“You happy?”
The question caught him off-guard. Even when he said warmly “Of course,” he was already wondering if he really was happy, if this was the zenith he had sought, for there was no overflowing joy in his heart, no strange warmth spreading to his fingertips, to the roots of his hair, no pleasure as that which suffused him on that drizzly evening when he finally found out how it was to have Emy cuddling up to him, to feel her body melt with his own feverish being because communion was complete.
But time changes so many things in a man—his attitudes and even his ideas about this strange amalgam called happiness. What has happened to me? Have I no longer the sensitivity and perception to understand the significance of this hour? This was what he had always wanted—this marriage, this belonging to an ethereal world that would forever be untouched by the damning frustrations he had known.
Godo gave the last word, a gentle nudge and that raspy, ingratiating voice: “A real catch, Tony. Remember what we proletarians used to say about licking the hacenderos? If you cannot destroy them, marry their daughters.”
Tony laughed good-naturedly, but afterward, Godo’s remark angered him, and the decent thing for him to have done was to shove the filthy words down Godo’s throat. He loved Carmen, and that made all the difference.
In a while the girls called them to the church office. Father Brown was there waiting, his big frame shaking with mirth as he said, “I can’t imagine Carmen doing this.” He had been Carmen’s father confessor since she was in grade school and he knew the Villas very well. He had been in the Philippines too long and had acquired a taste for Filipino food, he said jokingly, which also explained his girth and his broad, ruddy looks. They talked some more about San Francisco, his native city, about the ocean fog and Tony’s trip to Sacramento Valley, where he had met many Filipinos and the writers and artists in Carmel-by-the-Sea, whom Tony visited one summer while he washed dishes there. Then it was time for the priest to perform his duties and he beckoned Tony to go to the confessional.
He knelt, feeling warm in the collar; gone was his belligerence against the act of confessing. Now he was just another penitent, desirous to get the ritual and the penance over with. The strangely intimate questions that were asked did not sink into his consciousness, and he answered them with mechanical swiftness: Yes, I have done It with her—don’t you know there’s a baby coming? And It wasn’t once or twice but many times. I did not seduce her. In a way it was by common consent. Sure, there were other times. In Barcelona there was this girl who clerked in a photography store. And in Boston there was this coed from Radcliffe. I did not marry them, mind you. It’s this girl I’m marrying, so let there be no argument about that. Of course I’m in love with her. And it’s not her money, either, because I can support her with what I make. Nothing fancy, but I can support her. Yes, we will have as many children as God pleases. A dozen maybe, because I like children.…
One should get married in church for the experience. It all seemed hazy—the ordeal before the altar, the coins and the holy water, Godo smiling through it all and this Nena de Jesus, whom he had not met until now, misty-eyed and actually crying when it was all over. Just like that they were man and wife, and they held hands and looked into each other’s eyes, a brief kiss, then the hugs and the handshakes and Father Brown smiling benignly at them.
They could not all fit in Carmen’s car, so Carmen left it at the churchyard. Taking, instead, Nena’s car, they drove off to one of the Chinese restaurants near Pasay.
By eight they had finished dining and, for the occasion, Carmen asked the headwaiter to bring some brandy. Tony objected. “Let’s have that some other time,” he said. But Godo nudged him: “Can’t you think of a better time than now? I have brandy very rarely. Don’t be Ilocano. Not on your wedding day, anyway.”
He had learned long ago that gallantry and poverty did not go together—this lesson had long been etched in his mind. He turned to Godo in that meaningful way only friends understood and said simply, “I’m picking up the tab, Godo.”
“And the Villa millions?” Godo had always been brash.
“It’s not the Villa millions,” Tony said firmly, unmoving in his chair. “It’s the Samson centavos and there aren’t many of those around.”
Carmen laughed gaily. “I admire this smart talk. You really can jump at each other’s throats. But I doubt, darling,” she turned coyly to Tony, “if you have heard of conjugal property.” She thrust her silver-lined handbag to him.
