The Samsons: Two Novels; (Modern Library) (33 page)

A
fter the fourth bar Tony gave up looking for Godo and Charlie, and simply raced away from the shadows of Mabini.

It was almost three o’clock when he returned to Santa Mesa. On the lawn of the big house the orchestra still played languorously. Most of the cars that lined the street leading to the house were still there, a formidable phalanx of shiny machines, their drivers gathered in groups, talking and waiting for their plate numbers to be called by a loudspeaker at the gate.

He avoided the lawn and the people. He hurried to the driveway, past the terrace to the rear entrance, and up the main stairway to the room where he and Carmen had lived the past year. The air conditioner hummed, and through the closed windows the music from the garden below stole into the room. He flicked the switch by the door and the chandelier exploded into dazzling pink.

From the closet in the adjoining room he brought out his old suitcase of battered leather, well-scuffed at the corners, its tattered stickers stubbornly clinging—Hotel Colon, Barcelona. He laid the suitcase on the bed and opened the cabinet at the foot of the bed. Most of his things were there. He had never acquired a collection of
either clothes or knickknacks—just five suits, half a dozen barong Tagalogs, photographs of college life, and an assortment of paper-weights. He took these to the suitcase, then he went to his books, to the typewriter he had bought in Rome, now rusty with disuse. Near it were the manuscripts he had been working on, his own thesis and his grandfather’s
Philosophia Vitae.

Should he take these, too? These materials that marked his beginning and his perdition? He viewed them, these fragments of the past whereon he stood. And in this cool, quiet room lavished with comfort, the futility, the smallness, and the terrifying finality of his failure reached out to him, clutched at him. It was of no more use, it was of no importance now for him to go on working with this sham—he who had been corrupt from the start, when he did not believe in what his father and even his grandfather had believed in. He was heaping blasphemy on the past and on what his grandfather had done. If he were honorable (to this question he steeled himself)… but there was nothing firm left to prop him up. What remained was this corroded frame that could not stand up to this one fearful gust of discovery: he had defeated himself.

He looked at what he had hoped to finish, at his grandfather’s work, and the meaningless sorrow that swept over him became a strength that surged to his hands. There were no tears in his eyes. He felt his breath strangling him as he bent down. With a firm hand he grabbed his manuscript and tore it apart. He did not hear the sound of paper being rent. Inside him was only emptiness. His heart began to be torn to shreds when he finally took hold of his grandfather’s
Philosophia Vitae.
It was so fragile, so easy to destroy that he did not even have to try.

When he was through, the papers were all about him, the meaningless scraps, the work, the heritage that had lasted a hundred years and had lain undisturbed in an Ilocos convent until he had stumbled upon it. A weariness came over him. It seemed as if he had been meandering in a desert or a swamp only to find that there was no bearing, no end to the wandering. The desert was sand without horizon, and the swamp was muck and slime forever. He had journeyed far, he had learned much, but he needed to go still farther, to the mountains of Bontoc, to the
ulogs
and eyries that were almost forgotten, only to be recalled again now. He would not find them in the desert or swamp of Santa Mesa. The beginning of knowledge, after all, lay
not in the land that he had traveled but in the dark and anonymous folds of his own mind. He must hurry now, he must hurry. But where?

Carmen came in then, looking fresh and sinless. Seeing his things on the floor, the manuscripts and the old book for which she had paid good money now nothing but torn scraps, she stepped back and asked, “You did this? You must be out of your mind!”

Before he could speak she saw the suitcase and confronted him. “Are you going somewhere without even telling me?”

That was all the interest she showed. She was not eager to know his answer and she walked across the room, stepped on the litter covering the floor and sat at her dresser. She studied her makeup. She was not going to change her clothes. She merely primped, then stood up.

The weariness still clotted his mind, but he watched her attentively.

“I asked if you are going anywhere,” she said, turning around, satisfied with the reflection in the mirror. “My God, Tony, you don’t expect me to clean up this mess, do you?” She glared at him, her eyes lovely as ever.

