The Samsons: Two Novels; (Modern Library) (71 page)

“We told the police,” Roger was saying as we went to the bier. I looked at the calm, lean face, peaceful in death. He had never been in this church while he was alive. I still had three hundred pesos, but I told Roger we would not go out anymore, the money would be for Ka Lucio.

I
t was Betsy who answered the phone when I took the chance and called her not at the agreed upon time. She could sense the urgency although I tried to sound flippant.

“What happened? Can you tell me?”

“Not on the phone,” I said. “Between kisses, I’ll tell you.”

“Are they after you?”

“The way I am after you,” I said.

“I will drive over as fast as I can; I should be there in twenty minutes.”

From Makati, at dusk, when traffic was at its worst, it would take an hour. I walked over to the Rendezvous where my friends would be, but no one was there. I took a table in a corner where I was hidden by the evening throng, students having snacks after their afternoon classes.

The street outside was noisy with traffic, and when I walked out, the stench of garbage piled high along the gutters assailed me. Our slogans were plastered all over the stone embankment, on the walls of buildings. The new ones screamed, dark red:
Marcos Hitler Diktador.

It had always made me feel good, waiting on the sidewalk for Betsy to come in her mustard-colored Volks. She wove out of the traffic to where she always picked me up. I darted out and got into the car, and as she shifted into first gear, I leaned over and kissed her cheek.

We got out of Quiapo quickly and onto the boulevard, hardly speaking, except for niceties, her term paper on Japan, her quarrel with her mother. Her answers were perfunctory.

We had no favorite motel; we went to what was nearest and most convenient. We rarely went to a place twice, for I did not want her to be subjected to the indignity of recognition. At M. H. del Pilar, we turned into the first motel—a prewar residence in the Malate area now converted into something tawdry but profitable. A boy standing by the row of garage doors pointed out to us an open one and we drove in. He followed us and lowered the door. Betsy went out and quickly went up the stairs. I followed her to the small anteroom and closed the door; there was the usual pair of drinking glasses, the frayed menu on the table, and beyond, the double bed with mirrors on its side; the air conditioner and the radio were on. She kissed me, the honey, the salt, the sweetness of it all, lingering in my mouth.

The buzzer rang, and she freed herself, reached into her bag for the money, but this time, I shook my head. “I have a little,” I said. “Let me take care of this.”

She smiled, then went to the bedroom and closed the door.

The boy came with the registry, a jug of ice-cold water, and an extra sheet. He laid the registry on the table, and I signed my real name as I always did together with a nonexistent residence certificate with lots of sevens in it. I gave him twenty-two pesos, and after he had thanked me and left, I put on the latch. We had all the time now. Betsy did not care anymore if she got pregnant, but I did not want to inconvenience her. In a few days, she would be in Bacolod for the semester break to say good-bye to relatives, friends, and her kindergarten school.

Afterward, I told her that Ka Lucio was dead, and that the list and manual he was working on could not be found. She took the news quietly. “We have enemies,” she finally said, trembling.

“It’s been more than a year now, Betsy,” I said. “Do you think you can trust me?”

We were lying on our backs, holding hands. “Pepe, I trusted you
the first time I met you. How can you ask such a question?” She sounded disconsolate.

“Though I sometimes feel I don’t understand you, I trust you completely, told you things,” I said.

“What things?”

“My life, for instance.” I had difficulty forming the words. “You said we have enemies. We have to do something, other than those demonstrations. Suppose, after this semester, I decided to go to the mountains.”

She drew back, her eyes dark with dread.

“Ka Lucio is dead. Professor Hortenso says those of us who are exposed are in danger,” I said.

She lay on her back again. Her breast rose and fell; she just stared at the ceiling, at the stupid red bulb there that I had forgotten to switch off. I moved closer to her, stroked her flat stomach.

“Please, Pepe,” she finally spoke, “think about it carefully. Only three more weeks, then it is America for me. I don’t want to go. I’d rather be here, no matter what happens.”

