The Samsons: Two Novels; (Modern Library) (36 page)

It was Ben de Jesus and his wife who picked him up, and when he went down to the lobby, they were having martinis at the bar and already had a glass waiting for him. The lobby looked pleasant and cool. The
capiz
lamps were all lighted. But for the other Caucasians who were there in their charcoal-gray suits, Larry would have felt awkward in his navy blue suit. Ben was in barong Tagalog and his wife, a lumpy woman, wore a blue cotton satin frock that made her look formidable.

After Larry had started to sip his drink, Ben said, “You sure do look like an Ivy Leaguer—three-button suit, crew cut. You are not yet thirty, are you?”

“I am,” Larry said. “I’m thirty-two.”

“I can’t fancy an Ivy League man in this neck of the woods,” Ben continued. His wife, all aglow, punctuated her husband’s small talk with appropriate giggles.

“I’m in government. Agricultural economics,” Larry explained briefly.

“Well, I majored in farm management,” Ben said expansively.
They had finished their drink. Ben stood up. He was tall and handsome, and his wife, who was light-skinned, could have been beautiful once. “Farm management—but that doesn’t mean a thing in this bloody country,” Ben continued as they stood below the hotel marquee. Their car, a chauffeur-driven Lincoln, drew up and they got in. “You see, our farms aren’t producing as well as they should. And that’s the reason why I have to be here in Manila, working for Don Manuel. I’m not complaining, mind you.”

“You’re so modest,” his wife said. “Everyone knows that without you Don Manuel’s real estate investments wouldn’t pay.” She turned to the American. “He helped develop Pobres Park—that’s an exclusive suburb—and that’s why he was elected barrio lieutenant of Pobres Park last Sunday.”

“My ever-loyal wife,” Ben said, patting his wife’s chubby hand.

“Congratulations,” Larry said mechanically. “I understand the party tonight is for you.”

Dusk had shrouded the city completely, but when they slipped into the boulevard, the dazzling mercury lamps, the afterglow above the bay, the multicolored lights and star lanterns that adorned the shops, softened the night and momentarily dispelled all the dark thoughts that crowded Larry’s mind. The air, too, had a freshness sharpened with the odor of asphalt.

As they drove on, Ben became more voluble. “There’s a new dance step—the off beat—you should visit our nightclubs and learn it.”

“I have only two weeks here,” Larry hedged.

“Now, now, remember, all work and no play …”

They let it go at that and the talk glided on to less nettlesome subjects—the weather, Christmas, the local color. In a while, they were going up an incline to a street flanked by tall trees; then they entered the wide lawns of the Villas.

When they joined the company on the terrace, Larry knew at once that Don Manuel had already had a lot to drink, although all the guests had not yet arrived. His eyes were bleary, and in the cool light of the lanterns on the terrace, his face was red and there was a brashness in his manner as they shook hands. He seemed frail and anemic but his grip was firm, and it somehow relayed to Larry an initial sincerity. “I’m so glad you came, Professor Bitfogel. You know, I
seldom meet Americans like you. Those I meet are usually carpet-baggers.”

Larry was caught off-balance and he turned around to the assemblage for some cue, for some sign that would put him at ease, but the guests—about two dozen men and women who had gathered to bid this Senator Reyes good-bye and congratulate Barrio Lieutenant de Jesus—were all grinning. He was a guest—that was the thing to consider—and he sallied on bravely, Don Manuel’s grip on his arm. “Thank you for the compliment, sir,” he said dryly.

There were the hurried and mumbled introductions: Senator Reyes, looking important and pleased with the world; Alfred Dangmount, the American millionaire; a couple of Chinese; a Japanese who showed his teeth; and an assortment of bejeweled matrons and their husbands, their hair slicked with pomade, fingernails carefully manicured, some of their conversation in Spanish, which he understood. He was led to the main table and placed opposite Don Manuel’s wife. The drinks and the canapes came and he took a gin and tonic. He looked around him again, but when the introductions were over, no one seemed to notice his presence anymore. Only Mrs. Villa seemed to be interested. She leaned over and asked, “How long will you be staying here, Professor?”

“Just two weeks, Mrs. Villa,” he said politely. “I had intended to surprise Tony. We were roommates for four years, you know, and—”

Mrs. Villa seemed to have definite ideas about what kind of conversation she should have. She interrupted him rather rudely; he could sense that. “You should stay here longer,” she said. “Two weeks isn’t enough for you to know the hospitality of the country.”

