The Samsons: Two Novels; (Modern Library) (45 page)

“What was it like when you were small?”

“It was not a harsh life,” Toto said softly, “if that is what you want to know. Children have little knowledge of what is difficult as long as their bellies are not empty. I did not mind the secondhand clothes. And I had many playmates! But from the very start I knew I was an orphan.”

His eyes were misting, and I told him not to continue if the telling was too painful. “No,” he said, attempting a smile. “It is just that it is a very difficult feeling, to know that you have been cast aside, that no one wanted you, not even your mother.”

I wanted then to tell him that my father did not want me, either, that the world is not cruel, but both of us knew the knavery, the wretchedness around us.

“It does not matter much after you get to accept it,” he said. “Besides, there were the sisters and the maids. They were mothers to us. Then there were the visits of prospective parents—couples who came to look for kids to adopt. Usually they took the very small ones, the babies. But there was always a chance that the bigger ones would be considered. And as we grew older, we knew the importance of these visits and we tried to look our best and act our best, wondering if we would be taken. But the years went on. I grew up and no one took me. The girls were taught skills and some were even chosen as brides. But boys can stay there only till a certain age, after that they must leave. They are too much of a problem, I suppose. That was when Father Jess came—good luck, I should say, for he is a very fine man. Without him, I would not be going to school; I would not be earning a little money so that I can feed you like this.”

“Thank you,” I repeated. I was finished with my
siopao.

“Pepe,” he said, “you are honest, even if you joke about it.”

“Shit.”

“You appeal to most. And you are sincere. It shows on your face when you are angry.”

“Then I’ll make a lousy politician.”

“The old kind,” he said, emphatically. “We really need good people, particularly in the Brotherhood. You have no pretensions.”

“Shit.”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “I know psychology. With my background. And in church, I meet many people—phonies telling us problems that are not true. I can read you.”

“Shit again,” I said.

“But most important, Pepe, you are bright. Brighter than I. Though perhaps you don’t know it.”

“I should be feeding you,” I said.

Leaving him, I felt this wonderful warmth suffuse me, satisfied not with the pork
siopao
but with the friendship. Toto did not want anything from me and I wasn’t going to be of any help to him. He stuttered, he looked lost, he was deeply religious but was an activist. He had nobody but a priest named Father Jess and a professor, both of whom he held in awe. There was also an old woman who cooked for him named Tia Nena. Now he had a brother as well.

When I got home I was surprised to find Lucy furious at me for not having arrived earlier. Toto’s
siopao
had filled me and I had not realized it was past one. “Now,” she said petulantly, “I cannot go and visit my sister.”

“Shit,” I told her. “Why did you not tell me this morning? You can go now and not blame me. After all, there is the whole afternoon if you wish.”

“But you don’t understand,” she said. “She was waiting for me in Quiapo at lunchtime. And I did not go.”

“I thought you visited her at her home,” I said. “How did you know she was going to wait for you in Quiapo?”

“That is what we agreed on.”

“You should have told me,” I said wearily, all desire for her having ebbed.

“I forgot.” She said it lamely.

I suddenly felt uneasy; intuition told me it was not her sister she was going to see.

“You are lying,” I said. “It was a man you were going to meet in Quiapo.”

“Now, Pepe,” she said, her voice pitching. “Don’t you start suspecting things. I forgot, that is all.”

“Stop it then,” I said, unconvinced.

It was our first quarrel. I went to her and kissed her softly on the cheek, then the lips with passion. But she was holding back; it was as if she was expecting someone anytime to knock at the door, for she would turn that way, although her hands were all over me. After a while, I looked into her eyes. “What is disturbing you? Who are you expecting?”

She blushed, and quickly her arms encircled me again. But I pushed her gently away, looked into her troubled face. “It was not your sister you were going to see, Lucy. It was your lover.”

She got angry; she pushed me roughly saying it was none of my business, then she marched off to the kitchen.

