The Breath of Night

by Michael Arditti

  ‘I take it you’ve cut your ties with the company?’

  ‘There is no company; there never was. Poor Imelda. She was a genuine visionary. Just think of the nerve it took to put a foreigner – and an unknown one at that – at the helm of such a high-profile project. She poured millions – and I mean millions – into the country’s cultural life. And for what? She was vilified, attacked and betrayed on all sides.’

  ‘Is it any wonder? While she was pouring millions into dance or whatever, half the population was starving.’

  ‘Who was it said that Man cannot live by bread alone? Don’t answer! I grant that Imelda had her faults. She could be petty and erratic and self-deluding. She was so desperate to be seen as sophisticated that she started a rumour that she was a lesbian. And yet… and yet she had courage and style and imagination. She put the Philippines on the map. The one thing no one can deny is that Manila’s a far less exciting place to live than it was in her day.’

  ‘So have you never thought of coming home?’ Philip asked.

  ‘To Mr and Mrs Bradshaw, RIP? No, thank you. This is my home. Besides I don’t have the proverbial pot to piss in.’ Ray laughed. ‘Imelda gave me this flat for life. If I went back to England, I couldn’t afford the rent on a bedsit in Bexhill-on-Sea. Ray, I’ll leave you to do the honours while I twiddle some knobs in the kitchen.’

  He curtsied and went out. Philip lingered beside the sofa until, sensing that Ray was poised to pounce, he moved to the wall, taking a sudden interest in the dancers’ photographs. He speculated on what Max must have said for Ray to subject him to this absurd and, frankly, offensive charade. Did he try it on with every young man he met or had he singled him out for special treatment? And if so, why? Did sandy hair, green eyes and broad shoulders send a specific message to Filipinos, or did Ray take the arcane view that every ex-public schoolboy was gay?

  ‘Are you all right?’ Ray asked, as Philip inadvertently growled.

  ‘Fine, thank you. The drink was a little strong.’

  ‘Max is too generous. He wants us to have fun. He forgets that we are not all such lusciouses as him. You must come to have your meals at my house. My wife and my sons will be delighted to welcome you.’

  ‘You’re married?’ Philip asked, stifling his surprise.

  ‘Thirty-six years. We have three sons and one girl. One of my sons went to Princeton University and now he is making law in America. The other two are in Manila and have big business. I am a very proud father.’

  The doorbell rang, cutting through Ray’s chatter and Philip’s confusion.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Max called from the kitchen.

  ‘It will be Dennis,’ Ray said. ‘Such a naughty boy to keep us waiting.’

  ‘What does Dennis do?’ Philip asked quickly. ‘Max was a little cagey.’

  ‘He is number one dancer. Max says that, the first time he saw him, he was swept off his knees.’

  Philip smiled at the mangled idiom as Max entered with a tall, muscular young man in a baseball cap, blue jeans and classic red Coca-Cola T-shirt of the kind that Philip and his university friends had ironised into Cocaine. ‘Philip, this is Dennis.’

  ‘Philip Seward, good to meet you,’ Philip said, holding out his right hand, which hung lamely in the air.

  ‘Your face!’ Ray shrieked. ‘Dennis, what have you done to your face?’ He fanned himself in horror.

  ‘I am robbed; I am cheated; I am betrayed!’ Dennis exclaimed, with an extravagance to match Ray’s fanning. ‘Angel Placenta cream. It promises top-notch results in twenty-eight days, or else full money is coming back. And look, this is Dennis after less than one whole week!’

  Philip gazed at his blotchy red forehead and peeling cheeks. ‘Angel Placenta?’ he asked Max.

  ‘Skin whitening,’ he replied. ‘It makes you weep. All those beautiful bronze boys whose greatest desire is to look as washed-out and pasty as us.’

  ‘I go back to Quiapo. I tell this man – this thief – I will be cutting off his dick – if he has one – and feed it to my dog.’

  ‘If you had one,’ Max muttered.

  ‘He shows me box and says “Here is written: Do not go out in sun for one week. Have you done this?” I tell him I do not go out to beach, right? I do not lie by swimming pool with sexy girls. But is February; is sun. Will I walk in street with bag on top of my head? And he tells me “yes”. Just like this. “Yes.” And I spit. I spit on floor and inside heart.’

