Smaller and Smaller Circles

by F. H. Batacan

  The government has supplied him with a good car, and a driver.

  Benjamin Arcinas recognizes brains and breeding when he sees them and always, always seeks to subvert them, even in ways of which he is unconscious. This is particularly true in his current position, were he has attained a measure of status and celebrity. He has paid his dues, has earned the right to have people jump when he snaps his fingers.

  These two priests—well-spoken, well-mannered, intelligent beyond any measure he could ever hope to attain—annoy and intimidate him at the same time.

  The smile, he recognized early on, would not work on them.

  He’s seated across from Director Lastimosa now, with Valdes standing at the director’s right hand, arms folded over his chest, his expression neutral, as always. Philip Mapa is seated in another chair, and the unfolding scene is a revelation to Arcinas. Mapa has spent most of the last half hour washing his hands of Arcinas and laying the blame for the latest killing squarely at his feet.

  “You know, when you told me not to proceed with that news conference, I knew you were right. But Ben here was so insistent that he had the right man.” Mapa—his matinee-idol face dark with false concern and anger—points a finger at Arcinas. “You’ve misled me. You’ve made fools of all of us, and you’ve embarrassed the bureau. I’m recommending a suspension pending disciplinary proceedings.”

  Had Arcinas not seen this sort of thing happen so many times before—often with himself in Mapa’s shoes, selling a colleague or a subordinate down the river—he might have been surprised to hear these words coming from the mouth of the man he has served so loyally for so long. But this is how the bureaucracy works, and in its own strange, warped way, it’s democratic. The wheel of fortune always turns: today you’re stabbing someone in the back; tomorrow the knife is lodged deep between your shoulder blades. Arcinas always had disdain for the people who pleaded for their jobs when their fortunes changed. You should have some dignity. You should shut your mouth and let a lawyer do the talking for you. If you can afford a lawyer, that is. He stares down at his nails, trying to stem the rising flood of panic he is feeling at the imminent loss of his job and his stature, trying to calculate whether or not he can even afford his own lawyer.

  You should have some dignity. You should shut your mouth.

  “Ben?” Director Lastimosa’s voice slices cleanly through Arcinas’s muddled thoughts.

  “Sir. I—”

  “You knew your man wasn’t the killer. Yes or no?”

  Arcinas hesitates. Had he known? Had he really been that desperate? Or did he think that doing things the usual way would produce the required results? “I . . . I thought there was a good chance that he was.”

  “Based on what evidence?”

  “Based on . . .”

  “Prior complaints, this says,” the director says, leafing through Ricardo Navato’s file.

  “Yes, sir, and . . .”

  “Circumstantial evidence.” Lastimosa closes the file, then pushes it away from him. “In other words—nothing.”

  “That’s right,” Mapa says, slapping the director’s desk for emphasis, then turning to him. “Sir, we should file an administrative case against him immediately—”

  “Shut up, Philip.”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “You heard me. Shut up.”

  Mapa is dense enough to feel offended. “But I—”

  “Whatever negligence and stupidity Ben here got up to, he got up to under your watch. It’s command responsibility, Philip. You might have heard of the concept; if not, I suggest you look it up. It means that if any administrative cases are going to be filed, your name will be right on top of the list.”

  “My name?” Mapa’s voice rises several decibels. “I’ve got nothing to do with his actions.” Then, just as quickly as he lost his temper, he is back to being his unctuously pleasant self. “And don’t forget—there are people outside this organization who will be very displeased if I’m dragged into this.”

  Director Lastimosa glances up at Valdes, and as if on cue, Valdes moves the telephone on the desk closer to him. “You really want to play that card with me, Philip? Fine.” He picks up the handset and starts punching out a series of numbers on the dial pad. “I’ll call him right now. Let’s see if he’ll still back you for my position when he finds out what your bright boy here has done.”

  “Wait,” Mapa says. “Who are you calling?”

