A band of ten girls, in floral crowns and white dresses (which had withstood the heat far better than my cassock), brought the procession to a close. Each represented a different facet of Our Lady: Divine Shepherdess; Immaculate Conception; Queen of Prophets; Mystical Rose and so forth. With one exception, each was escorted by a young man, looking at once proud and bashful. The exception was a remarkably pretty girl, whose radiant smile as she walked beside her mother made her the perfect representation of the Queen of Peace. The poise and excitement of the girls and the anxiety of the boys suggested that, for all the religious panoply, Mary wasn’t the only virgin being venerated. As they filed past, I wondered how many of the couples might be standing before me at the altar in the forthcoming months.
My hosts – no, I must call them my neighbours and soon, I hope, my friends – assured me that every Filipino loves a fiesta. At any given moment, somewhere across the country there’ll be a festival to celebrate something, be it fruit, flowers or even fish, although the majority are in honour of saints. Some might see it as overkill, but I see it as the essence of incarnational theology: the communal expression of a world suffused with God.
Now I must go to bed. Their hot coconut toddy (think very rough gin) is lethal. And I’ve a busy day tomorrow: lunch with the civic auditor; followed by my first catechism class; then, in the evening, a film. The nearest cinema is in Baguio City where, from what I can gather, the presiding genius is Bruce Lee, but every once in a while a travelling company comes to town and sets up a makeshift (bed-sheet) screen in the square. Tomorrow night they’re showing Yul Brynner and Gina Lollobrigida in Solomon and Sheba which, being a Hollywood epic from the fifties, contains the perfect mix of religiosity, romance, exoticism and violence for a Filipino audience today. They handed out publicity flyers at the fiesta. I enclose one just in case you think I’m making it up: ‘They came from different worlds. He was a Catholic. She was a Protestant. Yet they dared to fall in love.’
I can see that I have my work cut out.
Your loving son,
Julian
Applause rippled through the plane as it glided on to the tarmac. Philip, sucking palliatively on a boiled sweet, wondered whether it sprang from relief at having survived the flight, happiness at being home, or common courtesy. The slick young businessman across the aisle, who had read both the Economist and the Wall Street Journal cover to cover, raised his eyes as if to excuse the foibles of his countrymen. Philip flashed him a wry smile, which he trusted conveyed the mixture of confidence and sensitivity that he intended to make the keynotes of his stay. He had misjudged the balance so far, his respect for the stewardess’ headscarf having restricted his alcohol intake to two glasses of champagne, while the businessman had not only downed the best part of a bottle but met her for coffee during the six-hour stopover in Dubai. Feeling disgruntled, Philip gathered up his new grip, which looked cheap beside the businessman’s briefcase, and stepped off the plane.
He followed the crowd down a series of corridors, past adverts for banks, hotel chains, computers and mobile phones, most of which were reassuringly familiar, before joining the long queue at Immigration. Its sluggishness was all the more frustrating given that it was predominantly composed of Asians; he trusted that it was ignorance and not apathy that prevented his distinguishing between Filipino, Malay and Chinese. From his own experience of Heathrow, he would have expected them to be whisked through, but, gazing at the Wanted posters for New People’s Army insurgents dotted about the concourse, he realised that domestic terrorism was the officers’ prime concern. He was surprised by the posters since he had assumed that, like other such groups, the NPA had become a spent force in recent years. He peered hard, trying to read the small print without either drawing attention to himself or losing his place in line, finding that the size of the suspects’ photographs was in direct proportion to the bounty on their heads and, presumably, the danger that they posed to the state. Although not yet accustomed to the currency, he could see that 1 million pesos for each of the four commanders would be a strong incentive for betrayal.