  ‘Don’t panic,’ Max said. ‘It’s not permanent. A couple of weeks and you’ll be right as rain.’

  ‘How am I to do work? How am I to do show? How am I to pay for bed?’

  ‘Well, as to that, I told you about Philip.’

  ‘This afternoon I give massage to rich kano. He is telling me I have sickness. Me, Dennis! Feel!’ He flexed his biceps, at which Ray shot out his hand. ‘No, you!’ He turned to Philip, who tentatively patted the muscle. ‘Are you wishing for boy?’

  ‘No!’ Philip replied, taken aback. ‘Strictly a ladies’ man.’

  ‘I am best masseur in Manila. I have testaments from many world-famous persons. Ask them,’ Dennis said, pointing to Ray.

  ‘But I thought you were a dancer.’

  ‘Of course I am dancer. First am I dancing and then I am giving massage.’

  ‘Dennis is a big star at the Mr Universe club,’ Ray said.

  ‘You’re a go-go dancer?’ Philip asked incredulously.

  ‘I am macho dancer,’ Dennis said, as though refuting a slur.

  ‘Dennis is also running messages sometimes for my sons,’ Ray said, giving his arm an approving squeeze, which Dennis shrugged off, albeit mildly enough to keep his options open.

  ‘Grub’s up!’ Max said, wheeling in a trolley. ‘Sausage and mash, to remind Philip of home.’

  The school-dinner menu made the meal even more incongruous. In-between mouthfuls, Philip recounted his mission to Ray and Dennis, the former reflecting on the contrast between the multitude of Christian saints and the handful of Immortals in his own tradition of Taoism, while the latter reserved his interest for Julian’s murder charge.

  Conversation was interrupted by a robotic announcement: ‘Will the owner of the black BMW please proceed to the lobby.’ Philip started as Dennis pulled out his mobile phone.

  ‘You see, I am best driver in Manila.’ He glanced at the number. ‘Business!’ He turned to Max. ‘I take this in bedroom.’

  His familiarity with the flat confirmed Philip’s suspicions about his relationship with its owner. Ray’s account of their first encounter now sounded all too precise.

  ‘So what do you think of him?’ Max asked, as Dennis went out.

  ‘You didn’t mention that he was a gay go-go dancer.’

  ‘He’s not.’

  ‘All right, a dancer who go-goes with gays.’

  ‘Of course, if you feel threatened.’

  ‘I don’t! As long as he’s up to the job, the rest of his life’s no concern of mine.’

  ‘You won’t regret it, and the moment you do, he’s out on his ear.’

  Dennis returned, greeting the news of his engagement with a shrug, as if the slightest expression of gratitude might be seen as weakness.

  ‘Now I am leaving,’ he said. ‘I have business.’

  ‘What business?’ Max asked.

  ‘Just business. You will text me soon, yes?’ he asked Philip.

  ‘I’ll get your number from Max.’

  ‘I will show you to my sister.’

  ‘I’m sorry? Why?’

  ‘You are saying you do not like boys.’

  ‘I know but –’

  ‘Then you will be liking her. She is much like me, but more good and not so smart.’

  ‘I’m here to work,’ Philip said, scenting danger.

  ‘Of course you have work. All people who come to Manila have work, but I also bring them to have good time. I am best guide in Manila; I am best driver; I am best bodyguard. All famous persons, they come to M
anila and ask for Dennis.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I can see you are famous person too.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And how am I seeing this? Because you ask for Dennis.’

  Grinning triumphantly, Dennis went out, leaving Philip in two minds about having hired him. It was true that he would profit from Dennis’s native cunning and gain a greater insight into Filipino life than he would from Max; nevertheless, he would need to remain constantly wary of a man who would not scruple to take advantage of him and anyone else with whom he came into contact. It was clear that, no matter how much at odds they might be elsewhere, Max and Dennis were as one in their belief that they could manipulate the callow Englishman. It would be both a duty and a pleasure to prove them wrong.

