The Samsons: Two Novels; (Modern Library) by F. Sionil Jose Page B

was, and there was more coming. America had not been miserly after all with its benevolence, nor had it spoiled him. No, America had not defiled his perspective and his innocence.
    How was it then? How had it been in the old boardinghouse on Maple Street, the four years he spent in it with his roommate, Bitfogel? Larry Bitfogel—and he rose quickly and started a letter. Larry, who majored in agricultural economics, was now in South America as a consultant with the International Cooperation Agency.
    “My dear Larry,” he wrote in his slow, careful hand, “I am now back home and safely under the yoke at the university.
    I hope you will soon be able to visit Asia, where your services are urgently needed. If you come, please let me know so I can show you around.
    I haven’t gone around very much as yet. I don’t know how I’ll be thinking in a few more days, but at the moment, while the impressions are still sharp and clear, let me tell you that I’m pleased as well as disappointed by the things I see.
    There are new buildings, a lot of traffic on the streets, but this progress, as you know, is deceptive. The slums are still here, the poverty, the filth. I told you once that poverty is a way of life with us.
    Remember how we used to work in the summers—you in the construction gang where there was always more money and I in those greasy restaurants? That was honorable and we saved alot. It’s not so here. It’s still a disgrace to be poor and to work with one’s hands. But the situation seems to be improving. The waiters look neater now—they wear white and they even have caps. Poverty now wears a starched uniform.
    I do hope you’ll come to Manila soon. Of course, only third-rate Americans come to the Philippines to make a living exploiting us yokels. The first-rate Americans stay home to reap the milk and the honey. And you, my dear Larry [he paused and beamed at his patronizing attitude], you are first-rate.…
    I miss the old room, the bull sessions, and your coffeepot. [He cast his eyes about his room.] I miss your electric typewriter, too.
    You used to insist—after I had told you of our problems and our history—that only a revolution could change the stink in our social order. I still disagree with you and that is why I do hope I can have a revolution against revolution. Do come so that we can start livening up this place.
    He closed the letter with that little nicety, then lay on his hard, old cot, deaf to the noises of the world and finally immune to the heat of the early May night. He was home; a very secure position at the university awaited him, and there was, as a bonus, Carmen Villa. So this was Antipolo—and this was not the end. It was the beginning, and before him the opportunities were limitless. He could no longer be bothered by nightmares, for a man sure of himself, sure of his achievements and of what the morrow would bring could not be shaken by such trifles as the omnipresent past, or social responsibility. Knowledge always brings comfort, and before he went to sleep, Tony Samson felt like the most comfortable man on earth.
    *
Carretela:
A two-wheeled horse-drawn cart.
    †
Manang:
An affectionate, respectful form of address for an older sister or woman. Ilocanos do not call older relatives by their given names alone. Masculine form:
Manong.
    ‡
Pechay:
A variety of cabbage, like bok choy.
    §
Accesoria:
An apartment; literally an “outbuilding.” A word widely used until the 1950s.
    ‖
Pinakbet:
A vegetable dish made with fermented fish.
    a
Aparador:
A wooden cabinet for clothing.
    b
Delicadeza:
Delicacy, refinement, scrupulousness (Sp.).
    c
Despedida:
A going-away party; a farewell.

CHAPTER

2
    W hen Tony awoke the sunlight had already splashed the room, a dazzling white on the mosquito net and on the starched doily that adorned his reading table. It was not the sun that woke him, though; it was the freight train that thundered by and shook the wooden house as if it were a