  “Why, our mutual friend in the Palace, of course. Did you honestly think I would allow you to blackmail me with your connections forever?” He presses a button to activate the speaker, and the sound of a ringing phone fills the room. “Shall I tell him that everything Ben here did was not just with your approval but under your instructions?”

  There’s a click, and then a voice at the other end of the line says, “Hello?”

  Mapa springs out of his chair and slams his hand down on the hook switch, disconnecting the call. “Look, you old bastard,” he says, abandoning all pretense of courtesy or deference, “I won’t be bullied by a dinosaur like you. You wouldn’t even have this job if I hadn’t agreed to wait a few years. I’m what this bureau needs; that’s a fact, and the Palace knows it. You belong in a nursing home, if not in a coffin. That’s my seat you’re occupying, so don’t you forget it.”

  Arcinas is taken aback by this display, so naked in its ambition and bile that even he finds himself revolted. But Director Lastimosa merely sits back and looks at Mapa dispassionately.

  “You may go now, Philip.”

  “I’m not finished—”

  “Yes, you are. Jake, would you ask our boys to escort Philip outside? I think we’ve heard enough from him for one day.”

  Valdes picks up the telephone handset, but before he can make the call, Mapa strides toward the door, his rage pulsing through the room like a shock wave. He doesn’t look back as he opens the door and slams it shut behind him, the force of the act shaking the walls and rattling the picture frames hanging on them.

  There is a momentary silence, and then Director Lastimosa turns to Arcinas again.

  “You see, Ben? That’s what happens when we forget why we’re all here. When the little political games we play become more important than the job we’re entrusted to do. You used to know the difference. I know; somebody’s told me. I would have sacked you on the spot today if that person hadn’t interceded on your behalf.”

  Arcinas’s eyes widen. Who in this whole godforsaken agency would stick up for me, especially now? Nobody has ever really liked me here, and I’ve stepped on so many toes.

  “You’re not sacking me?” he asks, incredulous.

  “If you don’t cooperate with me, I will. You have a second chance here, Ben, but if you waste it, I’ll have no qualms—not just about sacking you, but about throwing the book at you. And don’t think you’re off the hook with that stunt you pulled either. Another child is dead because you didn’t do your job right, and we can’t sweep that under the rug. But for now, I’m asking you: are you going to help us—and I mean, really help, not just try to advance your own interests?”

  Arcinas rises to his feet unsteadily. “Sir, I—I’ll do whatever you tell me to.”

  “Does that include providing the necessary assistance to Father Saenz and Father Lucero?”

  He’s surprised by how quickly, how easily he is able to say it. “Absolutely, sir.”

  Director Lastimosa nods. “All right, then. I expect you’ll make the calls as soon as you leave my office.”

  “I will, sir.” He stands there another moment, unsure of what to do next.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  Arcinas nearly trips over his own feet in his hurry to leave. But then he stops and glances back at the director.

  “Sir—may I know who vouched for me? I mean—in spite of . . .” He’s not quite sur
e how to finish the question, so he leaves it hanging while he waits for the answer.

  The director exchanges a look with Valdes and then sighs. “Perhaps I’ll tell you someday, Ben. When you’ve earned the right to know.”

  26

  Saenz is in the shower, and his CD player is turned way up, Carlo Bergonzi singing Rossini’s rousing “La Danza.” He sings along with the Italian tenor, his own powerful, resonant voice bouncing off the bathroom walls, “Già la luna è in mezzo al mare / mama mia, si salterà! / L’ora è bella per danzare / chi è in amore non marcherà!” while the water beats on the shower curtain.

  Suddenly the volume is turned way down. Saenz stops, turns off the shower taps quickly and listens. There is no other sound coming from the bedroom.

  The priest draws the curtain aside, reaches for a towel, and wraps it around his waist. He cracks open the door and sees Jerome sitting at the foot of his bed, reading a newspaper.

  The younger priest looks up.