  Three

  17 November 1972

  My dear Mother and Father,

  As you see, I’m writing this myself, so you can stop worrying. Three weeks of bed rest in Baguio and I’m as right as rain. I was under sisters’ orders which, believe me, are far stricter than doctor’s. I now have an inkling of what Agnes and Cora went through at school. No books meant no books. Not even the Bible slipped under their radar, although they took it in turns to read psalms to me in the afternoon. I wasn’t allowed visitors, cigarettes or a radio, and Lights Out was at seven. I’ve warned them that I’ll have my revenge when I come back to hear their confessions; they’ll be working off the Hail Marys for the next twenty years. ‘It’ll be worth it, Father,’ the Mother Superior said, ‘to know that you’re fully recovered.’ They’re wonderful women and I’m for ever in their debt.

  It takes a serious illness to make a priest stop and pause. I spend so much time ministering to the sick and the dying that it’s easy to suppose myself indestructible. Then one insect bite and wham, my head’s cracking, my chest’s crimson and my joints feel as if they’ve been set alight. On the positive side, I was deeply touched by the parish’s concern. From now on, whenever I feel daunted by my own inadequacy or by the casual cruelty of everyday life, I’ll look back on the constant stream of well-wishers, some of whom walked thirty miles or more to see me, bringing food that they could ill spare but which it would have been the gravest insult to refuse. Even the baylan came – she’s the local wise woman (think a Philippine Miss Thurrock in a white wrap and armlets). Staying safely outside the gate, she handed Consolacion a green paste made of powdered larvae and palm oil which she swore, if rubbed on my chest, would cure me at once. Dismissing Consolacion’s protests, I insisted that she threw it out, although I suspect that she’s kept it for her own use.

  I begged the Regional not to bother you, but he said that he had no choice. He told me that Greg had offered to fly out at a moment’s notice. That was decent of him. I know we’ve had our differences but, to me, he’s still the twelve-year-old boy whom Nanny sent to bed in onion-filled socks when he had flu and who’s not eaten an onion since, rather than the junior Home Office minister. As soon as I’m feeling 100 percent – and not just the current 97.5 – I’ll write to thank him. With my convalescent scrawl even harder to decipher than usual, it’s unfair to inflict it on anyone but you (I mean that as a compliment). On which note and in belated answer to your query, Mother: yes, it is BAT I’ve been eating. Please don’t think that I’m piling on the agony, let alone trying to outdo John the Baptist with his locusts – which, incidentally, are regarded as a delicacy in some parts of Luzon – but bat is a much undervalued source of protein. Besides, after Great-Uncle Lennox, it ill behoves a member of the Tremayne family to cast aspersions on anyone else’s diet.

  I’m back in harness, although not in cassock. I’ve made use of my enforced break to bring in a change that I’d long been contemplating. In a bid to remove the barriers between priest and people, I’ve resolved that, except in church, I shall wear the same clothes that they do… well maybe not nylon shorts and flip-flops, but something casual. The move hasn’t been universally welcomed. Some of the haciendos prefer their priests in skirts (not least symbolically), but they’re in a minority. I suspect it may be one that includes you (I remember how Father harrumphed when nuns first exposed their shins), nevertheless I’d be most grateful if you’d send me half a dozen shirts (white, short-sleeved, 15½ collar) and grey or beige cotton shorts (32 waist – don’t worry, I’ve only lost a couple of inches). It may comfort you to know that, even with Consolacion’s dedicated ministrations, the cassock was getting very stained – and not just from sweat. One of their more arcane superstitions is that, if a baby urinates on someone who’s holding him, they’ll bond for life. I’ve lost count of the number of mothers who’ve handed me their leaky children. I’m thinking of putting up a sign, along with ‘Please don’t play ball games in the churchyard’, ‘Please don’t pee on the priest.’