She had flaunted her wealth, but he must be civilized, he must now show his displeasure; he must be able to live with grace and equanimity in this new and glittering circle. He smiled wanly.
“That’s a blessing I didn’t know about,” he said and went back to his coffee.
Nena must have noticed his discomfiture; she came to his aid. “How many children do you intend to have, Carmen?” she asked, her gaze shifting to the newly weds.
Carmen laughed. “Well, now that I’m a respectable woman I would like to have a dozen.”
Nena seemed appalled. “You are not serious, are you?”
“Ask my husband,” Carmen said.
“If a dozen she wants, she’ll have them,” Tony said. His good humor had returned.
“You don’t know what you are talking about,” Nena said, pouting. “That’s all wrong”—and the words poured out. “Look at me: in five years I had six children. I look like a tub of lard now, don’t I? I don’t think it is fair at all. I was once slim like you, and full of grace—no, Carmen? I don’t walk anymore. I roll. And six kids. I’m going to have my fallopian tubes tied this year. No more children for me. I’m going to enjoy life while I’m young. God, I’m only twenty-five and everyone calls me ‘Missus.’ There are some married women who are forty years old and they are called ‘Miss’ in beauty parlors and department stores. With me no one ever makes that mistake. It’s all over my figure.”
Her truthfulness was pathetic, and Carmen tried to dismiss the topic, to assuage Nena’s grief over her lost youth: “But six darling children, isn’t that enough compensation? You should be happy, Nena. Alice, you know her, poor Alice, married ten years and not even one miscarriage!”
Tony could see Nena de Jesus at home, her six children tended by a dozen yayas, the rearing of her children rendered an impersonal chore. Wealth does this—removes the warmth and the closeness that parents can have with their children—and he felt sorry for her misery and for her lost youth.
“No matter what you say,” Nena insisted. “Six is too much. And in the meantime, what happens? You know my dear, dear husband of course, my darling Ben.”
“They are both friends,” Carmen said, turning to Tony.
“Well, he is now gallivanting around. He takes off for Nueva Ecija to visit the tenants. Ha!” Nena apparently relished her story. “Do you know where he really goes? I wish he knew something other than real estate. You should tell your papa to shift him to another department.”
“He works in the office—top man,” Carmen explained to Tony again.
“Perhaps if he worked in the plywood factory, or in Mindanao, that would diminish his libido somewhat,” Nena rattled on.
Godo leaned forward, grinning. The story had piqued his interest and the brandy glass before him was empty.
“Nena, that’s what a man’s for,” Carmen said lightly.
“I know, dear,” Nena tapped Carmen’s hand patronizingly. “But there can be too much of it, you know. And what happens? Six children! And where has that taken me? Of course I love him, dear. But does he love me still in this condition? I want to apologize to Tony,” and she nodded to Godo, “but most men can’t differentiate love from sex. I feel that I repel Ben now. I can feel it—this sagging bust, these flabby arms, this tub of lard. I’m not one to arouse the romantic instincts anymore. This year I’m going to have my fallopian tubes tied. That’s final … and I’ve already seen a doctor. A good one. If I’d only seen him earlier then I wouldn’t be looking
like this today. I was very slim, remember, Carmen?”
Carmen nodded.
“You still want a dozen children?” Nena asked.
“Well, we are off to a good start,” she said, winking at Tony.
They had finished their coffee and the waiter started clearing their table.
“What do we do now?” Tony asked after their table was cleared.
“What do newlyweds do?” Godo asked. They all laughed.
Carmen turned to Godo. “I hope you won’t mind if I ask you to take Nena home. Her husband might beat her up—”
“It’s all right, darling,” Nena said, rising. Her flabby face was sad. “Ben never gets jealous. Not with a figure like mine.”
“Please, it’s a pleasure,” Godo said gallantly. “I may yet prove that your husband has no right taking you for granted.”