  “Most stereo component systems come with a control knob that can reduce the volume of even the loudest aria.”

  Saenz pads out of the bathroom on wet feet. “But I can’t hear it from inside the shower,” he protests.

  “No, but a bunch of very old and very grumpy Jesuits can hear you very well from downstairs.” Jerome folds the newspaper. “Heard the news on the radio?”

  Saenz nods, then shuffles toward his closet to look for something to wear. “Arcinas called early this morning. Apparently the director came back over the weekend. Severely jet-lagged, still in pain from the surgery and crabby as hell.”

  Jerome’s eyes widen in concern. “What? He’s barely three weeks out of surgery. How did he—Nevermind.”

  Saenz nods. “Here’s the rub. He found out even before Arcinas did.”

  “Oh boy. There’s one pair of shoes I wouldn’t want to be in.”

  “Uh-hmmm. I doubt he enjoys being in them himself. What’s your schedule look like?”

  “I won’t be seeing patients until late this afternoon.”

  “Good. Have you taken a bath?”

  Jerome stands and heads for the receiving room. “What, it can’t be that time of year already.”

  Malou knows her boss is in trouble—big trouble. He was called to the office at the crack of dawn, and had spent the better part of three hours in meetings upstairs. When he came down, he looked like he had been bullwhipped.

  Ill or not, the director is a terrible man to cross.

  Now Attorny Arcinas is not taking any calls, certainly not from the media, who have been ringing the office nonstop since after 4 a.m., when news broke that another boy’s body had been found, and are now camped in the lobby, waiting for him to make an appearance. He refuses to talk to anyone. He has given strict instructions that the only people to be allowed in to see him are the two Jesuit priests and that they are to be ushered in immediately.

  Malou brought him a cup of coffee about an hour ago, but he waved it away; she will try to convince him to snack on a cheese pimiento sandwich and a Zesto orange drink from the canteen in about fifteen minutes. She thinks, with an innocent loyalty and concern that would have touched him—if he were the type of person to notice or to care—that maybe a snack will cheer him up.

  She glances up at the wall clock every five minutes or so to check the time. When she decides it’s time, she puts the sandwich and the drink on a plate and knocks on his door. He doesn’t answer. She hesitates a moment and then lets herself in.

  Arcinas is sunk in his big leather swivel chair with the blinds on the windows drawn. The chair is bobbing gently up and down with its back to the door.

  “Sir, please. Eat something,” she says, setting the plate down on his desk and sliding it closer to him. When he doesn’t respond, she moves closer, steeling herself for his anger. “Attorney?”

  The anger doesn’t come; in its place is a numb dullness, as though all his sharp edges have been blunted by whatever it was that took place in the director’s office.

  “Sir?” she says, tapping him gently on the shoulder and then gesturing toward the plate.

  He stares blankly, first at her, then at the plate and its contents.

  “I don’t . . .” he begins, and then his voice trails off.

  Malou takes the sandwich, still wrapped in plastic wrap, and puts it in his hands. “Have a sandwich. You’ll feel better.” She waits a few seconds, and when he doesn’t toss the sandwich away, she takes the drink pack, pulls off the attached straw and punches it through the hole on top.

  “I’ve done something wrong,” he says.

  She nods. “You wouldn’t be the first,” she says, handing him the drink.

  “You don’t understand.” He refuses the drink and sets the sandwich back down on the plate.

  “Yes, I do,” she says. “I’m retiring next year, Attorney. I’ve seen all sorts of people come through this agency. People who are happy to sit around and just wait for the next paycheck, and people like you who want something more.”

  When she sees that he’s listening to her—really listening, for the first time perhaps in the eight years she’s worked under him—she’s emboldened to speak her mind. “You think you’re the only one here who’s done stupid things, even bad things, to get ahead? You can’t spit in this building and not hit someone who’s done the same, or worse.” Malou smiles, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You think anyone’s going to remember any of this a year from now? No. Only the small folks like me remember, and nobody pays any attention to us anyway. The people on top—people like you—you’ll all have bigger things to worry about soon enough. That’s the way it goes. The wheel never stops turning.” She takes the sandwich and shoves it back in his hands. “Now eat something, before those priests get here.”

