“The Library of Congress,” she said. “The first printed Bible. The American Constitution. They were all nicely framed and lighted in special containers, heated to keep out the frost and the humidity. It must have cost some money to install those devices …” He had taken her there because “when you are in Washington you just can’t miss the biggest library in the world,” and she had valiantly tried deciphering the scrawls.
“You are way off the track,” he said, divining her thoughts.
She turned on her cot and tweaked his nose. She smelled clean and, in the faint light of the other rooms, he could make out her face. “Oh, now, I’m not saying that we will have to go to so much expense trying to preserve your grandfather’s manuscripts.”
“What then?”
“But you can do it, maybe have an Augustinian friar in Manila transcribe it, and then, who knows, it may be an important document in literature—or ecclesiastical history.”
“That’s not funny,” he chided her.
“But I’m not trying to be funny,” Carmen said. “I’m merely carrying to a logical end what you have started. If you won’t have it translated, then at least we can bring it with us—not just the book, mind you, but all the other papers that were written in his hand: Oye, think what wonderful conversation pieces they will make!”
“Is that all you think of? Conversation pieces to show off to your illiterate friends and relatives?”
“Now it’s you who are being silly,” she reproached him. “We drove over horrible roads, ate in that filthy restaurant in Vigan, and now we are sleeping in this convent—on smelly cots. Five hundred kilometers—and the gas, I spent good money for it …”
The situation had suddenly become ridiculous and he did not know whether to laugh or to curse. But the feeling subsided quickly and gave way to his old understanding of the unchangeable dung heap that surrounded him. He brought to mind once more the American lady in her sixties on the boat crossing the Atlantic. He had met her on his way to Europe during his summer study tour. She was on an almost religious mission to a Sussex hamlet in England to seek the wellsprings of her ancestry, which were, she was told, still intact. A genealogical research agency had promised to do the job for a few dollars. “It’s dirt cheap,” she had said of the deal with the patent exuberance of an American who had accidentally stumbled upon a bargain. Tony recalled, too, the rapt crowds in the National Art Gallery in Washington, in the Louvre and the Prado, the hordes gaping at the old pictures, searching for beginnings in the cemeteries of art as if they were afraid to drift into the limbo of their own making, and these paintings, these revered pictures and stone images, were the anchors that would make them and the future secure. Their faces were all indistinct yet vaguely familiar, exuding as they did an enthusiasm and a longing. He had now struck an infallible identity with them, because he, too, had gone to great lengths to find but a book and a vanished name in a small town. And yet everything could have been simplified: a gilded museum, an efficient gravedigger with an encyclopedic memory—these were all that would have been necessary to find the clues to that unalterable pattern that he did not shape but which shaped him. And his wife was all this because she had the money and he … he had only the dream.
“You, your money …” he said.
She turned and pressed close to him. He could not see her face clearly, but he could define the glaring dark eyes.
“You have too much of it,” he said with conviction.
“All right,” she said, lying on her back again. “But remember, it’s what makes the world go—not an old, rotting book that may not even sell as a collector’s item. You know that very well. You’ve seen all those first editions in the secondhand-book stores, the one near Dupont Circle. In Greenwich Village …”
“Let’s not start this again,” he said hotly.
“You started it,” she said, her voice betraying a hurt. “You wear those big chips and dare everyone—even me—to knock them off.”
“Is that what you found here?”
“You could have asked me a long time ago and I would have told you.”
“And yet you married me?” Tony pressed on.
She did not speak.
“At least,” he said, “you can be kind and say that you made a mistake.”
She turned to him again. “I was in love with you. What is it that you want? Have you forgotten that I can always ask Papa?”
To her it all seemed so simple: I can always ask Papa—omnipresent, omnipotent.
“I want only one thing: to be myself,” he told her.
“Aren’t you?” she flung at him. “Really, now you are asking for blood. Esto, even coming here is asking too much. The past is past and no one can alter it.”
But the past still demanded attention, and that was not all—there was need for continuity, too, and belonging to a huge and primeval wave. He knew all this now and the knowing evoked transcendental joy. He was, after all, not a drifter in the vast ocean of want. Now, if he could only return to his teaching and once in a while write, maybe about the urgencies he believed in.… If he could only forsake the drudgery of his commerce, maybe he could do more for some future searcher to covet and, maybe, the self-justification that had eluded him for so long might yet take shape under his very hands. There flashed again, vivid and taunting, the face of the old man he had talked with in Po-on earlier in the day, and finally the faceless vision of the gentleman, the ancestor, who, perhaps, could have been in this very room with a pen in his hand. How did they in their listless youth face the chasms between fact and fancy? One refused to pioneer, to forsake the barren land, and the other wrote a book and then, on his puny legs, led a whole clan on a journey to a strange, new land.
But what happened to them? And what happened to his father, who had tried to be brave in his own, narrow way when the times demanded another form of courage? He could look back now to Cabugawan, his birthplace and his stigma, and he would find the answers there.
“Baby?” He spoke tentatively.
“Please,” she still sounded angry, “I’ve already told you that I’ll buy it. I will buy everything you need if the priest won’t give it for free.”