  As if infant incontinence weren’t enough, we now have a dog. I’ve no idea what breed he is. There’s a hint of Golden Retriever and another of German Shepherd, but the rest is anyone’s guess. I bought him in Baguio where he was one of sixty puppies cooped up like battery chickens and destined, I fear, for a similar fate. And no, I wasn’t being the dewy-eyed Englishman; I can’t spare the time for animal rights when there’s so much to do for humans. I’d just been given the all clear by the doc and was taking my first steps outside the convent when I heard a furious barking. I wouldn’t be my sister’s brother if I’d passed by on the other side. Moreover, I wanted to celebrate my good news. I’d have liked to buy the whole pack, but I’m running a parish not a kennel. So I chose one at random. Not that Grump has shown his appreciation. Two chewed sandals, one upturned rice jar and countless soiled floors later, and I suspect that Consolacion would be happy to casserole him herself. We had the ‘either he goes or I go’ conversation the day I brought him home, although neither of us took it seriously. I promised that I’d be the one to clear up his mess but, the moment I pick up a cloth, she prises it from my hands (I’m not sure whether she considers it beneath my dignity or enjoys the sense of martyrdom). She vehemently refuses to buy dog food, which is understandable from someone who had to feed her children on scraps. Instead she gives him leftovers, including bat bones, which splinter just as easily as chicken’s, but when I pointed out the danger she laughed. Either dogs here have developed cast-iron stomachs, or else canine life, like its human counterpart, is cheap.

  In other news, the big story is that President Marcos has imposed Martial Law which, although it sounds frightening, is much like Mr Heath’s State of Emergency, only with guns. Of course there are dangers in awarding the government additional powers, but the overwhelming consensus among people of all sorts is that it’s a crucial step towards healing the nation’s ills. Indeed, I’m told that behind the scenes it was a prerequisite for obtaining further foreign aid. City dwellers will benefit from the crackdown on weapons, drugs and pornography (my visit to Hendrik in Cabanatuan was an eye-opener), while in the country we’ve been promised radical land reform. As you’ll have gathered from my previous letters, farmers here have a raw deal. They do all the work and then the landlords take half the profits – more if you count the high interest they charge on loans for hospital fees, building repairs and even emergency grain. If the proposed changes go ahead, and it’s a big if since legislation here is often shelved, tenants will enjoy a far greater measure of independence, paying a fair rent and reaping the rewards of their labour.

  It’s an irony you may or may not relish, Father, but I’ve become as intimately involved in land management as if I’d stayed on the estate. I suspect, however, that conditions here are more like those in the time of your great-great grandfather than anything to be found at Whitlock today. The farmers have a sense of indebtedness that goes way beyond indenture. They feel an almost mystical bond to the haciendos who, more often than not, are either their or their children’s godfathers. I wince every time that I see don Florante Pineda or don Bernardo Arriola standing at the font. The relationship is far too Sicilian for my liking. The godfathers pay
the expenses of the baptisms just as they later do of the funerals of children (so many of the funerals I conduct are of children) who die as a direct result of policies that they themselves have put in place.

  Their loyal tenants, however, see it differently. All their criticisms and complaints are levelled at the managers, for whom I’ve gained increasing sympathy. They’re the ones on the spot, while the haciendos are carousing in Manila and their wives are on shopping sprees in Hong Kong. Take the Romualdez family, the third of our large landowners and the ones with whom I’m least acquainted, since they’re so seldom here. I can’t tell you how often I’ve heard people say: ‘If only don Enrico knew how the encargado treats us.’ Well, last week he had a chance to find out, when he paid a rare visit to the estate. Although I was still recuperating, I drove out to watch his semi-regal progress in a carriage drawn by two carabaos and garlanded with sampaguitas, the sweet-scented national flower. He sat next to his wife, doña Teresa, a plain woman wearing her trademark black, and opposite his children, Regina, as brightly dressed as her mother was sombre, and Joey, who exuded an air of scornful indolence, which he had no doubt practised at Harvard. The entire hacienda had turned out to line the route. Joey winced at every jolt of the carriage; Regina simpered beneath her sunshade; doña Teresa waved modestly; and don Enrico threw sweets to the children, who darted dangerously close to the wheels. At the compound gate he announced, to tumultuous applause, that there would be free beer for everyone. Four of his lackeys carried out a dozen crates and the crowd toasted their beneficent landlord. Within an hour, all their grievances had been forgotten. No wonder cynics claim that San Miguel should be the country’s patron saint.