I followed her. “Lucy, it’s two months now. This is not something that I do as a machine. There is some feeling here,” I held her hand and pressed it to my chest. “You must know that. If you do not have feelings at all, I have.”

Her countenance softened. She turned to me and touched my face in a caress. “Do not ask questions,” she said. “We have not known each other for more than two months, like you said. And look what we are already doing. What more do you want?”

“Honesty,” I said.

“But my life is my own.”

“Not anymore, not after what we have done. You are now a part of my life.”

She must have realized how hurt I was, for she kissed me softly and then led me up the stairs to my room again.

I did not put on the greatest show on earth—my mind was too troubled—and when we were finished and relaxed, she said, “If you were the first I am sure that I would have been very hurt.”

She was being honest finally, and though it had not occurred to me to ask, on reflection, I had known that I was not her first. There was no bleeding, and though I had read somewhere that this might
not be the case if the girl was athletic, I realized that she had not expressed pain but had, instead, acted with confidence.

“Tell me who was the first,” I asked, turning on my side to look at her pretty, brown face.

She faced me, “You will not be angry?”

“I can bear it. What can I do about the past?”

“I had some difficulty. Of course, I bled. Three times, and each time, I bled a little. But Pepe, he was not like you at all.”

“Who is he?”

She drew away and pinched my nose. “Now, you know enough and I have been truthful. Let us not talk like this anymore.” She kissed me once more, and we would have lingered but for an infernal rapping on the door below.

In fright, she bolted up, put on her clothes, and ran downstairs. I took time putting on my clothes but did not go down. I lay in my cot, turning over in my mind what she had said and was sad and yet a little comforted. Lucy had begun to be honest with me.

It had been my uncle at the door, and his voice was angry although I could not make out what he was angry about, and Lucy was trying to tell him something, but he had rushed up the stairs, slammed the door, then, after a while, rushed out again.

I went down wondering what it was all about. “He seemed very angry,” I said. Lucy was preparing the evening meal and dusk had come. Soon, the Lucena Express would thunder by.

“He forgot an important paper, I think,” Lucy said. “He had been at the door a long time and we did not hear him.”

“I hope he did not suspect you were upstairs with me.”

Lucy tweaked my nose. Uncle Bert did not stay long at the door, even the slightest rap on it could be heard in the house, and I wondered what it really was that had made him angry at Lucy.

K
uya Nick was in his green Mercedes, apparently waiting for me. He was bright as a lightbulb as I emerged from the alley, and he beckoned to me to take the seat beside him. I demurred but he was insistent. “I will take you to school,” he said. “It is on my way anyway.”

It would be my first ride in a Mercedes and I would be hypocritical to let the opportunity pass. Besides, there was also the promise of a job. The engine purred quietly to a start and we headed toward Dimasalang. “How is my
toro
this morning?” he asked, nudging me with his elbow.

“All right,” I said. A protracted silence. He was not just giving me a lift; he had something to say. “Are your classes this morning really all that important? I am about to give you a job in the afternoons if you want it. Let us go somewhere we can talk.”

Of course, I wanted it! Me, with a job at last, me with something to add to my little spending money, money that was almost gone. He stepped on the gas, and we sped toward Dimasalang, Quiapo—to the boulevard, to one of the coffee shops there.

I was not hungry but he ordered a hamburger and a cup of coffee
for me anyway. The shop was almost empty and we had a corner to ourselves.

He was no longer jovial; his face was serious, with a hint of brutal coldness. He folded his hands on the table, the morning sun glinting on his diamond ring, on his polished nails. “I will speak to you frankly,” he said, “and you are free to reject what I offer. But you are not free to talk about it to others. If you do, God have pity on you because you will not live long if I find out. Is that clear, Pepe?”

Goose pimples pricked my skin. “What do you want me to do?”

“First,” he said, toying with his cup, “I want you to make deliveries on the appointed time, at the exact place. And no mistakes. If you cannot make it or if no one shows up, report to the same place in thirty minutes, on the dot, and after that, if no one shows up, then leave.”