He stood up and walked to the window. Beyond the wide, vacant churchyard the whole town lay quiet and asleep. They would most probably leave in the morning and she would surely be glum. To her this was not a vacation—it was a meaningless jaunt into some benighted towns. But he would not mind. What was important now was getting back to the city to glean the small parts of himself that he had scattered to the shiftless wind. If he could only teach and write again—he must teach and write again.
Standing there, pondering the implications of Cabugaw, he wondered how soon morning would come sneaking into this musty room.
* Apo: A respectful form of address.
† Marunggay: A tree whose leaves and young fruit are cooked as vegetables.
‡ Nangca: The jackfruit tree or its fruit.
CHAPTER
12
It was too easy to be true, and looking at the lean, handsome face of Don Manuel on the cover of the Sunday Herald, Tony felt achievement glow all over him. Godo had been very thoughtful; he had sent this advance copy on a Wednesday when the board was to meet, so that Tony could show the magazine to everyone. Below the smooth, angular face of Don Manuel was the title in bold type: Man of Steel.
He immediately delved into the magazine and was even more amazed. Godo had given Don Manuel a six-page spread with the fewest ads, and the story included the latest photographs of the steel mill and statistical graphs on the steel needs of the country.
The article brimmed with authority and prestige because it sported Godo’s byline. Tony read it, tried to ferret out any of Godo’s barbed cynicisms that would easily nullify the story, but after going through the article twice he found not a single line in it that went sour. Don Manuel was right after all—friendships were important. He had invited Godo to the house only twice, and on the third visit he had made the pitc
h. Godo had not acted smart-alecky. He had said, I’ve done it for people less significant, and now, sell me Don Manuel. It had not been easy, of course, for by then Don Manuel’s many transactions, particularly the timber concessions in Mindanao, were under fire. But the mill was significant; it symbolized national aspirations and dignity. Steel was the foundation of modern society. The barrio could not rise from the dung heap unless it was energized by domestic steel mills that would cut down the huge imports of steel. That was it: steel was the bedrock of progress.
But it was not so simple. Tony had boned up on steel, and after the many board meetings he had attended and the conversations with Don Manuel, he had stored up a vast amount of knowledge. He had told Godo: we have limitless iron-ore deposits, and only the fringes of these deposits—in Mindanao, the Visayas, and Luzon—have been tapped. The figures are merely illustrative, but here they are: we export iron ore to Japan for processing at a mere thirty centavos a ton, and when we get this back in pig iron or elementary steel materials, do you know how much we have to pay? Three hundred pesos a ton. The opponents of Philippine steel are, of course, the American importers in Manila. Once a steel mill in this country is set up they will lose a very profitable market. And their arguments are downright silly. So what if our coal is bad and low grade and we don’t have coke! That is cheap and we can import it. Japan imports coke. And that is not all—hydroelectricity is becoming cheaper and our hydroelectric projects continue to be built. I’ve seen them in Mountain Province, and the Bontoc Igorots have been transferred from their ancestral homes because many new dams are being built there. Two are already finished. And there is this new Swiss process that is going to be very cheap. We can adopt it here. We don’t have to cling always to America’s apron strings. It’s not only being patriotic or nationalistic to ask that we support a local steel industry now, it’s also good business. It will absorb the surplus agricultural workers of the lethargic barrios. It’s nationalism—and Godo took the bait.
Don Manuel was in his office. Without a word Tony laid the magazine before the entrepreneur. The older man stood up, looked at the magazine, then went to his son-in-law and slapped him expansively on the shoulder. “I don’t have to tell you how happy I am about this, son.” His eyes were shining.
The board meeting that followed was short. Not much was discussed except the prospects of speeding up the work. Senator Reyes announced that the latest applications for dollar licenses by Dangmount and Johnny Lee were approved. Don Manuel had a word or two to give Dangmount—he should use his influence with the American community to get more contracts for the firm. The same appeal went to Johnny Lee, who took down notes in Chinese and bared his teeth in futile attempts to smile.
With the business for the day wrapped up, Tony hurried down to Newspaper Row to thank Godo and Charlie.
But the two refused to go out. They had work to do, so they went to the crummy shop below the newspaper office and sat in a sullen corner, smelling the accumulated mustiness of the years. They drank tasteless coffee and ate the same old siopao and mami.*
They started lightly enough with Godo trying to match Charlie with one or another of Carmen’s friends.
“I’m not getting married,” Charlie said solemnly. “It’s too much of a risk and, as far as I’m concerned, there’s no future in it. I will not marry and bring to this world children who will be as insecure as I am.”
“But it’s so easy to live,” Godo said brightly. “All you have to do is breathe and slave your guts out. And when you die your body will be taken to the Press Club. Just think of it—those mountains of flowers and all those fine speeches. Even your employer will be there. And as for your widow …” the cheery note had left Godo’s voice, “she will go on living in the stale rooms you’ve never freed yourself from.”
Charlie nodded and did not speak.
“Do you understand, Tony?” Godo asked. “There’s nothing that can enliven me now. I’m aging and I have nothing for my children.”
