The Breath of Night

by Michael Arditti

  ‘Put like that, the answer’s no. It was far too precious. I’d have been afraid to jinx it.’

  ‘Exactly. You felt it in your innermost being, which was enough. You knew that, as an educated man, you could always find arguments against it and it was far too valuable to put at risk. If that’s true of your love for a woman, why shouldn’t it be true of your love for God?’

  ‘Impartiality might have been a better word,’ Philip replied, deferring to the Vicar General’s logic. ‘I’m neither an apologist nor a detractor. I’ve always valued freedom of conscience more than dogma, not least because, if God did make us in His own image, moral discrimination must be one of His greatest gifts. Julian followed his conscience even when it brought him into conflict with the civil and economic and, yes, the religious authorities. That’s another thing about him I respect.’

  ‘Which is very admirable and, if I may so, very British but, to speak plainly, our big fear is that, not understanding the way things work here, you may do more harm than good.’

  ‘Believe me, I’m not as green as I look. I really want this investigation to succeed, partly of course for Isabel but also for Julia. Even though she was four when Julian returned here for the final time and had only the haziest memories of him, she always insisted that they enjoyed a special bond. One of her proudest possessions was a photo of herself as a toddler on his knee.’

  To his surprise, the Vicar General responded by passing him the plate of crackers. Sampling the eggy taste and floury texture, Philip couldn’t help thinking that Isabel and Hugh had missed a trick by failing to send him out with a case of Garibaldis.

  ‘So how have things gone these first ten days?’ the Vicar General asked between nibbles. ‘What have you discovered that the rest of us have missed?’

  ‘Not much. Not anything, to be honest. The story’s as full of holes as if it’d taken place three hundred years ago, not thirty. Julian referred to newspaper reports in two of his letters. Either I’ve been looking in the wrong place or else they’re lost.’

  ‘Many of the papers of the time were no more than cyclostyled sheets. They lasted a few issues before they were shut down. It would have been dangerous for people to keep copies.’

  ‘Even a library?’

  ‘Most especially a library.’

  ‘I went to the National Census Office in Quezon City and called up his death certificate. Oh, I see! Is that what you mean by not understanding the way things work? Have they made a complaint? I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m not used to being given the third degree when I ask for a public document.’

  ‘No, no one has said anything.’ The Vicar General looked anxious. ‘Unless they went straight to the Archbishop.’

  ‘Not that the certificate was much help. It gave his name and place of death, and put the cause of death as two bullet wounds through the ribcage, adding that the state of the remains prevented more detailed analysis. It was signed by Dr Somebody, the Chief Medical Legal of the National Bureau of Investigation, and Inspector Somebody Else, the Scene of Crime Officer, but there was no mention of the foresters or the policemen and their mysterious experiences.’

  ‘Please, do not worry. Such signs, however gratifying, would carry no weight in the Positio. It’s the claims of Father Julian’s miracles that we must investigate thoroughly,’ the Vicar General said, drinking his tea with his little finger cocked, as no doubt mastered in Guildford.

  ‘How many have there been?’

  ‘Four or five, I think, although the number may have grown. There are always those ready to jump on the bandwagon. They may be perfectly innocent, like the farmer who declared that, after two failed harvests, he sprinkled earth from Father Julian’s grave on his rice field to produce a bumper crop. Simple people have long confused the caprice of Nature with the hand of God. More often, however, the claimant’s motives are base: a bid to court publicity or to extract cash. In that category I am certain that we can place the Ibaloi man who declared that he woke one night to find Father Julian standing over him in combat uniform, holding up two rifles in the shape of a cross.’

  ‘Perhaps he was dreaming?’

  ‘Or drunk,’ the Vicar General replied bluntly. ‘We have questioned him several times, but he refuses to retract. On the other hand there are two claims worthy of serious attention. One is from a woman with cancer to whom Father Julian appeared in her sleep, telling her to go at once to church and pray through the night to the Holy Mother. Her family tried to dissuade her since she could barely stand, but she defied them and, within three days, her tumour had vanished. The other is from a peasant boy with a withered leg, whose parents took him to pray at Father Julian’s grave and, by the next morning, his leg had straightened and he was able to walk.’

  ‘That’s amazing. Is there any – forgive the word – objective evidence?’

  ‘Both families have made sworn statements, as have several friends, the parish priest, the woman’s former employer and various officials. We have before-and-after medical photographs of the neck but none of the leg. The boy’s family couldn’t afford doctors.’

  ‘But the personal testimony is valid?’

  ‘Most certainly, although it has yet to be confirmed. Some of the boy’s neighbours dispute the story.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘Ignorance and superstition! It pains me to admit it, but some of our more remote villages are rife with pagan practices. At their heart is a wretched creature: an infamous sorceress known as the baylan.’

  ‘Yes, Julian mentions her in some of his letters.’

