by James Green
Without thinking, he had put her arm round her shoulders to comfort her.
‘There is always someone you can turn to, my child, someone who is always there for all of us: Jesus.’
She had taken away her hands and looked at him with her tear-stained face which almost glowed as she smiled her thanks. It was at that moment the thunderbolt had hit him and he found himself drowning in her eyes.
He had no idea how long he had sat with his arm round her shoulders and her head leaning against his chest. Perhaps less than a minute, perhaps many minutes. He couldn’t tell. All he could tell was that he was happy, that it was right and good to hold her and comfort her. Then a woman with two young children came noisily into the church, she scolding for their reluctance to visit God, they protesting that they wanted to stay with their friends and play.
The priest and the young woman sat upright and moved slightly apart, the magic broken by a stranger.
The woman with the children dragged the younger one forward while the elder sullenly followed.
‘Father, Father, I’m so glad you’re here. Tell them that they must visit Jesus and pray. They do not listen to me. I tell them, I shout at them, I take a stick to them, but they will not come to visit God. Tell them, Father, that they will burn, that the devil will come for them.’ The two boys stood glumly while their mother harangued the priest. Quietly the young woman stood up, slipped along the bench, genuflected to the altar, and moved away towards the church doors. The voice of the woman went on as the priest watched the young woman go. ‘Tell them, Father, they will listen to you, a man of God, our priest.’
With difficulty he gave his attention to the woman.
‘Let them play. Now is the time for them to be with their friends and enjoy themselves.’ He looked down at the two little boys. ‘What games were you playing?’
The elder answered.
‘Soldiers. We were the Yankees and we were killing the revolutionaries.’
‘You see, Father, you see the games they play, killing and fighting.’
‘Your mother is right. It is not good to play such games. Killing and fighting are cruel things, things against God’s love.’ He turned to the mother. ‘But this is still the time for children to play, not the time for coming to church. They should be outside with their friends. Bring them to Mass: that is the time for church.’
The woman’s voice changed.
‘Easy for you to say, Father, you do not have to work. When do I have the time to bring them to Mass?’
‘There is Mass each morning at six.’
The woman gave a derisive laugh.
‘Yes, I know, and each morning at five I have to be in the kitchen making up the fires and then starting breakfast for the family I work for. Then, when that is done, there is the cleaning and after that the shopping. When can I get to Mass and bring my children?’
‘On Sunday?’
‘And my employers don’t eat on Sunday? They don’t expect me to clean and wash?’
The priest knew he was wasting his time. The woman was right. She was one of those who worked hard, long hours for little pay, whose children ran wild while she earned the money to feed them. She did her best but her best would not be good enough. He tried to think of something to say but his thoughts were elsewhere. He looked at the church doorway. Suddenly in the bright sunlight she was there, standing in the doorway. Was she waiting for him?
He should say something, help in some way. Was there a husband?
The figure in the doorway moved out of sight. Was she gone? Was she waiting? He had to know if she was still there. He looked down at the two boys.
‘Your mother is right; she works hard for you and you must be grateful and obedient. If she says come to church and pray then you must come. There are other times to play your games. Kneel now with your mother and thank God for her.’
The two boys gave voice at once in protest and the woman was about to speak again but he quickly raised his hand intoned the words and made the gesture of a blessing which silenced all of them. ‘Benedicat vos …’ and was on his way to the doors before they could respond with their Amen.
Outside he looked around, then he saw her. She was standing in the shade of one of the trees that lined the edge of the square which stood in front of the church. He went across and stood beside her.
‘I’m sorry, Father, sorry to trouble you but you have been so kind I thought that perhaps …’
And there she stopped and looked at the ground.
‘Thought what?’
She kept her eyes on the ground and spoke quietly.
‘Perhaps you might give me a few centavos to buy a little rice.’ Suddenly she looked up at him and spoke hurriedly. ‘To ask a priest for the price of a meal is not like begging, is it, Father? To ask you is like asking God.’
‘Have you eaten today?’
She shook her head.
‘Not since yesterday morning.’
‘Then come with me.’
The priest’s house was large and rather impressive and like the church dated from the early Spanish Colonial times. It had been built to house the parish priest, at least three curates, a housekeeper, and several servants. Whatever it might still lack in modern amenities it was not short of rooms. Its front was covered with melded stucco painted white. It was attached to the church by a high, white wall so that between them the church and the house filled one side of the square.
The priest led the young woman to the front door and they went in.
The priest’s housekeeper, when he brought the young woman into the large, stone-flagged kitchen at the back of the house, didn’t hide her surprise at an unexpected visitor nor her reluctance to feed strangers.
‘Well, if you say so, Father, I suppose I can find a little rice …’
‘And perhaps some chicken.’
The housekeeper gave him a look.
‘I can’t be expected to feed all the hungry off the streets on rice and chicken: not on the housekeeping I’m given. If she’s hungry rice will be enough. There’s plenty who don’t beg for food who have to be satisfied with nothing more.’
The young woman stood silently looking at the floor and the priest felt embarrassed at his housekeeper’s words and manner but was unsure whether to show his authority and insist on the chicken or settle for the rice and keep the peace. It was the young woman who settled the matter by looking up at the housekeeper.