I touched her cheek, then raised myself on an elbow and gazed at the lustrous eyes, the full lips, the strand of hair on the smooth forehead.

She held my hand, pressed it to her breast. “What have we done? Where are we going? I am afraid.”

“We must live while we can. We must not waste even a moment.”

“How can you say that?” she asked. “You … in that place. That is not a place for people.”

“You despise me then.”

“No, Pepe, how can you say that? All those people crowded there— I am ashamed. The way we live. One dress—it is what one of them would earn in a month. Or even three months. That is why I wear jeans most of the time. Not because it is fashionable, but because I am ashamed.”

“And I wear them to hide my poverty,” I said.

I started laughing; it struck me for the first time—its triteness, its being so
bakya.
She turned to me and asked: “Is poverty funny?”

“No, sweetheart,” I said, tweaking her nose. “Us—we are funny. When I was a boy, I used to see those silly Tagalog pictures. Rich boy, poor girl. Once, she was a
provinsiana.
At another time, a bus
conductor. It was wonderful entertainment. Now, it is rich girl, poor boy. Can you imagine a sillier situation? It is the kind of story movies and all those radio serials that go on forever are made of. As the poor boy and the rich girl are about to marry, something happens and they break up. Wait for the next installment tomorrow, next week, next month.”

“It is our life.”

“It only hurts, sweetheart, when I laugh,” I told her glibly.

“Stop being clever. Can you not see? I want you to be the best scholar in your university, the best leader in the Brotherhood, the best essayist … better than your father.”

“Don’t bring him into this,” I said sharply. “That is what Auntie Bettina and Mother have pounded into me: be like him. I am not going to live in his shadow. I don’t want to read what he has written any longer, to remember him.”

“Pepe, he is your father!”

“Hell! If he committed suicide that is where he is now anyway.”

“He did—because he had integrity.”

“You cannot say that, you never met him.”

“Reading his book, I feel I know him.”

“Maybe it is him you love.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You know it is you, and it will always be you. And you can be the best. But even if you are the lousiest, the meanest, the ugliest …”

“You wouldn’t have gone out with me.”

“I want you alive, I want you breathing, moving. I don’t want you disappearing, or being killed in a demonstration—like Toto.”

“We have to take risks. That is what we are in the Brotherhood for. You know that. We have to go beyond the demonstrations.”

Slowly she put her arms around me. “I want to live, Pepe, not for myself, but for you.”

I held her close, felt the thumping of her heart, the silky warmth of her legs entwined with mine.

After a long, long while she sat up, then stood before me, all the five feet two of her gleaming and tawny, regal grace, and for an instant, it seemed as if she was burdened with all the sadness in the world. She gathered her clothes on the sofa, slipped into her jeans, her faded, formless blouse.

I had not stirred from the bed. Her back turned to me, she said, “We have been leading up to this. I could see it coming.” She wheeled and her face was in anguish. “But why do it? What difference would it make?”

I rose and picked up my clothes. “I was just thinking. There is a limit to words, you know that. And we cannot depend on words anymore. I did not realize how fast time had gone.”

“Especially for me,” she said ruefully. “Maybe because I think of nothing now but being with you.” She found her shoes, sat before the dresser, and started putting on a little lipstick. She smoothed her hair with the ivory brush she always carried. In another moment, we would part.

“If you go, how will I know where you are?”

“You won’t. I will see you, but it will be far between. They can trace me to you … and I don’t want anything to happen to you. I will miss you … if I go.”

“Oh, Pepe!” her voice broke and she rushed to me, embraced me, and sobs shook her. She would not let me tilt her face, would not let me see her face washed with tears. I hugged her, saying, “My Betsy,” and got my cheeks wet, too, with her crying. She cried for a long time and, when it was over and I drew away, her eyes were swollen.

“See what you have done,” I said. “Now you really need makeup.”

