was a greater man. He died a pauper in Spain. In the end, none of the
ilustrados
could approximate the stature, the heroism of Bonifacio. There was a man—he was far more heroic than Rizal. He was a laborer, he was illiterate compared to Rizal. But he fought for freedom. Rizal merely wanted equality. Perhaps the new nationalism can address itself to this, create a new sense of values.”

Senator Reyes was pensive and, for a while, an expression of seriousness came over his flabby face. “I do not want to be old-fashioned,” he finally said. “Revolutionaries are a dime a dozen now. You get them everywhere. And what happens—revolutionists do not live; they are eaten up, just as Bonifacio was eaten up.”

“How right you are!” Tony exclaimed. “But that is what I have always said. A revolution does not have to eat its children. In fact, it is those who are in power who could very well initiate revolutions—oh, let us not be old-fashioned and think only of armed uprisings of minorities as revolutions. Any movement that seeks to overhaul established attitudes is, I think, revolutionary. I’d hate to listen to another address extolling Rizal’s virtues; I’d hate to read the inanities written about how many women he had, how he frequented this bar or this toilet.”

They laughed. “I see, I see,” Senator Reyes said, grinning.

“Now, when we escalate Bonifacio’s greatness—after all, he really started the revolution against Spain—that is revolutionary. People think of Rizal always as the greatest merely because he was martyred and Bonifacio was killed by his own people,” Tony said. He remembered again the protracted discussions on Maple Street, Larry Bitfogel’s intellectual argot and his own deft reasoning piercing the maze of contradictions. He continued: “How can one be a revolutionary in an age when revolutions have become commonplace? There is only one way, and that’s by creating an entirely new
definition of revolution itself and knowing your position once you have made your definition. If we talked about cultural revolution, we would be giving both culture and revolution an entirely new emphasis.”

“Good!” Senator Reyes exclaimed. He sat back and rubbed his stomach with his chubby hand. Supreme contentment spread over his dark, corpulent face. “You are the man, then, who can help me—the only man, Tony.” It was the first time the senator called him by his nickname. “This will be a favor, something I can never repay. Write me a speech for next Sunday. I am going to speak before the Socrates Club at the university. Nationalism is going haywire and I want its proper cultural definition. Only you can do that.”

They parted on that nicety.

Back at his office Tony sat before his typewriter, pondered his quarrel with Dean Lopez and how he would have been a member of the Socrates Club. It was ironic that he should now be writing Senator Reyes’s speech before the club. He felt no regret, no gnawing feeling of being left out; he did not really care about being a member of the club now that he was here in the comfortable confines of the Villa Building. He dwelt again on the old theme, the bedraggled subject that he had not quite really resolved: Were the
ilustrados
really patriots? Or was the real hero of the revolution that almost illiterate laborer, Andres Bonifacio, who grew up in Tondo?

His own past reached out to him in this uncluttered room and it seemed as if his father were beside him again, saying that courage was not enough. There was no way by which they could rise from the dung heap. It was easy to sharpen a bolo until its blade could split a hair, but without a mind sharper than a blade.… And so, when his father went to jail, his mother slaved and sent him and his sister to school and college. She took in laundry and worked herself to a hopeless case of consumption and a slow, sure death. This was the sacrifice she had made, and in Barcelona, recalling what she had done, he had wept that morning when he went to the bleak, gloomy cathedral to place a candle at the altar of the Virgin on the anniversary of her death. From the cathedral he had meandered to the Ramblas and sat on one of the wooden benches there, watching the people pass. He had mused about the young Filipinos in Barcelona in another time, and he envied them for the good they had done, although he did not see the monuments of tyranny against which they
had flung their young bodies. And then he saw the impossibility of it all: the revolution the young men in Spain had inspired did not end as a true revolution should.