The Breath of Night

by Michael Arditti

  Philip strolled past the small crowd of tourists who were photographing the changing of the guard at the Rizal monument, a majestic bronze statue, which neatly concealed its subject’s lack of stature, and made his way to the library. After handing his bag to the security guard, who deflected his friendly ‘good morning’ with the same stony expression that he had adopted all week, he climbed the cheerless concrete stairs, dotted with wilting pot plants, to the Filipiniana Division, then up a further flight to the serial section. None of the three librarians, huddled behind the enquiry desk, showed him any sign of acknowledgement, despite his having been the only reader in the department for the past two days. After filling in a requisition slip, he took a seat in what, with its shelves of maroon ledgers, piles of cardboard boxes and stacks of loose papers, resembled the accounts department of an old-fashioned family firm. He waited impatiently for the papers to arrive and struggled to summon up enthusiasm for a task that had so far proved to be both tedious and futile.

  Of the three main newspapers published during the Marcos era, none was available on computer and only two on microfiche. The months it would take to scrutinise each issue for any mention of Julian would exhaust Philip’s patience as surely as it would Hugh’s purse. He had therefore chosen to concentrate on three key events, all of which had attracted widespread press attention: Julian’s alleged levitation during mass; his arraignment on the murder charge; and his violent death. Even so, there was a mass of material to wade through since, on the evidence of Julian’s letters, it was impossible to put a more precise date on the levitation than June to August 1975 or on the court hearings than March to November 1984. And although his body was found on 10 November 1989, comment on the case continued sporadically for several months.

  After two days of strained eyes over the microfiche and stained fingers from the newsprint, he had discovered little of significance for either 1984 or 1989. A report in the Philippines Daily Express filled in details of the murder charge that Julian had omitted, notably that his hip flask, easily identified by the owl-and-halberds crest, had been found (in other words, planted) on the ridge from which the fatal shots were fired. An article in the Bulletin Today featured the claims of various Baguio prisoners that they had heard Julian and his cell mate, Benito Bertubin, talking about their part in the shooting. Although their testimony was deeply compromised, it was clear that not all of his fellow inmates were as cheered by Julian’s presence as he had led his mother to believe. Finding no reference to the miracle-working reputation which, according to Julian, had featured in several reports of the case, Philip concluded that the reports in question must have been foreign, which made sense, given the iron control that Marcos had exercised over the press.

  He was further disappointed by the sketchy accounts of the discovery of Julian’s remains in both the Daily Express and the Times Journal (the Bulletin Today by then having folded) and by the blandness of subsequent obituaries. Neither the Bishop of Montagnosa nor the Regional Representative of the Mill Hill Missionaries offered much beyond conventional tributes to his exemplary life, inspirational priesthood, and dedication to the poor and needy. The Regional alone praised his outspoken opposition to the abuses and atrocities committed under Martial Law, about which the Bishop was understandably reticent. But pastoral care and social protest, however admirable, did not make a man a saint, and he needed evidence of the heroic virtue and miracle cures that were crucial to the case.

  A tiny librarian tottered from the stacks with six bound volumes of the Times Journal. The cloud of dust that arose as she deposited them on Philip’s table suggested that the summer of 1975 was a neglected period of historical research. Philip prayed that he would light on something of substance; but, although the words ‘miraculous healing’ and even ‘joyous phenomenon in Mountain Provinces village’ caught his eye, they had no connection with Julian. Moreover, given that the ‘joyous phenomenon’ was a middle-aged woman who, after thirty years of childless marriage, had fallen pregnant with triplets when Christ appeared to her during mass, and the ‘miraculous healing’ was that of a sixteen-year-old boy who had grown a new eye after being touched by the emissary of the king of the dwarves, it was no surprise that a priest’s levitation, which would have caused a sensation in Berkshire, was small beer in Benguet.