‘Rice will be plenty and if I may be allowed in your kitchen I would gladly do the washing and perhaps some cleaning to show my thanks for your kindness.’
The priest smiled, it was a courteous offer. But not, apparently, seen as such by the housekeeper.
‘Oh, you think I don’t keep my kitchen clean, eh, that you could do a better job of looking after it?’
‘Oh no, it was just …’
‘Well, I tell you now you won’t do anything in here. I don’t allow street beggars to wander around in this house, in the kitchen or anywhere else.’
The young woman took the words badly and her voice rose.
‘I am not a beggar, I simply asked the Father …’
‘For a meal. I know, he told me. Chicken and rice and perhaps a little wine with it and afterwards a little fruit then perhaps a coffee.’ She paused and a nasty look came into her eyes. ‘Will that be all or would you like a cigar as well?’
It was a vicious remark. Only women of the street were ever seen to smoke cigars.
The young woman’s voice rose.
‘That is not true. I didn’t ask for chicken …’
To the priest this was a new and unpleasant experience; he had never found himself between two quarrelling women before and, as new experiences went, he didn’t care for it at all, so when he spoke his voice was perhaps a little raised. Possibly, he may have shouted.
‘Stop, both of you.’ They stopped. The priest was pleased with their response but he knew he was in a difficult position. He had brought the young woman to the h
ouse as an act of Christian kindness, so of course she must eat. But he certainly didn’t want to upset or humiliate his housekeeper. He turned to her. ‘Maria, you are my housekeeper, you are in sole charge of the food and the kitchen and I value the excellent way you look after and provide for me. If you say that we cannot provide some simple meal, a bowl of rice, for this young woman, who I have brought from the street as an act of kindness which any Christian would do and whose name I do not even know, then we cannot, and that is that. I will send her on her way with a few centavos to go and obtain food elsewhere. I leave it in your hands.’
It was a masterstroke and he knew it.
The young woman also knew it. She spoke humbly.
‘Of course, Father, whatever your good housekeeper says.’
And the housekeeper knew it.
‘Keep your money in your pocket, Father. Of course there is a bowl of rice.’ She went to a cupboard, opened it and turned, ‘and chicken.’
The priest gave a silent sigh of relief.
‘Come next door and sit down. Maria will bring your food when it is ready.
‘Thank you, Father.’
They left the kitchen, the housekeeper said something under her breath then began to gather together what she needed.
The meal was on the table in almost no time and to the priest’s amazement there was even a small glass of wine. When the young woman was finished, the housekeeper, as she cleared away, asked her where she lived. It was a small village about five or six hours’ walk away. The housekeeper immediately declared it was too far away to reach that evening even if she set off at once. Trying to get back to her village in the dark would be madness. But it was the priest who had suggested that she stay the night.
‘We have plenty of room. We can find her a bed, can’t we? She can set off tomorrow after Mass when she has eaten.’
There was something strange in the voice of the housekeeper, as if she was cautioning and encouraging at one and the same time but the priest was too occupied to notice.
‘A young woman, Father, a stranger, staying in the house of the priest overnight?’
‘Yes, I know, but what else is there?’ He managed to take his eyes off the young woman and look at the housekeeper. ‘Can you think of anyone who might take her in for the night?’
‘No. People have their own families to feed and take care off.’
And the priest once again tried his masterstroke.
‘In that case, Maria, I leave it up to you. If you think it can be arranged without giving scandal then she can stay. If not,’ he turned to the young woman, ‘I’m sorry, but you understand the position?’
‘Of course, Father, the priest, of all people, cannot give scandal. Your housekeeper is right to point it out. I must do as she says.’
And they both turned to the housekeeper who gave the priest an odd look.
‘Well, I live here and if she sleeps next to my room no one can say anything was wrong so I suppose it can be managed.’
With that she left the priest and the young woman together at the table and went to wash up and then prepare a bed in the room next to her own.
The priest and the young woman stayed at the table and talked or, more accurately, he talked and she listened. He told her about himself from his earliest memories, his mother and father, his hopes and ambitions as he grew up. Why he felt compelled to reveal so much he did not know but for some reason he wanted her to know him, his past, his present, and what might be his future. And she listened, really listened. It was as if she cared. The housekeeper passed through a few times, paused once unnoticed, gave him the same odd look, then went about her business as he told the young woman of his grandfather who had left Ireland for Spain because of the famine and the persecution of the English. He told her of his mother, from a good family with land and vineyards …
‘Are you all right, Father?’
The voice was concerned, worried, and the priest realised that he had been silent with his own thoughts for, how long?
‘Yes, I am all right. Are you sorry for your sin?’
Now the long pause came from the other side of the grill and the priest waited.
‘I am sorry that it was a sin.’
It was a good answer, a Jesuit’s answer, but was it the right answer for him to be able to give absolution? But what did such a scruple matter now? He was the man who was not her husband, the man she had slept with, and whatever words he spoke would be no more than words. He had lost the power to dispense God’s mercy and forgiveness. All he could do was say the words.