“Mama, there’s no hospitality in this country,” Don Manuel said, standing up and winking at his American guest. “Come, Professor, let’s have a chat. It’s too noisy here.”

He went to Bitfogel and held the American’s arm again. “Take your drink,” the businessman said amiably.

They walked slowly across the grass under the multicolored lights. He did not know what to say except that he knew he must humor Don Manuel by reminiscing and making polite noises. “Please forgive my sentimentality,” he said. “I don’t want to impose on you, but Tony and I were together for four years. We did a lot of things together and I just can’t quite believe that he is dead.”

Don Manuel paused. He was shorter than the American and he peered at his guest with bloodshot eyes. He said without emotion, “He is dead and that is that. Oh, I’m sorry that he is dead. He died so young.”

The garden was indeed wide, with many rows of bougainvillea and roses, carefully tended shrubs, and an expanse of well-trimmed grass. Beyond the grass was the pool, shining bluish and placid in the light.

“It’s so nice to be able to talk to a stranger who is not involved in my life. You are that stranger, Professor,” Don Manuel said. He glanced up at the sky. “You can be a shadow or a ghost who can only listen and not talk back—or bother me. You get what I’m driving at?”

“No, sir,” he said uneasily.

“Don’t act like an innocent. You talk to yourself once in a while, don’t you?”

The American nodded.

“Well, I must tell you that I am a dummy—a rather expensive dummy. Do you have dummies in the States, too, Professor Bitfogel? I’m sure you have dummies there. Now, who am I dummying for?”

He took Larry by the arm and pivoted him to the edge of the pool. Then, continuing in the sinister manner of conspirators, Don Manuel droned on: “I know what I’m saying, Professor. Just remember this. Tonight I may be drunk, but tomorrow I’ll be as sober as a judge. And tomorrow I’ll leave my conscience behind me. You know who I’m a dummy for?”

“Please, sir, let’s not spoil the party.”

“Look, I’m not spoiling it, but you are. I have to tell this to you and you must listen. You know that Dangmount over there? He came to this country with nothing but two tin bars on his shoulders. That was way back in 1945—during the Liberation. Do you know how much he is worth now? Over thirty million. He’s got his money in everything—shipping, agriculture, tobacco—in everything. And I am his associate. I give him a measure of respectability.”

“I am not sure I want to hear this, sir. You may regret it later,” Lawrence said, trying to move away, but Don Manuel’s grip was firm. “Listen, you are an economist, aren’t you? Like my son, Tony Samson, you have bright ideas, haven’t you? Well, let me tell you that I am surrounded by a lot of bright fellows. Dangmount is only
one of them. That Chinese over there, Johnny Lee, is in the Villa bandwagon, too. He smuggles dollars to Hong Kong regularly. He takes care of some of our dollar remittances. And that toothy Japanese, ah, you will enjoy Saito San. He takes care of barter and the Japanese end of the line. He helped put the steel mill up. But these goddam Japs, they always have you where they want you.….”

“You shouldn’t be telling me these things.” Lawrence Bitfogel spoke weakly.

Don Manuel laughed. “You’ll not report me to the authorities, will you?”

Don Manuel turned and headed for the terrace. “And, yes,” he said, “I almost forgot. When Senator Reyes leaves tomorrow for that conference in Rio, you know what else he is going to do? He will be taking out with him pesos and dollars. He is a bright messenger boy. He salts it away for us, but of course he always takes care to salt away a lot for himself, too. No one will bother to search him, of course. Inspect a senator? That’s unthinkable …” Another quiet laugh.

Back in the company of his friends, Don Manuel spoke aloud for all to hear: “You all look happy and contented. That’s what I like about you.” He was addressing no one in particular. Food was already being served. “You have no time to examine your consciences. You have only time for food, for liquor. I hope these will last forever.”

Senator Reyes, hefty and dark at one end of the table, laughed aloud. “That’s what I like about you,
Compadre.
You have such a wonderful sense of humor. No wonder you don’t grow old.”

“
Coño
—Satan is ageless,” Don Manuel said.

Senator Reyes changed the subject. “
Compadre
, what’s this I hear about Carmen selling her Thunderbird?”