  After a morning in which he eliminated further lines of enquiry rather than uncovering anything of note, Philip went down to the lobby to meet Max. He had texted at breakfast that he had urgent matters to discuss, although, on past form and given the reference to ‘one of my favourite eateries nearby’, Philip assumed that his primary motive was to lunch at Hugh’s expense. Anxious not to waste time, he was relieved to find that Max had already arrived but embarrassed by the sweeping bow with which he greeted him in front of the security guard. They made their way out into the street where a knot of men was poring over the boards and booths of a makeshift maritime recruitment agency. Clutching his money belt like a truss – and hating himself for it – he watched, both fascinated and appalled, as engineers and fitters and stewards and mates signed away their lives like the victims of an eighteenth-century press gang.

  ‘Is it legal?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s Manila,’ Max replied. ‘That’s a question you learn not to ask.’

  Dragging him away, Max hailed a pedicab, even though Philip, his confidence bolstered by the earlier excursion, suggested that they walked. ‘We’re doing our bit for the local economy,’ Max said, belying the claim by haggling over the fare. ‘It makes them look at you with more respect,’ he added, as the driver looked at them with undisguised loathing.

  The price agreed, Philip stepped over the gaping gutter and into the rickety sidecar, where he sat squashed against Max who appeared to relish both their intimacy and his discomfort. To his horror, the driver pulled straight out into the road, executing a U-turn in the face of the steady stream of traffic. Max patted his thigh in mischievous reassurance as they braved the tumult of honking, before waiting at the lights, where an intrepid pedlar threaded through the stationary vehicles selling cigarettes by the stick and gum by the piece. Turning down a side street, they proceeded for a couple of blocks before stopping outside the restaurant, whose frontage was adorned with crude plastic versions of the rice gods in Hugh’s study. The pavement was almost as tricky to negotiate as the road. Ahead of them a man, wearing nothing but shorts, soaped himself as nonchalantly as if he were in his own bathroom. To his left, three men played cards on an oil drum surrounded by a jeering and gesticulating crowd; to his right, three women sat stirring brightly coloured stews and bubbling pots of rice while their children frolicked at their feet, perilously close to the wobbly stoves. All around them were stalls selling food, drink, scarves, T-shirts, sunglasses, lighters and pirated DVDs.

  They entered the restaurant, where the maître d’ greeted them with a mixture of familiarity and obsequiousness. Feeling guardedly adventurous, Philip opted for the local cuisine and, attracted as much by the name as by the ingredients, which the waiter listed as ‘beef, anchovies, eggplant, bok choy, garlic and beans’, ordered kare-kare. Max, meanwhile, ordered cuttlefish.

  ‘Do you never eat Filipino?’ Philip asked.

  ‘With my stomach?’ Max replied, with a theatrical shudder. Having dispatched what he described as ‘the serious business of the day’, he questioned Philip about his researches, showing neither surprise nor concern at the lack of results.

  ‘I still have one hope,’ Philip said, as perturbed by Max’s indifference as he would have been by an open rebuke, ‘or rather two: the Philippines Daily Express and Bulletin Today for June to August 1975. They may make some mention of the levitation. I’ve booked a slot on the microfiche machine for 2.30.’

  ‘You’re a glutton for punishment,’ Max said, devouring a fistful of fried peanuts.

  ‘There was nothing in the Times Journal, which surprised me since Julian definitely mentioned reporters coming up from Manila. Either their accounts must have be
en censored or else the newspapers can’t have been preserved.’

  ‘What were you expecting? A photo of him hovering two foot above the nave?’

  ‘It was worth a try. Besides, I’d just have been kicking my heels till we went up to San Isidro. Any news on that front by the way?’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s all in hand.’

  ‘Great,’ he replied, trying not to sound sceptical. ‘I thought that might be what you wanted to discuss. I’m sure it’s the most fertile field of enquiry. I have a list of all the people I’d like to interview: his former housekeeper, that is if she’s still alive; parishioners, several of whom are named in the letters; fellow priests and missionaries; the lay leaders with whom he set up the Basic Christian Communities; and, of course, anyone who’s been touched by one of his miracles. Before then, I should call on the Bishop. It’s only polite, not to say prudent, since I need him to fill me in on the progress so far and let me have copies of all their documents. That way I won’t waste time going over old ground.’

  ‘For one so young, you have a morbid obsession with time. Haven’t I told you that time here is flexible?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Philip said, afraid that his impatience was itself a sign of inflexibility, ‘it must be how I’m made. Isabel Olliphant gave me a letter of introduction to the Bishop. Do you think I should send it straight to him or ring to introduce myself first – or simply turn up at the door?’