He reached the control booth, where the officer’s suspicious stare made him feel as though every joint he had ever smoked were secreted about his person. He wondered if the suspicion might arise from the fact that, for the first time in his life, he was travelling not for pleasure but for ‘research’. His passport finally stamped, he made his way into the congested baggage hall where he struggled to find the correct carousel. Having been given advice, insect repellent and Travel Wash by his mother, who was wary of hotel laundries; advice, mustard and foot powder by his godmother, who had grown up in Ceylon; advice and a dog-eared copy of Dos and Don’ts in the Philippines (‘Do think twice before you challenge a Filipino to a drinking match’, ‘Don’t assume all pretty girls are female’) by his old school chum Brian, who had spent the previous Easter surfing in Boracay; on top of the books, computer, camera and clothes needed for an indefinite stay, he worried that he had packed too much, but his two bulging cases paled in comparison with the precariously laden trolleys of the Filipino passengers which, from the labels on the boxes, contained plasma TVs, hi-fis, air-conditioning units and at least one fridge.
Waved through customs with almost insulting indifference, Philip walked across the lobby and out of the building. A blast of heat hit him like the swirl of a sandstorm, and his lightweight jacket hung as heavy on his shoulders as the cape he had affected during his final year at school. With no public access to the terminal, a horde of waiting relatives and friends packed the forecourt and he scoured the few white faces for Max Bradshaw, Hugh Olliphant’s agent in Manila, who was due to meet him. He tried to recall Julian Tremayne’s description of him before reminding himself that it would be at least thirty years out of date. Taking off his hat to any Englishman who could survive for so long in such an oppressive climate, he felt an urge to do so literally, lifting the panama that had been another of his godmother’s gifts and mopping his brow. At that moment a tall, angular man in a whitish suit clambered over the barrier, to the consternation of a soldier, who looked far too young to be wielding a weapon on anything other than a games console. Holding up such a scrappy piece of card that Philip was only partially comforted to read his own name, the man moved confidently towards him. ‘This is you, I presume?’ Philip gazed at the spindly writing and nodded. ‘Max Bradshaw. The pleasure’s mine.’ He held out a hand that was more slippery than sticky. ‘Good flight?’ He carried on without waiting for a reply. ‘Whenever I travel long distance, I always start by looking around the plane to see which of the passengers I could eat if we happen to crash.’ His broad grin revealed teeth as stained as his suit. ‘I’ve texted Eddie – our driver – that you’ve arrived in one piece. Though when he’ll get here is anyone’s guess. Adjusting your watch is just the start of it. You have to adjust to a whole new way of doing things. It’s called Filipino time.’
After twenty minutes, Eddie pulled up with a long list of excuses, which Max proceeded to rebut although, as they inched down the slip road and on to the freeway, there was no denying the heaviness of the traffic. A loud whir was the sole evidence of the air conditioning and, pressed against his neighbour who made no attempt to draw back, Philip realised that it was not only dentistry that Max treated with disdain. Feeling both nauseous and jet-lagged, he longed to shut his eyes but was kept alert by the running commentary, which took on a new urgency as they drove down Roxas Boulevard, which Max described as ‘Manila’s premier thoroughfare, also notable as the street where I live’. Bordered on one side by the sea and on the other by a long line of tower blocks and luxury hotels, interspersed with gaudy, single-storey nightclubs and sinister patches of wasteland, it appeared to embody all the city’s contradictions. ‘That’s the American Embassy,’ Max said, pointing to a large white building on their left with the familiar flag flying high. ‘Look at the crowds. Every morning you see hundreds of people queuing up for visas. Then, in the afternoon, you see them wa
ving banners outside, protesting against US imperialism.’
‘Not the same people surely?’ Philip asked.
‘I wouldn’t put it past them.’
At the end of the boulevard they reached the hotel, where security guards stopped the car, opening the boot and the bonnet, and checking beneath the chassis with a periscope. They then continued down the forecourt, past more guards with sniffer dogs, to the main doors, where Eddie parked, a porter collected the luggage, and Philip and Max went through an airport-style scanner.
‘Why all this security?’ Philip asked Max, as he waited for his jacket and holdall to be X-rayed.