“We are all insecure,” Tony said. “There’s no one who is secure in this life. We all die—and that is the root of our insecurity.”
“Yes,” Godo said, “but security for me does not mean immortality. All I want is for my wife and children to be healthy and well provided for. But you can’t have security in this bloody country anymore. The rich won’t let you have it. They wouldn’t even let me have a battered Ford.”
“In America,” Tony said evenly, “everyone has a car. It doesn’t mean a damn thing.”
“In America,” Godo sighed. “But here, what do your American friends do? They won’t permit us to industrialize. And what happens? You have the same old bastards at the top. A few years back, when they stole, they justified themselves by saying ‘What are we in power for?’ They have changed the tune. Now they say ‘What’s wrong with providing for your family’s future?’ Visit Congress. Listen to our good friend Senator Reyes. He commits everything now in the name of nationalism.”
“Scoundrels always use patriotism as a last resort.”
“But that’s not the point,” Godo said. “What is important is this. We are all committing suicide. And we can’t stop it because of the uncertainty that hovers above us all. Listen,” he leaned close to Tony. “There is a village in your native Pangasinan. It’s near the sea, and the people there earn a living diving for the bombs that were dumped at the bottom of the gulf in 1945 by the American navy. They extract the powder from these bombs and use it for dynamite fishing. Three months ago a bomb they were opening blew up. Thirty-seven were killed, including women and children. Last week I sent Charlie there for a story. Tell him, Charlie.”
His dark, thin face empty of emotion, Charlie leaned over and spoke softly: “I came across them, near the ruins made by the first blast. And they were opening another bomb. I asked why they were still at it after what happened to the others. And they said there was no other way. Life must go on.”
“I refuse to believe it,” Tony said. “No man, unless he is sick, takes his own life. There must be a sickness, an incurable one. And it must have been there since his birth, secretly growing until that time when it has consumed the love for life and then becomes nothing else but hate. Then the man takes his own life because he has been drained of love. Because there is nothing else in the body but that disease, that cancer of hate. I cannot think of any man wanting to die. Even in pain there is knowledge—and therefore joy.”
Godo was in his best form again. “But, you see, there is no alternative really. They have to live. We have to live. So we raze our forests, we dynamite our fishing grounds. We export all our ore and our best logs to Japan. And businessmen like your father-in-law say that life must go on. Or if Don Manuel sets up a steel mill he ends up being a dummy.”
Tony leaned back. “You don’t mean what you say; you’re pulling my leg again.”
Godo’s forehead knitted. “Do you mean to tell me that you weren’t able to read between the lines?”
“What do you mean?” Tony sounded incredulous.
“Tell him,” Godo nudged his assistant.
“Well, I did research on the cover story, you know,” Charlie said. “I even talked with some people from Mindanao—just to find out about your father-in-law’s investments there.”
“Well?”
Charlie leaned over. “Your grandfather, how was he dispossessed? How did he and all other Ilocano settlers in your town lose their farms?”
“I’ve told you,” Tony said wearily. “But it was different then. My grandfather … he was learned, but he was alone. The landmarks that they had—the mounds, the trees, the creeks—were swallowed up by the landlords when they had the land surveyed for Torrens titles. But I’m not bitter about that anymore.”
“You have a short memory,” Godo said bluntly, “and, of course, that’s understandable. You are living it up, you are a landlord now.”
“I resent that,” Tony said hotly.
“But it is true,” Charlie said evenly. �
�Why don’t you go to Mindanao as I have? There are hundreds of Ilocano settlers there now. And they are being dispossessed right and left. By learned men like Don Manuel Villa. Ask your father-in-law about his lumber concessions. Check up on the haciendas under his name. You want land reform, don’t you? You said in your thesis that the revolution had agrarian undercurrents, didn’t you?”
“I do not deny that.”
“Well, the beginnings of another revolution are around us again. The Huks may have failed, but there is another uprising coming clearly and surely, and this time there is one unmistakable ideology behind it. The poor against the rich. And it will be a revolution that may wipe out this stinking society from its false moorings. And with the cataclysm, you may have to go,” Godo said.
“You are not frightening me,” Tony said without emotion. “The circumstances do not support you. Besides, we know better now—all of us. Power does not reside in the poor and it takes more than anger to move the world.”
“Yes, it takes more than anger. But how did the revolution start? What makes you so sure that, right now, there aren’t poor men like me who are plotting, thinking, devising ways for the time when all this rottenness will explode?” Godo asked.
“I will be prepared when that time comes,” Tony said evenly.
“There will also come a time when we will be face-to-face with ourselves not as we want ourselves to be regarded by others but as we really are. When that time comes, I’d sympathize with you,” Godo said.
“I regret nothing,” Tony said.
“Stop being so smug,” Godo told him.
“Stop being angry.”
“We cannot stop being angry,” Charlie said calmly. “We go about our dull routine, we get drunk on a bottle of beer, we look forward to the pleasures of fornication. And when all this is over, we are angry again. We who are trying to write, Tony—you know this, we talked about it in the good old days. We are the real revolutionists not only because we hate this quagmire but because in essence we reject all reality.”
The Samsons: Two Novels; (Modern Library) Page 18