  ‘None of the above,’ Max said. ‘I’ve made an appointment with the Vicar General – he’s like the Bishop’s support act – who’s coming to Manila on Tuesday.’

  ‘To see me?’ Philip said, keen not to betray his excitement.

  ‘To see the Cardinal. You’re just an extra.’

  ‘Of course,’ Philip said, feeling crushed.

  The food arrived. Max tore into his cuttlefish while Philip picked tentatively at the kare-kare and its accompaniment. Honour demanded a show of enthusiasm, but he was relieved to find that the rich, salty stew, with the thick tang of peanut butter and the tart green mango salad, merited it of its own accord. The fermented shrimp paste, however, was an acquired taste.

  ‘Have you made plans for this evening?’ Max asked.

  ‘Dinner in the hotel followed by another session of Pay for View, I expect,’ Philip said. ‘I’m catching up with all the films I missed on the plane.’

  ‘Not tempted by the fleshpots of Manila?’ Max asked, his yellow grin accentuated by sweetcorn.

  ‘Not remotely,’ Philip replied, unnerved by a question that took him back to the early hours when, alone and restless, he had abandoned Moneyball and turned to the adult channel, tantalising himself with the trailers. He trusted that it was disapproval of the commercialisation of sex and the exploitation of women that had prevented his pressing Enter, and not just revulsion at joining the ranks of middle-aged businessmen, too cheap or too flaccid to make their demands in person, let alone the fear that either Max or Hugh would decipher the entries on his bill.

  ‘I have a couple of friends coming to dinner whom I’d like you to meet.’

  ‘Men friends?’ Philip asked, a little too fast.

  ‘Let me think. Yes, as it happens. Is that a problem?’

  ‘No, of course not. Not at all.’

  ‘Good. Ray Lim works at the National Museum. He’s been invaluable in obtaining export licences for Hugh’s collection. Red tape!’ Max made a snipping gesture with his fingers.

  ‘We’ll have that in common. I read art history.’

  ‘Dennis Santos is something else. I can’t play Mary Poppins throughout your trip. You need an interpreter, a driver and a bodyguard.’

  ‘Come on! I don’t scare that easily.’

  ‘I’m serious. Nothing in this country is the way it looks. You think because the Filipinos have Spanish names and speak English that you understand them. Big mistake! Dennis is bright, streetwise and fearless; he’ll keep you out of trouble. True, at first sight, he might seem like trouble himself, but that’s just an act. I’ve told him all about you and the canonisation process, and he’s very keen. In his own way he’s quite devout. And I make no bones about it; you’ll be doing me a favour. He’s scratched my back in the past. Now I try to scratch his.’

  ‘Well, I’m happy to help out. So long as it’s understood that I reserve the right to say “no”.’

  Max crossed his heart with a flourish that did not inspire confidence and pressed Philip to join him in a glass of brandy. He declined, insisting on the need to go back to the library, while avoiding any compromising reference to time. He finally reached the microfiche room only twenty minutes late and set up the machine. After three hours of staring at newsprint by turns faded, smeared and out of focus, his head was as groggy and his notepad as blank as if he had accepted Max’s drink. He handed the spools back to the assistant, his frustration at having exhausted all his leads tempered by relief at having no further call to return, and took a pedicab to the hotel, where he had a quick shower to refresh himself, followed by a long bath to relax. Cocooned in a bathrobe, he stretched out on his bed, switched on the TV and flicked between BBC World and CNN, comparing the relative value of news stories with a trainspotter’s rigour. He put on the designated dinner wear of T-shirt and jeans, which gave the Home Counties boy in him an illicit thrill, and took a taxi to Max’s flat in Legaspi Towers, a destination that met with his driver’s approval: ‘Very favourite building. Much people go there.’