  W

  In the corridor on the way to their meeting with Arcinas, Saenz puts his hand on Jerome’s arm and they stop. “He’ll probably ask us back.”

  “Not that he could ever have fired us.”

  “This is true. If he does ask, will you be nice?”

  Jerome sniggers. “Goodness, no.”

  Saenz sighs. “I had to ask. Diplomatic at least?”

  “Can I gloat for a few minutes?”

  “Jerome. A child died to prove us right.”

  It’s a sobering fact, and Jerome reluctantly puts away his feeling of vindication.

  They find the secretary absent from her usual place in the anteroom. Saenz peers through the open blinds on a glass window cut into the front wall of Arcinas’s office. Today the attorney looks different. Saenz notes that the languid, reptilian look has been replaced by a kind of troubled alertness. Even his very hair seems distressed, sagging instead of curling up and around his head in the usual manner. The manicured nails tap nervously on the glass-topped desk.

  Saenz raps on the window to catch Arcinas’s attention. When he sees them, he practically jumps out of his seat and throws the door open.

  “Gentlemen . . . Father Saenz . . .”

  Jerome flops down into one of the chairs without being asked, props his left foot up on his right knee, his fingers drumming a quick rhythm on the tattered leather armrests. “It looks like you have a situation here, Attorney.”

  Arcinas clears his throat. “I . . . we . . .”

  “Apologize?” Jerome asks.

  “We appear to have . . .”

  “Found another victim?” Jerome offers helpfully. “Arrested the wrong man?”

  Arcinas wipes sweat from his brow with his bare hand. His foundation, applied hastily with unsteady fingers as he tried to calm himself down earlier this morning, is now caked with perspiration and oil.

  “The boy—we were lucky that he was found so soon. His parents were able to identify him at once.” He holds a thin folder out to the older priest, and Jerome notices that the hand is shaking a
little. “His name is Conrado Sacobia. Went by the name Dodong. He lived in Manggahan.”

  “We would be happy to extend any assistance to you, Attorney. Give us a little time to study this, and we’ll be in touch soon.” Saenz stands, takes the folder and shakes Arcinas’s hand firmly. “All right, Father Lucero, let’s get back to work.” And he hustles Jerome out of Arcinas’s office.

  In the parking lot, Saenz says, “You’re awfully quiet.”

  Jerome unlocks the car door, his face glum. “Still think you should have let me gloat a little.”

  I feel so much better today. So light and unencumbered. I think I can actually get through the day, through the rest of the week.

  I am filled with an astounding sense of peace.

  I wish it could be like this everyday.

  27

  At the network, Joanna has decided to skip lunch in favor of previewing Leo’s tapes from the crime scene. Bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, she nurses a large mug of industrial-strength coffee, flouting company regulations against bringing food and drinks into the preview or editing suites.

  Leo comes in, claps her on the back. “Hey, Boss. How is it?”

  “It’s too damn dark.”

  The cameraman peers at one of the two preview screens. “Hmmm,” he says, feigning grave concern. “Must be because we shot it at four o’clock in the morning.”

  “Shut up.”

  The camera moves slowly up the length of the child’s body, from the feet up to the ruined face.

  “We’ve got to mosaic that,” she says, taking down the time code on the tape.

  “Black and white,” Leo suggests. The network has an unwritten rule that gory news footage should be altered so as not to offend the sensibilities of viewers.

  “If we take it to black and white, you can still see—” Joanna begins. Then off-camera they hear the policeman’s voice.

  “Hey, you’re not supposed to be here.”

  The camera lens, which had moved from the child’s head over to the area around the body, sweeps up in a sudden, jagged movement to Joanna and the approaching policeman.