“She did,” Don Manuel said. “That was three months ago. She used the money to publish a book.”

“Is she a writer after all?”

“You are an optimist,” Don Manuel said. “It was not her book. It was her husband’s.”

“Did Rivera really get the car? That would make twenty-four in his stable.”

“Twenty-four cars?” Larry asked.

“Yes. Rivera—you should meet him.” The senator turned to the American. “He is a sugar planter. He collects cars just as he collects fighting cocks and women.”

Larry shook his head in disbelief.

“That’s true,” Senator Reyes said a little sadly. “You can believe that. Why, I used to have eighteen cars myself, including a 1930 Rolls-Royce. That was before I got into politics. Now I have only twelve, half of them junk. If you wish,” he winked at the American, “I can give you a spin in my latest toy. It’s not much really, just a Karmann Ghia …”

“You should sell them all for scrap,
coño
,” Don Manuel said. He took another glass.

Senator Reyes laughed. “You are really funny tonight.”

Mrs. Villa laid a restraining hand on her husband’s arm. “Don’t Papa. That’s the seventh. I have been counting.…”

“Again?”

“Please, Papa.”

But Don Manuel raised the glass just the same.

“You are drinking like a fish now,” Senator Reyes said.

“I must drown my conscience,” Don Manuel placed the glass down. “Oh, it’s all right with you,
chico.
”
^*
He thrust his chin at Senator Reyes. “You don’t have to drink at all. You have no conscience.”

Again Senator Reyes laughed. “Padre, that’s the best quip from you tonight. But it’s true. In politics you can’t afford a conscience.”

A servant hovered by and asked Larry if he wanted a second helping of dessert. “I have never tasted mangoes this sweet,” the American said, nodding to the waiter.

Don Manuel did not let the nicety pass. “Imported from Cebu. Everything good we have is imported. And don’t you know? Many American scholars and soldiers stay here on the pretext of studying the country or loving the people. Actually, they are here to marry into our wealthy families. And that’s good, because we like foreigners—even if we use them as bulls to improve the native breed.”

Larry felt warm under the collar as another gale of laughter went around the table. When it subsided, unable to find something to say, he leaned over to Mrs. Villa. “I would like to extend my condolences
to Tony’s wife, Mrs. Villa,” he said softly. “Is there a way I may reach her.”

Mrs. Villa looked up from her ice cream, but she did not speak.

“I’d like very much to meet her. Tell her I knew Tony. Maybe that will take a load off her mind.”

Mrs. Villa looked at her husband and all conversation stopped.

“Well,” Don Manuel said suavely, grinning, “don’t just sit there, all of you, and pretend to be ignorant. What are we so secretive about?” He turned to the American and smiled wanly. “There’s really nothing to hide, Professor. But you see, my daughter, Mrs. Antonio Samson—how she likes using that name!—is at this moment indisposed. Hell, that’s one way of saying it. She is in the hospital now with a psychiatrist, whatever you call him. She is high-strung and emotional. She is going crazy. Is she to blame for the death of her husband? She thinks it was suicide. I insist that it wasn’t. Still, I know that boy and I have reason to think that it was so. And Carmen—my Carmen—do you know what she did? A month—one full month, thirty days—she did nothing but piece together the things that her husband had written and torn apart. A full month. And when it was ready she had the book published. She hadn’t worked that hard before and with such dedication—never before. Why then should a young man commit suicide if his wife loved him so? God, people quarrel. Mama, how many times do we quarrel in a day?”

“Papa, please,” Mrs. Villa placed another restraining hand on Don Manuel’s arm.

“It’s all right, Mama. Everyone is talking about us anyway.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” Larry said, almost choking on the words.

“I don’t know what made him do it. Was it an accident? I can’t believe that one hundred percent. How am I to know? When a person dies, he takes with him all his secrets. He had freedom, that Tony. That’s the most important thing, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you mean by freedom, sir,” Larry said. He tried to smile, but he just could not make himself do it.

“Freedom,” Don Manuel said, taking another glass of scotch and raising it to his lips, “is there more than one kind?”

He hated having to explain himself, but he was cornered. “Well, sir,” he said cautiously, “the word takes on other meanings when spoken by other groups.”

“Ah,” Don Manuel sighed, “you are like Tony, too damned technical and precise. When a man can wander to great heights—that’s what I call freedom. Tony called it mobility.”