  They drove down Roxas Boulevard and drew up outside a shabby tower block with a rust-coloured – and coated – frame, and chipped white balconies. An apathetic security guard waved Philip through the low concrete porch into a huge atrium, bordered by shops, offices and a hair salon, with a torrential water feature at the centre. He took the lift to the fifteenth floor and walked along a cheerless, uncarpeted corridor lined with steel doors as heavily padlocked as bank vaults. Spotting the one open grille, he pressed the doorbell, which Max answered, wearing a silky pink pinafore apron. Philip fixed his gaze on his face.

  ‘Welcome to Casa Bradshaw,’ Max said, stepping aside to reveal a room as cluttered as a museum repository.

  ‘Wow!’ Philip said, staring at the two life-size ebony gods guarding the window who took virility to extreme lengths; the large brass cockerel inlaid with beads and mother-of-pearl; the rattan tub chairs and sofa, with clashing zebra- and tiger-print cushions; all cast in a variegated glow by a string of fairy lights hung with brightly patterned paper lanterns. Meanwhile, every wall, ledge and table was crammed with photographs of women in tutus and men in tights, several posed with Max and all inscribed to him.

  ‘Wow’s the word,’ Max said, taking his astonishment at face value. ‘Sit yourself down. Asia or Africa?’ He pointed to the respective cushions. Philip opted for the tiger print, which was closer. ‘Quite right. When in Rome…. Would you like a drink? I’ve made some pink gin, in keeping with the theme of the evening.’

  ‘Is there a theme? I didn’t realise.’

  ‘Friendship. Speaking of which. Ray!’ He called through the open door. ‘We’re waiting!’ He turned back to Philip. ‘He’ll spend all night powdering his nose.’

  Philip smiled at a euphemism he associated with his grandmother, only to discover, when Ray appeared, that it was to be taken literally. He was reluctant to judge another culture, let alone another subculture, but the light dusting of make-up on Ray’s elderly face, together with the frilly diaphanous shirt which exposed every hollow in his scrawny torso, were deeply unappealing.

  ‘Ray Lim, curator, entrepreneur and life-long reprobate, meet Philip Seward, saint-catcher and innocent abroad.’

  ‘Not that innocent,’ Philip said, shaking a hand as pliant as a puppet’s.

  ‘Oh, what a firm grip!’ Ray said. ‘Let me look.’ He studied Philip’s palm. ‘Such bold lines! I shall tell your fortune later.’

  ‘What?’ Max intervened. ‘That he’ll meet a small, grey, raddled Chinoy? Hands off!’ He wrenched Philip away. ‘
Come and sit down and let Mother pour you some of her Ruin.’

  Max walked over to a drum-shaped drinks cabinet and pulled several ice cubes from the belly of a plastic Buddha. Philip moved to the sofa, discreetly shifting continents to avoid Ray. He accepted a full tumbler from Max, hoping that he had not stinted on the soda. ‘Cheers!’ he said expansively.

  ‘To your very good health,’ Ray said, fluttering a large butterfly-covered fan.

  ‘Bottoms up!’ Max said, smacking his hand once again.

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ Philip asked, sounding unnervingly like his mother.

  ‘Since before you were born,’ he replied. ‘Oh my God, it really is!’

  ‘My friend Max came to this country with Dame Margot Fonteyn,’ Ray said reverently, pronouncing her Christian name with a hard ‘t’, which Max made no attempt to correct.

  ‘Were you a dancer?’ Philip asked, reassessing the photographs.

  ‘In my dreams,’ Max replied fervently. ‘No, I met Margot through a mutual admirer. We hit it off and she took me on as a sort of general factotum, an aide-de-camp.’ Ray tittered at a pun he had clearly heard many times before. ‘We first came to Manila in 1976 with the Australian Ballet.’

  ‘And you stayed on?’

  ‘Not immediately. Margot danced in Manila several times. Imelda liked nothing more than to sit and chat in her dressing room and, when Margot was busy, she made do with me. She told me about her plans for a Philippine National Ballet and, out of the blue, asked if I’d like to run it. At first I thought it was a joke – not that she was known for her sense of humour – but she was perfectly serious. The next day she summoned me to her office and repeated her offer. I pleaded inexperience, but she laughed it off, claiming that she always followed her instincts and she’d never met anyone – except herself, of course – who felt so passionately about ballet. So what could I say but yes? Yes, yes, yes!’