She smiled and kissed me. “What will become of you?”

“I will die,” I said, making light of everything, for I did not want our evening to be gloomier than it already was. “And there will be no grieving widow, nothing, just as it always was, for I came from nothing.”

She embraced me again. “Don’t talk like that!”

“All right,” I said. “I will live to be a hundred. What is that Spanish saying? The weeds live long?”

Afterward, she asked: “What will become of me?”

“You will forget me like you would a bad dream.”

“No. Never.”

“You will,” I said. “And you will fall in love with someone and you will marry him, raise children who will inherit your good looks and your brains, and none of them will ever make the same mistake you made, going around with someone like me.”

“It is not a mistake,” she said. “Why do you degrade yourself? You are everything—my husband.” She started crying again, and I held her. “Pepe,” she said, “I am so miserable.”

I hugged her, a tightening in my chest, a smarting in my eyes. “I love you, Ramona,” my voice sounded strange. “I cannot thank you enough for giving yourself to me.”

I
  was finally picked up on the last day of the semester, just before the two-week school break. I had just gotten off a jeepney at Bangkusay and was walking toward the Barrio when four sunburned men in their thirties surrounded me; they had revolvers tucked in their waists. They could be from the rival gang of Bangkusay, but I had not done anything to antagonize them if they were.

“
Pare
, we will not harm you if you come with us quietly.”

I had no choice; we walked down the street and did not even attract attention. They stopped before a van with the name “Luzon Bakery” on the sides, and we got in—the three on the front seat and the fourth in the back. Once inside, they frisked me; their tone of polite amiability disappeared.

“Lie down flat on your stomach,” the man in the rear ordered and when I was slow at it, he kicked me in the ribs. It hurt but I was not frightened. I was curious about who they were, where they were taking me.

Then, it became sunrise—they were after me because of my work in the Brotherhood. I tried to raise my head, and it was then that the blow came. The man sitting before me pistol-whipped me in
the head. For a moment I thought I would pass out as everything darkened.

“Don’t raise your head,” the man warned. “You are not going to find out where you are going. One more movement like that and I am really going to knock you out, tie you up, and blindfold you. You understand?” His Tagalog had an accent, perhaps Visayan, perhaps Ilocano.

“
Wen, Manong
,” I said.
^*

“We are from the same region,” one of the men in the front seat said.

While I could not raise my head, I could look at my tormentor’s shoes. They were black army boots. The van did not smell of bread. In fact, there was no trace of flour or crumbs on the floor. It seemed to have been swept clean and was pervaded by an odor of burnt oil, of machine shops, and the tired sweaty stench of government offices.

We now bounced occasionally. We were traveling over a rutted road, and my face scraped against the steel floor and it hurt, so I rested my face on my arm. Then we were on what seemed like a good asphalt road. We drove straight and fast, perhaps for half an hour. The snort of traffic and of people talking wafted into the van.

The men out front were talking in Tagalog about how they would spend the night at some massage parlor, and one of them was openly wondering if I would be so difficult as to interrupt their evening plans.

The Directorate, I remembered, once had a seminar on how we should behave if we were arrested or taken into custody without the usual procedures. I must remember their faces, the place where they took me, their names if possible, anything I could use to identify them later on. And I must not give them cause to be violent.

The sound of traffic diminished, then disappeared. The van stopped and we got out. I was in an enclosed courtyard—probably a bodega with a bit of sky above. I did not have time to examine my surroundings, for they pushed me into an empty room walled with cement, asphalt tiles for the floor. A high window with bars was open, and there was not a single piece of furniture in the room. An old newspaper and a red plastic pail were in a corner, and when I
looked, the pail contained toilet paper and dried excrement that still smelled.

I squatted on the dusty floor, wondering where we were. The only sounds that reached me were the distant honking of a car and the barking of a dog.

I was thirsty, but there was nothing to drink; I pounded on the door, which was locked from the outside, and asked for water, but there was no reply.