Nena de Jesus smiled and Tony knew that she had not been flattered in a long, long time. The restaurant foyer was lighted by a soft flow of capiz* lamps that dangled from the mahogany ceiling. Godo turned to the couple behind him. “I’m sure you are in a hurry to be left alone.”
“Of course,” Carmen said gaily.
They drove to the church where Carmen’s car was parked, and before Tony got out, Godo held his arm. “Be good to her, old boy. You will not find another girl like Carmen. Not in a million. And that goes for her millions, too.”
Laughter again, but this time Tony didn’t laugh.
Alone at last, they drove quietly to the boulevard.
Carmen parked on the sandy shoulder just behind the seawall, and night rushed about them, alive with the shudder of waves against the rocks, the swish of cars speeding on the boulevard behind them. Above, through the windshield, the stars shone, and before them was the seawall, the sea flat and quiet. Beyond the dark expanse the lights of Cavite gleamed and a beacon flashed green and red above the lights.
“I wish Godo had more sense than that. As if your money meant everything to me,” he said after a while. “He makes me feel so cheap, the way he talks. He had never learned refinement.”
“You are sore,” she said with alarm. She moved closer to him. “Not all our money is filthy, honey. And those crooked deals—they can’t be helped nowadays. Besides, have you forgotten that money isn’t corrupt, that it’s the people who are?”
“You don’t know what you are saying,” he said glumly. “I don’t think anyone in your family ever knows what money really means—the immense responsibility that goes with it. That includes your father.
“Esto, there is one important thing you don’t know,” she said hotly. “This quiet, simple wedding about which you had second thoughts—I didn’t want to go ahead with it at first. But Papa, he was thinking of you, your pride, and he said it was best this way. You should at least give him credit for thinking of you. And don’t let anyone know I’ve told you.”
He couldn’t believe what he heard. “The wedding, everything … everything was your father’s idea?”
“Yes,” she snorted.
Now that he had drawn from her this confession, he did not know whether he should be angry or grateful. Above the confusion in his own mind he realized that, henceforth, none of his waking hours would be spared the businessman’s attention. He should be grateful for having been relieved of considerable expense and embarrassment, but gratitude to Don Manuel Villa would now take the form of soft, comfortable chains that would never be shattered.
“He must think a lot of you to have consented to this,” he said.
She moved away from him and sat back. On the rocks below the seawall the waves were a whisper, and in the night, somewhere among the grass and in the stunted palms, cicadas found their voice. She spoke softly, as though talking only to herself: “Yes, Papa thinks he loves me, but I know he doesn’t really care. And if I got pregnant and had an illegitimate child, he couldn’t care less. He would simply ask that I be well taken care of and the child, too. That goes for Mama and all my dear brothers and sisters. And they’d worry about me only because what I might have done would give the family a bad name. I’ve known that and money has nothing to do with it. Do you know Papa has three mistresses and I’ve never heard Mama complain? Papa once brought one of them to a party at the house. Everyone knew, even Mother, and we all acted as if nothing was unusual. So you see, I’m really alone—just like you. And that’s why I want something I can call my own.”
“It is not true,” he said, feeling sorry for having been so direct. “You are dramatizing things again.”
“It’s true,” Carmen insisted. “So don’t think I’m being nasty this way. If I had told Papa that I’d already gotten married to you, he couldn’t have cared less.”
She sidled closer to him, her face beseeching. He touched her cheek and kissed her gently. “We shouldn’t be mad at each other on this day—of all days,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t tell you these things; they are what I should keep to myself.”
“And I … I have no pride when I am with you.”
“Listen, so you think you know what my father did when I was young? I told you, he bound me to a sled and horsewhipped me. Do you know what a horsewhip is? Well, my old man was careful not to strike my eyes. Just my back. You saw the scars.”
