The Samsons: Two Novels; (Modern Library) Read Online Free PDF Page A

have been, what things they could have possessed.
    Tony had always avoided talking about his father. To friends, he had vaguely indicated that his father was dead. He had been greatly troubled that morning filling out his application for the university, but after a pause, he wrote that both parents were dead. He should have been proud to admit that his father was in Muntinlupa; he should have worn his old man’s life sentence like a decoration on his breast: my father did what was right; he killed in righteous anger. How many people could do the same? But the time for heroism had passed; they are no more—the brave men who courted stigma, privation, and even death for their beliefs. In the end, his father did not get what he wanted and it was this, perhaps, that riled the old man most.
    There were instances when he was tempted to argue with his father, to tell him that the weapons the old man had chosen were obsolete, but it embarrassed him to do so, for his father spoke from the swirling depths of passion. Perhaps it would have turned out differently if his father had acted with restraint and held back the angry hand. But then the family would not have left Rosales; it would have sunk into the implacable destiny of small towns and he would never have known the colors of autumn, the refreshing mental exercises in the apartment on Maple Street, and, most of all, he would never have met Carmen Villa.
    His old man’s sacrifice was not wasted then; it had exiled the family to the sullen warren of Antipolo, and from there, the vision was without limit, and for all this, Tony had his father to thank, an old man tortured with years and blinded with rage, a man who was brave when bravery was not the need, but intelligence—and cleverness.
    The street to the penitentiary from the main highway had not changed in the years since he had last visited—the same fruit stalls, dilapidated shops and houses, the same bleak uniformity of small towns. His sister had not told the old man that his scholarship was over, that Tony would soon be home. There were a host of things hewould talk about: the job at the university, that was the first, and then Carmen.
    The fortress-like facade of the prison’s main building had been whitewashed, and the hedges and well-trimmed grass that fronted the gate shone in the harsh May sun. The prison’s surroundings were green compared to the dead fields below the high, whitewashed walls. The parked jeepneys and
carretelas
* near the gate, the brothers and sons and daughters in their Sunday best crowded around the waiting benches in reception—the day was a fiesta even to him.
    He did not wait very long. Shortly after he had filled out the visitor’s form, and given it to the guard at one of the several reception desks, the iron door leading beyond the cement hall opened with a clang.
    In the bright light inside the huge visiting pavilion he recognized his father at once, a short man with white hair, past sixty now, with an almost imperceptible stoop. Tony bolted up from the wooden bench and went to his father, who had walked into the airy center of the hall, scanning the faces around him, his face anxious and drawn. How he had changed! Now there was a yellowish pallor in his skin and he no longer held his head high. His orange uniform was not only faded, it was patched and needed washing, and when he moved, he dragged his wooden shoes noisily across the rough cement floor.
    He went to his father, whispered hoarsely, “Father,” then he grasped the horned hand and brought it to his lips. I’m back, Father,” he said thickly. “I’m back and I’m glad to see that you are healthy.…”
    The old man turned to him; he did not speak at first, but his lips quivered and a mistiness gathered in the hollow, blinking eyes. Holding his father’s hand, Tony led him to the bench at one end of the hall and they sat together. The old man was still wordless but on his face a smile started.
    “I thought I would