‘For your penance say the Sorrowful Mysteries of the rosary. Now make an Act of Contrition.’
As she began her prayer he began to recite the formula which had once brought down God’s infinite mercy to the repentant sinner.
‘Ego te absolvo … I absolve you, in the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.’
Together they intoned the Amen then she rose from her knees and left the Confessional. He closed the grill and opened the other one. A new voice spoke.
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned …’
Chapter Five
The town of San Juan Bautista, which Father Enrique served as the solitary priest, was not a large place. Although designated a town it was little more than an over-sized village, of no importance politically, commercially, or militarily. Life generally passed it by. This might have been a source of regret to its few affluent citizens but in these troubled times its inhabitants, rich and poor alike, were grateful that it remained remote from the violent conflicts that had troubled their country over so many years, first with the Spanish, now with the Americans. In San Juan it was not necessary to declare yourself for the freedom fighters, if they had your support, or against the bandits, if you supported the American administration in Manila. The war against the Spanish had taken its toll of young men and people were glad that the new war against the Americans had taken few of their sons. The freedom fighters, or bandits, operated from somewhere in the many mountains of the province and both they and the Americans left San Juan in the peace of its unimportance.
Strictly speaking San Juan was too small to justify its own full-time priest. The majority of the clergy serving in the Philippines were European missionaries and always in short supply as the centre and north of the country had become almost wholly Catholic under Spanish rule. Swathes of the population, especially the rural population, had to go without Mass or the sacraments for extended periods of time or go to the trouble and expense of travelling to one of the bigger centres for baptism, marriage, or any other dispensation of Holy Mother Church. Yet despite this privation, or perhaps because of it, the people stubbornly stuck to their Catholic faith. Apart from the general problem of clergy the upkeep of the church, providing a priest, maintaining his house, paying a housekeeper and a sacristan, were all a drain on limited Diocesan funds and seen by many senior clergy as an unnecessary drain.
The Bishop in Manila bowed to this pressure and usually allowed the town to be served from a larger neighbour as and when its priest felt he could or should attend to the needs of San Juan’s faithful. However, San Juan’s church was an exceptionally fine one from the early colonial days. It had been built to reflect the optimism and ambition of the first Spanish who had settled there. Both the optimism and the ambition, however, proved to be sadly misplaced. The town grew on the wealth of its new colonial inhabitants, then, as the first two or three generations passed, the money began to dry up, building stopped, and the town began the process of fading into the backwater that it still was today. But the church remained a fine example of early colonial exuberance and the present Bishop in Manila had a fondness for the building because over the centuries it had become something very rare: a hardly altered church from the earliest colonial period. Over the years priests and people of churches in more favoured locations had removed, replaced, or covered over original features with whatever pious images were in vogue at the time.
&nbs
p; The current bishop had always tried, whenever possible, to see that San Juan had its resident priest to ensure the fabric and interior of the church be properly maintained and not fall into decay or, worse still, be ‘improved’. But European missionary priests, sent by their religious orders, were understandably unwilling to come several thousand miles to spend their vocations as curators of a building, no matter how fine or rare. Before the young priest, Father Enrique O’Mara, had come to San Juan it had been without a resident priest for eight years.
Father Enrique’s rather precipitate elevation to parish priest was, in part, a reflection of the troubled times of the country and the Church. Staunchly Protestant in outlook, the American Administration was not sympathetic to Catholic influence, wealth, and power. They were particularly unhappy with the amount of land and property owned by the Church. It was a time of change and transition and one in which leadership on both sides needed to move carefully and, if possible, in some sort of harmony. The Church could not fight the Americans but nor could the Americans afford to fight the Church as it would mean fighting the whole population, with the exception of the Muslims in the extreme south who had successfully resisted Spanish attempts at conversion and remained loyal to Islam. Filipinos in the south fought both the Spanish and Americans quite independently of the rest of the country.
The present bishop in Manila was not an especially worldly man as Roman Catholic prelates went. Indeed, among his fellow bishops he was considered somewhat overly pious in the habits of his lifestyle, but as bishop of Manila and senior Catholic prelate he realised that whatever his personal preferences he had both social and political responsibilities which he could not avoid especially in these difficult, troubled times. What he needed around him were clergy whom he could trust politically and rely on socially. The choice was not so plentiful that any promising young candidate could be overlooked. In addition to his many other concerns and responsibilities the bishop was aware that a considerable number of his flock, including indigenous clergy, supported the movement for independence and, if the truth were known, he himself was sympathetic to this cause. But the Church had to live with the present reality. The Americans now administered the Philippines and did so legally by treaty with Spain, and they backed up their position with considerable military force. Since the introduction of the Sedition Act by Governor General Taft not only armed opposition but any form of opposition to United States rule, however expressed, was a criminal offence punishable by hanging. The Sedition Act might be flaunted openly in villages in the mountainous areas where the revolutionaries held sway but Manila was the seat of American power with the Bishop’s Palace not so very far from the American Governor General’s residence. The main US army barracks, if he ever needed a reminder of who ruled his country, was also not so very far away.