‘You get used to it,’ Max replied airily. ‘Little men with big weapons, the same as everywhere. Only here we face two separate threats. One’s the Moro Islamic Liberation Front. They’re out to create a religious state on the island of Mindanao. I’m all in favour of covering up the competition, but mullahs and beards and floggings and stonings. No, thank you! The other’s the NPA, a gang of diehard Marxists. And, in the Philippines, that means a mixture of Karl and Groucho.’
Max escorted Philip through the grandiose lobby, whose richly panelled ceiling, glittering chandeliers, thick carpet and plush sofas were a world away from the hurly-burly of the streets. As the six-piece orchestra played airs from operettas, Philip felt that he might have been back taking tea with his mother and godmother at the Savoy.
‘Would you like to see the room?’ Philip asked reluctantly, after collecting his key from the receptionist.
‘My, you are forward! We’ve only just met. Don’t worry,’ Max said, as Philip struggled to conceal his dismay. ‘I’ll just sit here and wait. Waiting’s what I do best.’ He strolled to a table in front of the orchestra, while the porter led Philip to his room.
The blast of cold air when he opened the door was as fierce as the heat outside the airport. The room was large, square and impersonal, containing a ceiling-high four-poster bed with diaphanous curtains, a wall-length TV and cocktail cabinet, an L-shaped sofa and a smoked-glass coffee table on which sat a vase of waxy white flowers. The muted oatmeal and slate colour scheme was clearly designed to reassure the reluctant traveller that the external world would not intrude. The only indications that he was in Manila, rather than Rome, Sydney or Buenos Aires, were the vista from the window, a medley of greys and browns with a small patch of green in the foreground and a faint line of blue on the right, and the copy of the Philippine Tatler, which he idly flicked through while waiting for his luggage to arrive. The wallowing in wealth was even more obscene than in its English counterpart and, although he had abandoned activism after a student phase as predictable as puberty, he felt a tinge of sympathy for the NPA, which he expressed by overtipping the bellhop who brought up his bags.
Freshly showered, changed and powdered (and grateful for his godmother’s prescience), he made his way downstairs to find Max still sitting at the table and drinking something green. Downing the glass in a single gulp, he jumped up. ‘Lunch!’ he declared, so vehemently that Philip half expected all those within earshot to drop whatever they were doing and join them. ‘Should we try the Champagne Room?’ Max asked, with a show of deliberation, guiding Philip through the lobby and into a room as intoxicating as its name. Sunlight streamed through the chinks in the heavy silk curtains, illuminating the wrought iron arches, mirrored walls, patterned glass and decorative grates, while leaving the body of the room in romantic shadow. Feeling as if he had trespassed on the transformation scene of a pantomime, Philip followed the maître d’ round two large trees made entirely of crystal, which tinkled as they passed, to his table, where a waiter removed a mitre-shaped napkin from his plate and spread it decorously on his lap. ‘Come on,’ said Max, gazing at the menu as reverently as at a Book of Hours. ‘Let’s spend some of Hugh’s lovely money.’
‘Right you are,’ Philip said, pondering what it was in this fey, feckless man that recommended itself to Hugh. Julian had cited his contacts in the Marcos regime, but that failed to explain why such a hard-bitten businessman had kept him on the payroll for a further thirty years. ‘I gather you’ve worked with Hugh for a long time,’ he said, probing the improbable relationship.
‘Man and boy. But then I know where the bodies are buried,’ Max replied, with a smile so arch that Philip suspected a double bluff.
The wine waiter came to take their order.
‘Champagne,’ Max said, as if anything else would have been unworthy of the room. ‘Taittinger. We’ll save the Dom Perignon for a special occasion.’
‘Shouldn’t we save all of it?’ Philip asked. ‘At least till I have some news about Julian.’
‘Nonsense. It’s not often I get the chance to live the high life any more. You’ve made an old man very happy – I use the word “old” loosely.’ He laughed. ‘What are the three most beautiful words in the English language?’
‘I love you?’
‘You’re very young,’ Max said, with a pitying look. ‘“Money’s no object”, of course.’
Philip might have been more convinced, had he felt more confident of achieving his mission. Worried that he would come up with nothing of value to the investigation, he would have preferred Max to have booked him into a more modest hotel. For all Hugh’s expressions of marital concern, he would expect a return on his investment.