  ‘I would be very interested to see them if you have them here.’

  ‘Of course,’ Philip replied, even as a voice in his head counselled caution.

  ‘These credulous people maintain that it wasn’t a miracle at all but that the boy’s family had offended the baylan who, in revenge, put a curse on his leg. Once they’d paid a forfeit, she lifted it.’

  ‘Fascinating!’

  ‘Really?’ The Vicar General frowned.

  ‘I mean as a piece of folklore.’

  ‘Now perhaps you understand why the process cannot be rushed. Each of these claims has to be scrupulously investigated and then, if the evidence seems sufficiently strong to us, it will be sent to Rome where it will be further examined by a panel of seven doctors, nine theologians and fifteen cardinals and bishops.’

  ‘Impressive,’ Philip said, although he would have preferred a medical majority.

  ‘While we will do everything we can to gain recognition of our new saint, our first concern as always must be to prevent the Church from falling into disrepute. We have already seen signs of a cult growing around Father Julian, something that is expressly forbidden before he is declared Blessed. Various domestic items preserved by his housekeeper have been removed and venerated as relics. The current priest at San Isidro has had to give up the traditional Lenten and Easter vestments after someone cut threads from the chasubles. Most troubling of all is the furore surrounding Jejomar Agbuya, who claims to have known Father Julian in prison, although we have no records of their meeting.’

  ‘Unsurprisingly,’ Philip said, tempering his interjection with a smile.

  ‘In the twenty-five years since then, he has been convicted of several more crimes although, considering their seriousness, not to mention frequency, the ease with which he has obtained release should give cause for concern. He was awaiting trial on a charge of violent robbery when he had a vision – or at least succeeded in convincing both the prison governor and the judge that he had had a vision – of Father Julian, who told him that, if he had himself crucified in Pampanga on Good Friday, then God would forgive him his sins and the court would show him clemency.’

  ‘I’ve heard about those crucifixions. Aren’t they the ones that use actual nails?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes.’ The Vicar General reddened, as if acknowledging a family failing.

  ‘I should like to see them.’

  ‘No dou
bt. They now market them as a tourist attraction.’

  ‘I meant that it might be useful for our purposes,’ Philip replied, blushing in his turn.

  ‘Why? Such sideshows bring shame on our faith and our country. The flagellants who parade through the streets, blood streaming down their backs, are the dregs of society: drunks, drug addicts and petty criminals who suppose that if they share Our Lord’s suffering one day a year they are free to add to it during the remaining three hundred and sixty-four. It is through abstinence and prayer, remembrance and alms-giving, that we honour His sacrifice, not through vain display.’

  ‘I quite agree, but given that I’m here and that Good Friday’s only a month away, it would be a missed opportunity – even a dereliction of duty – not to witness it for myself. If Julian does effect a change in this man, surely it’ll be just as great a miracle as any of the physical healings?’

  ‘But not, I am afraid, one that will carry such weight in Rome. Nevertheless, you must do as you think fit, provided you do nothing to hinder – let alone jeopardise – the official investigation. For my part, I shall ask my secretary to send you a list of people you might wish to meet in the parish. But remember, please, that the Church is all that many of them have. It was Europeans who brought the faith to these islands. It would be doubly cruel if you should now be the ones to take it away.’

  After a few strained pleasantries, the Vicar General showed Philip out. With time to spare before meeting Dennis, he strolled through the cathedral square until, overcome by the heat, he accepted a ride from the pedicab driver who was trailing him, pinging his bell as much to ward off competition as to announce his services. He squeezed into the cab, hugging his knees, as they headed out of the walled city and towards the Pasig river.

  The sunlit sheen of the shanty-town roofs was reflected in the turbid waters, as they crossed the Quezon suspension bridge and entered Quiapo. The occasional glimpse of a carved wooden doorway, wrought-iron balcony, baroque cupola or art deco façade among the rows of post-war apartment blocks, was a reminder of the city’s eclectic past. With traffic stalled at a crossroads, the intrepid pedicab driver took to the gutter, skirting – sometimes scraping – the kerb, leaving Philip clinging to the roof at an angle of forty-five degrees. After ten days in Manila, he had grown accustomed to the incessant hooting, which was used, not to signal intent or even frustration, but as a basic means of self-expression: an ‘X marks the spot’ in a gridlocked world. Street children, standing on a weed-ridden verge, clambered down at the sight of a stationary Coca-Cola van and, in full view of the waiting motorists, tried to snap off its padlock with a stone. No one stirred and even the driver barely roused himself, waving them away as languorously as a hippopotamus wafting tick birds with its tail. The children scampered off, turning their attention to the pedicab, whose driver, determined to protect his fare, picked up a stick and, deaf to Philip’s protests, lashed out at them before gathering speed, leaving several bruised, impassive faces in his wake.