“What am I going to deliver?”

“Drugs,” he said simply.

I had lost all appetite; the hamburger became tasteless mush in my mouth and rocks started forming in my throat.

“Speed?”

For the first time, a smile crossed his corpulent face. He shook his head. “That’s for children. No, the real thing. Heroin.”

My anxiety must have been etched all over my face.

“Afraid?”

I nodded.

“I am not surprised,” he said, touching my hand briefly. “They are all afraid in the beginning. But it is not really all that dangerous. You don’t have to worry about the police. I take care of them. It is the customers you have to worry about. But you will learn quickly. And besides, just think, it’s big money, you will get ten percent of all the deliveries. Easily two hundred pesos in a week. And you will make only a few deliveries in a day. And not every day. It all depends, of course, if you can bring in new clients—but not from your school. They don’t have money in Recto. That is why I said you should go to Ateneo or La Salle. That’s where the money is. All those spoiled brats. And if they don’t have it, they will give you their mothers’ jewels, or their fathers’ watches, anything they can lay their hands on. They live in Pobres Park, in those fancy places.”

Two hundred pesos a week, about a thousand a month. Who cares for the Brotherhood?

“Kuya,” I asked, breathing easier, “why did you pick this day? Why all of a sudden?”

Again, the fleeting smile. “You are the best candidate. You live close to my wife.” I had to get used to his calling his mistress his wife, and I wondered how many women he had. “Communication would be no problem. The truth is”—he lowered his voice—“the one you are replacing got too ambitious. I think he was trying to blackmail one of his customers. He was killed yesterday. His body was taken probably in a car and abandoned in a field in Marikina. And all his stuff was stolen.”

Could that happen to me? The unspoken question was answered immediately.

“Even though they are addicted, one must not deal too harshly with them. Sometimes, when they don’t have the ready cash, it may be necessary to give it to them, but be sure to collect it at the following meeting. They always come through because they know that if they don’t they will not be given another chance.”

He could see the indecision in my face. I was going to be a pusher—that was farthest from my aspirations. I may have stolen and lied, and I may have been plastic to my mother, but now I would be putting my neck on the block.

“Try it for one week—just one week. And if you don’t like it, then stop. And no hard feelings. But no talking—that is very clear, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

Time was important and I had no watch. We stood up, got into the car, and drove to Makati. At the first jewelry shop he bought me my first Seiko.

I did not go to school that morning, but spent time studying the code, the hazy description of each customer I was to meet. Kuya Nick had seen them from a distance, he knew where they lived, how they could be contacted, and he had a long list. He must have had in his employ at least ten pushers.

At exactly one that afternoon I walked hesitantly to a red Volkswagen 1500 parked beside the Rizal Theater. The young man inside, about eighteen, thin, with glassy eyes, was startled when I approached him. He was about to start the engine and leave when I
said that Joe—that was the old pusher—would not be servicing him anymore. I gave him the numbered envelope, which he immediately recognized. He opened it, took the small packet out, and sniffed its contents; a benign smile spread over his face. He gave me an envelope in return. I opened it in his presence, expecting two hundred pesos as Kuya Nick said. I was wrong. Joe had been upping the price—it was three hundred—and I had a hundred pesos more for myself.

In a moment he was gone. I had two hours to waste before the next delivery at the supermarket. I had become hungry so I went to the Japanese restaurant across the shimmering expanse of parked cars. I had never been to a place like this, but now I had a hundred pesos and could afford it. It was almost two, but there were still people eating. I had read about Japanese cooking, the subtle taste of raw fish, seaweeds, and all that. It was fashionable for young people to be in jeans, in faded T-shirts as I was, and though I felt uncomfortable in these strange and elegant surroundings, it was the experience I wanted. “Raw fish,” I told the kimono-clad waitress. “Then sukiyaki.”

“And what would you like to drink, sir?”