‘I understand you knew Julian yourself,’ he said, uncertain whether his slurred speech stemmed from jet-lag or champagne.
‘I met him. I wouldn’t say that I knew him; quite the reverse. He came to Manila with Hugh and his wife before they were married. I got him an invitation to one of Imelda’s most glittering soirées. There were people who’d have killed to be there – literally. But was he grateful? Anyone would have thought I’d taken him to a black mass.’
‘You never saw him again.’
‘Once, a couple of years later when I visited him in prison. Hugh asked me to take in some supplies and report back. He looked a good deal happier there than he had in Manila. In his element it seemed to me.’
‘So, do you think he was a saint?’
‘He certainly enjoyed playing the martyr. But I’m not the right person to ask. Our Saviour and I haven’t seen eye to eye for years.’
‘Do you have any religion at all?’
‘Beauty,’ Max replied with unexpected fervour. ‘Beautiful art, beautiful music, beautiful people. They’re my religion. And the Filipinos are the most beautiful people I know. How about you?’
‘I don’t know that many. Oh, you mean religion? Your typical wishy-washy Anglican, I suppose, of the hatch, match and dispatch persuasion. I’d put it better if I weren’t so shattered. Or maybe not. I grew up in Berkshire, where the Sunday service was as much a part of the fabric of our lives as the church was part of the fabric of the village. Not that it went much deeper. It’s a family joke that when the vicar said “my help comes from the hills”, my mother took it that his charlady came from the Chilterns. What I envied about Catholics – at least the ones I met through Julia – was the seriousness of their faith. Julia was Hugh’s daughter. We were engaged.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘It was three years ago.’
‘I know.’
‘Thank you. Between you and me, I’ve been in limbo for quite a while, since Julia’s death in fact – though I don’t like to make the connection, at least not out loud. In the end, I think that’s why I agreed to come: a sense that whatever I did for Julian, I’d also be doing for Julia. And, when I’d done it, I might finally be able to move on.’
‘I see.’
‘Now I’m here, I long to get cracking. I had hoped to do a lot of the groundwork back home, but Google wasn’t much help. The only mentions of Julian were linked to his older brother, Hugh’s father-in-law: you remember, the Tory minister?’
‘It rings a teensy bell.’
‘So unless you’ve a better idea, I thought I’d start by sifting through the archive material in the National Library. T
hen I’d like to interview Julian’s clerical colleagues, fellow missionaries, friends and former parishioners, along with anyone who claims to have been cured through his intervention. When I’ve collated all the material, I’ll submit one report to Isabel and Hugh, and another to the Bishop. What happens after that is anyone’s guess! The official investigators will be free to use anything I come up with or to carry on in their own sweet – and slow – way. Isabel still might not live long enough to see her dream fulfilled.’
‘First things first,’ Max said, as he gobbled up a melting sorbet, oblivious to the latest stains on his sleeve. ‘You must take some time to explore the country, meet the people, see what Julian was up against or working with, depending on your point of view. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt during my years in Manila, it’s never to plan.’
Two
19 October 1971
My dear Mother and Father,
Well, we’ve survived the rainy season. Benguet is a temperate province, so we’ve been spared the worst of the devastation; nonetheless, we’ve had our moments. I was travelling to Baguio by jeepney (the local bus, taxi service and delivery van rolled into one) when we were hit by a flash flood. The small stream ahead of us swelled into a raging torrent and the driver sent his two washees to wade through and find out where it was safe to pass. He himself sat idly smoking. Then, without a word, he revved up the engine and shot across. The passengers, who included one goat and several chickens, were flung about the aisle, narrowly escaping injury. Livestock apart, there wasn’t a single bleat of protest. Not wishing to sound like a tourist, I took my cue from their silence. Later, however, I reproached the driver for his recklessness, which must have been even more alarming for the dozen or so people huddled on the roof. ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ he said shyly, ‘I wanted to catch the spirits by surprise.’
The Breath of Night Page 3