“I don’t expect you to do anything,” he said. How strange. No anger welled within him and neither the curiosity nor the grief that had gripped him earlier returned. He turned his back on her, went to the suitcase, and brought the lid down. But the suitcase would not close. “And as for my going away,” he said, almost mumbling, “I don’t think it matters to you, so there’s no need for you to know where I’m going or what I’m going to do.”

Casually, she asked, “Where are you going?”

He removed one of his summer dacron suits, then pushed the lid again. This time it clicked shut.

“I’m leaving. It’s best for both of us.”

His mind was clear, as clear as on those mornings when the sunlight was pure. But the words, tainted with hatred, took shape: “You should take a bath and change your clothes. That way you’ll be cleaner. I’m sure you must be full of dirt—lying on a strange bed. God knows who was there before you.” He spoke evenly, as if he were stating a simple fact.

Carmen did not speak.

“I hope you understood what I just said,” Tony said. “I just said: you are a whore.”

Carmen did not move. “Tony, you don’t know what you are saying,” she said, aghast.

Tony turned to her and smiled grimly. “I know,” he said. He studied her face. God, she was pretty—the nose, the questioning eyes, the lips, those full, red lips. “Tonight,” he went on, measuring every word, “I followed you to the motel. I waited for a while, but it took you so long. Ben must be losing his virility.”

“It’s not true,” Carmen said desperately, backing away from him.

Tony followed her to her dresser where she slumped down. “I told you once that I’d kill you if you ever did this, remember? It was in Washington. It was freezing and there was no coffee in the pot, remember? And after I had gotten up and made you a cup I said, ‘I’ll do anything for you, be your servant, as long as you are true.’ Remember?”

In the quiet glare of the chandelier above them, her face was frightened and pale.

“You’re scared,” Tony said, enjoying himself, standing before her.

“Tony, don’t hurt me.”

Tony smiled in spite of himself. “How can I do that? Haven’t you always said that I should be civilized like you? Well, I’ll be civilized. If I touched you I’d soil my hands.”

“What can I say?” Carmen choked on the words.

“Nothing,” Tony said.

“Please be more understanding …”

“What more do you want? I am leaving without touching a hair on you.” He strode to the tall narra cabinet and opened it. When she followed, he barked at her, “Leave me alone. I have a lot to pack.”

Carmen lingered. Strange, there was no high drama, no passionate remonstrances. This was the Big Scene in his life and he was, like her, acting “civilized.” This was what she wanted and he was acting according to her script.

“Will it matter if I explain, if I tell you how it happened? You must know at least how I feel—there were so many things we did together, told each other.…” Her voice suddenly had the warmth and tenderness he had missed all these months.

“Well,” he said, looking briefly at her, “I suppose I shouldn’t mind the background music. Go ahead, shoot your mouth off.”

“Tony,” she was imploring him. “Listen and do not hate me for what I am going to tell you.”

“I can’t hate you enough,” he said.

Her voice was quivering. “Once upon a time, I knew I would do anything for you. I’d do what you would command me to do. If you had wanted, we could have gone together wherever you wanted to go, lived where you wanted to live. I would have missed many things and I would have objected strongly. But I would have gone with you just the same … if you had put your mind to it, if you did not fall so easily to Father’s bait—and to mine. I love the things I’m accustomed to, but I would have gone with you.…”

“But it’s different now. Is that what you’re saying?”

She turned away. “So many things have changed. Now I see nothing of value. And you, I don’t blame you, because a man’s ambition is different, and because Father wanted you—honestly, sincerely … and I … I pushed you …”

“You know damn well this wasn’t what I wanted,” he said hotly. “Not all this, not all—” Then he stopped, suddenly aware that he was lying. He had coveted this, this comfort, this bigness, this power.

“I pushed you, that’s what I did,” she said quietly.

“No, no one did,” he told her. “My fate, my reasons, are mine alone. Now that you have made your excuses please leave me alone …”

She stood by as he carried another suitcase from the closet and laid it open on the bed.

“Believe me,” her voice betrayed a real disconsolation. “It won’t happen again. I’m bad. I guess I had forgotten, I’ve always been bad. I will never be a saint.”

