Francisco Sionil Jose - The God Stealer
THE GOD STEALER
Francisco Sionil José
They were the best of friends and that was possible because they worked in the same office and both were young and imbued with a freshness in outlook. Sam Christie was twenty – eight and his Filipino assistant, Philip Latak, was twenty – six and was – just as Sam had been at the Agency before he assumed his post – intelligent and industrious.
“That is to be expected,” the official whom Sam replaced explained “because Philip is Ifugao and you don’t know patience until you have seen the rice terraces his ancestors built.”
“You will find,” Sam Christie was also told, “that the Igorots, like the Ilocanos, no matter how urbanized they already are, entertain a sense of inferiority. Not Philip. He is proud of his being Ifugao. He talks about it the first chance he gets.”
Now, on this December dawn, Sam Christie was on his way to Ifugao with his native assistant. It was last month in the Philippines and in a matter of days he would return to Boston for that leave which he had not had in years.
The bus station was actually a narrow sidestreet which sloped down to a deserted plaza, one of the many in the summer capital.
Sam could make out the shapes of the stone buildings huddled, it seemed, in the cold, their narrow windows shuttered and the frames advertising Coca – Cola above their doorways indistinct in the dark.
Philip Latak seemed listless. They had been in the station for over half an hour and still there was no bus. He zipped his old suede jacket up to his neck. It had been four years that he had lived in Manila and during all these years he had never gone home. Now, the cold of the pine – clad mountains seemed to bother him. He turned to Sam and, with a hint of urgency – “One favour, Sam. Let me take a swig.”
Sam and Christie said, “Sure, you are welcome to it. Just make sure we have some left when we get Ifugao.” He stopped, brought out a bottle of White Label – one of the four – in the bag which also contained bars of candy
Francisco Sionil José
They were the best of friends and that was possible because they worked in the same office and both were young and imbued with a freshness in outlook. Sam Christie was twenty – eight and his Filipino assistant, Philip Latak, was twenty – six and was – just as Sam had been at the Agency before he assumed his post – intelligent and industrious.
“That is to be expected,” the official whom Sam replaced explained “because Philip is Ifugao and you don’t know patience until you have seen the rice terraces his ancestors built.”
“You will find,” Sam Christie was also told, “that the Igorots, like the Ilocanos, no matter how urbanized they already are, entertain a sense of inferiority. Not Philip. He is proud of his being Ifugao. He talks about it the first chance he gets.”
Now, on this December dawn, Sam Christie was on his way to Ifugao with his native assistant. It was last month in the Philippines and in a matter of days he would return to Boston for that leave which he had not had in years.
The bus station was actually a narrow sidestreet which sloped down to a deserted plaza, one of the many in the summer capital.
Sam could make out the shapes of the stone buildings huddled, it seemed, in the cold, their narrow windows shuttered and the frames advertising Coca – Cola above their doorways indistinct in the dark.
Philip Latak seemed listless. They had been in the station for over half an hour and still there was no bus. He zipped his old suede jacket up to his neck. It had been four years that he had lived in Manila and during all these years he had never gone home. Now, the cold of the pine – clad mountains seemed to bother him. He turned to Sam and, with a hint of urgency – “One favour, Sam. Let me take a swig.”
Sam and Christie said, “Sure, you are welcome to it. Just make sure we have some left when we get Ifugao.” He stopped, brought out a bottle of White Label – one of the four – in the bag which also contained bars of candy