“It’s just a few marks—not really scars, just white marks,” Carmen said. “Mama, well, you know who she is, how her tongue works. She was poor until Father met her.”
He had wanted then to tell her how he had lied, that his father was in prison, not dead.
But his courage did not come. So tonight he decided that the problem would never surface again; he must live the lie now and talk of his father as belonging to the past, irrevocably there and pertinent only as a memory. He caressed her hair and told her how his mother had always been an angel, how she had slaved without a word of complaint.
“Perhaps you will be like her,” he said.
And she kissed him. “That’s the best compliment you’ve given me, darling.”
A balut† vendor approached them. After refusing, Carmen started the car and they slid back to the boulevard.
She wanted to drive him to Antipolo, but it was late and they parted instead at her gate. He waited until she was safely within the high, white-washed walls, then he walked to the corner and got a cab.
Tony did not wake his sister, choosing, instead, to go to bed immediately. But sleep was a long time coming, maybe because of the coffee and the brandy. It was long past midnight and he wondered if Carmen was awake, too. She always had an agile mind; in Washington they would sit up talking, cozily snuggled together. But he could not recall anything searing that they had talked about, nothing that had bared her soul, although he had told her much about himself. All that he could remember was the coffeepot bubbling somewhere in the kitchen, the late-night TV shows they watched together, her eagerness. Why had it been that way? Was it true after all that Carmen never knew how it was to be really loved, and that because she did not know, she had tried to find the meaning of surrender? There would be no secret meetings anymore; her most important problem was solved.
Below the house, in the slimy ditch half-covered with grass, the frogs started to croak, for the rains had finally come.
* Capiz: Translucent, squarish inner shell of small marine bivalve common in Philippine coastal waters; used to make lamps and decorative objects.
† Balut: A snack made from fertilized duck eggs incubated almost to the point of hatching and then boiled.
CHAPTER
6
Don Manuel went to the railroad station at noon to see them off. Just as Carmen had said, he did not seem ruffled at all. “Your mama is angry,” he told Tony as they stepped out of the car.
Tony had not expected him to come, and in Don Manuel’s presence his composure left him. “Thank you, sir,” he stammered. “I knew you wouldn’t approve of what we had done.” He tried to sound sincere. “But Carmen and I … we thought there was no other way.”
“You should have seen
the rumpus at the breakfast table this morning when I broke the news,” Carmen said gaily. “You should have seen Mother cry. She was just putting on an act, of course. Mother was glad, too, that I’m already married. Now she won’t have to worry about me being seduced.”
“I had other plans, of course. I thought we would get to know more of each other,” Don Manuel said evenly.
Carmen sidled to her father. “Thanks, Papa,” she said. “But I’m sure you’ll like Tony just the same.”
“Now, Tony,” Don Manuel turned to him. “When you get back you proceed directly to the house. No ‘buts’ about it. It’s so wide and empty, what with all the children already married and living on their own.….”
Tony looked at Carmen. He had hoped that when they returned, Carmen would stay with her folks until he found a small place to rent. But now that Don Manuel had spoken, his predicament seemed solved. He could not think of bringing Carmen to Antipolo—no, that was farthest from his mind. He turned to Carmen, and by the look in her eyes he knew that this, too, was what she desired.
“I thank you for your offer, sir,” he said humbly, “but—”
Don Manuel leaned back on the couch: “I know what you are thinking—of Mama and her displeasure. You don’t know her well enough. I’ll take care of her, you’ll see.”
Don Manuel stood up, and because they were the only people in the waiting room, he spoke freely: “I believe that you should live independently, but that should be when you really have settled a few important details—after you have found a place. Give us a chance. We won’t keep you forever.”
Don Manuel’s driver entered the room with their tickets.
“I wired the Pines Hotel this morning and have already arranged the bridal suite for you,” Don Manuel said at the door. “It’s a wedding present to my favorite daughter and to you.”
The Samsons: Two Novels; (Modern Library) Page 10