“It’s not simply a matter of forgetting. So don’t talk about sin.”

“I imagine you are sorry for yourself,” Carmen said. “If it were Emy you had married, it wouldn’t have turned out like this. I must see her sometime and learn from her.”

“She has suffered enough without your seeing her.”

“But it’s true,” Carmen said hollowly. “She is different. She’s good in spite of all that happened. Maybe that has been in the back of my mind all the time—her goodness and my rottenness.”

“It happened long ago,” Tony said, going back to the closet. She followed him there.

“You can forgive me,” she said desperately.

“I can, but it won’t be the same again.” He paused. “And most of all, how can I forgive myself?”

“Are you going back to her?”

“To Emy?”

“Who else? You have always been sentimental about her.”

“Even if I did she wouldn’t take me. No, I’m returning to Antipolo, that’s all.”

“You don’t have to go. Do you want me to explain how it happened?”

“You don’t have to. It happens to the best people.”

“Don’t say that. I’m not the best. Father is not the best. You said so yourself once. You said he is a scoundrel, a patriot for convenience. Maybe that’s the reason. For convenience we do so many things.”

“Don’t explain life,” he said. “Please, I don’t want to hear another word from you. I despise you.”

Carmen shuffled to the door but did not close it after her.

Then he was ready. He surveyed the room, wondering if he had forgotten anything. All that he wanted to bring were in these two suitcases, bulging now with his old clothes. The rest he left behind, and if Carmen should send them to him he would write her a thank-you note. That, too, was the civilized thing to do.

He lifted the two suitcases. They were heavy and he was amazed, since they did not really hold much. He remembered that he had not done any manual labor in months and had not lifted anything heavier than a portfolio. He smiled at himself and, flexing his muscles once, carried the suitcases to the door.

Mrs. Villa stood there, her flabby form barring the way. She was still dressed in blue denim overalls, her party costume. The theme was industry and she represented a typical steelworker. Her voice sounded old and it lacked the acidity with which it always dripped. “Carmen’s crying. She didn’t tell me what you quarreled about and I don’t think I can find out from either of you. You are both old enough to know what’s right and what’s wrong. Are you really leaving, Tony?”

“Yes, Mama,” he said, putting down the suitcases.

“Is it because I have been mean to you?”

Tony studied the painted lips, the fleshy chin, the wide, inquiring eyes. “I’ve learned to like you, although I know you never liked me. You wore no mask. You were yourself.”

“That was not everything, son.” It was the first time she referred to him as a son and the word touched him. “I’m sorry if I made you think I didn’t like you.”

“It’s all right, Mama,” he said. “With you I didn’t have to be on guard. That’s the truth.”

“I’m such a scatterbrain, Tony.”

“But you are sincere. You didn’t try to be good to me, because you didn’t like me. And I didn’t have to be jolted by the way you acted, because from the beginning— Remember, Mama, when I first came here?”

“That’s past,” she said. “We should all learn to keep the past where it should be.”

“But the past is important. It’s linked with the present.”

“Well, I don’t care about the past. Why should I?”

“I know, Mama.”

“Did Carmen tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“She never did tell you what my family was?”

“Never, but I know. I’ve known it for a long time now and, frankly, I never cared.”

“Well, it was more by accident, but why should I tell you what you already know? And after all the things that I’ve done to you?”

“I understand, Mama.”

“You don’t,” Mrs. Villa said, “for if you did, you’d unpack your things now.”

“I wish what you just told me made a difference, but it doesn’t. It merely explains your distaste for me. I remind you of yourself.”

“Don’t try to talk smart,” Mrs. Villa scolded him.

“I’m sorry, Mama.”

“Don’t be a fool. I’m not saying that you should stay here because I like you. I’m a selfish woman, Tony. What’s going to happen to Carmen? You are the first good thing that she has had, the first good thing this family ever had—if I may flatter you. Somehow, well, let’s admit it, my friends often talk about you. They say you have another kind of brains, something the Villas never had—unless, of course, you mean brains for making money.… And your papa, he’s my husband and I know—nights he’d lie awake, saying, ‘Tony is right. Tony is right …’ ”