  Philip’s spirits rose as they entered Chinatown. Images of dragons abounded: some on arches; some on shop fronts; some on balloons and soft toys; and one, disconcertingly, on the side of a parked fire engine, spewing an ornate gust of yellow flames across the purple paintwork. A rich assortment of smells assailed him: pungent spices; roasting flesh; sweetly soporific incense, even before he had identified the stalls, restaurants and shrines from which they emanated. A succession of jewellers’ windows was filled with glittering chains, brooches and pendants. He longed to explore, abandoning the bumping, jolting pedicab for one of the horse-drawn carriages favoured by his fellow tourists, but he had arranged to meet Dennis on Recto Avenue at five and, as ever, he was eager not to be late.

  Dennis’s instructions had not inspired confidence. Explaining that the properties were unnumbered, he had told Philip to meet him outside the pizza parlour next to the pawn shop between Legarda and Loyola Streets. Even so, when the pedicab driver deposited him on the kerb in front of a row of seedy-looking shops where all the merchandise, whether books, DVD players, computer monitors or jeans, was piled higgledy-piggledy in windows smeared with dust as thick as frost, Philip was convinced that he must have made a mistake.

  ‘Is no mistake. Is address. Is 250 pesos,’ the driver said. Philip, still dubious, held out a 500-pesos note.

  ‘No change.’

  ‘You had change when we set out. I told you that I only had a few coins and a 500-pesos note.’

  ‘Change then. No change now.’

  ‘But we didn’t stop anywhere en route!’

  ‘No understand. No change. 250 pesos.’

  Philip, aware that they were attracting an audience, and one more likely to side with the obdurate driver than the cheated tourist, handed over the cash. Feeling ever more vulnerable, he walked up and down the block, observing the electronics shop boasting Not-To-Be-Missed Bargains in lurid lettering that was either askew or incomplete, the bodybuilding gym, whose members flaunted themselves in the window as blatantly as the mannequins in the lingerie shop next door, the One-Stop Pawn Shop and Lending Investor, and the run-down hotel offering Rooms for rent: three hours minimum. He was astounded by the stationers openly advertising school identity cards, diplomas, ATM cards, social security cards and a whole range of numbered forms that presumably related to different aspects of government bureaucracy. It was as if everything in Manila were fake, from these certificates through the Prada belts, Ralph Lauren T-shirts and Armani perfumes hawked for a few pesos in the malls, to the pretty girls he had been warned against in Brian’s guidebook. Would the same hold true of its miracles and even its saints?

  He dismissed the question and turned back to the windows, trying to make sense of the Bed Space (Aircon and Non-aircon available), that was ubiquitously on offer, when a tap on his shoulder made him first jump and then scowl.

  ‘What on earth have you been doing? Do you have any idea of the time?’ he asked Dennis.

  ‘Business,’ Dennis replied, as enigmatically as ever. ‘I have many pans on fire.’

  ‘We had an appointment for five. What’s the time now?’ Philip pressed his wrist in Dennis’s face.

  ‘I cannot read watch. Time too small.’

  ‘No, time too late. Five thirty-seven. Is there any reason?’

  ‘Business,’ Dennis repeated sullenly.

  ‘Well, now that you’ve finally arrived, do you mean to hang about in the street or are we going back to your flat?’

  ‘I have no flat. I have no room. I have bed. I take you there; others kill you. Maybe I do.’

  ‘So why bring me all the way out here?’ Philip asked, chastened less by the threat of violence than by the wretchedness of Dennis’s life.

  ‘This is where we must meet. We go now to sister. We take jeep.’

  He led the way to the jeepney stop which, in the absence of any sign, was reassuringly busy. Each jeepney had not only its designated route but also its unique name and decoration. On current form, these were evenly divided between the sacred and profane. Philip was disappointed to find that God is Almighty, Amazing Grace, Jesus Christ the Lord and Christian Joy were not heading in their direction. Playgirl, which was, was full to bursting. They finally found room in Rambo, which shot off at lightning speed. Clutching at the overhead rail as he lurched on the hard metal seat, Philip looked fondly at Guardian Angel in the adjacent lane.

  ‘Put down your hand from window!’ Dennis said. ‘When we are stopping, kids will climb up and break wrist to steal watch.’

  ‘Come on! I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  ‘Is true! Last week, this friend of me, she has earrings. They are grabbing back her head to pull them off. She is nearly breaking neck.’

  Despite his scepticism, Philip removed his hand and kept it firmly in his lap for the remainder of the ride. They alighted as abruptly as they had boarded, the driver dropping them off at a corner, where Philip was almost run over by a motorcyclist whose tiny son sat behind him, clinging to hi
s back like a koala cub.

  ‘From now on we’ll stick to taxis,’ Philip said, wiping his face with a handkerchief, which rapidly turned black. Dennis led him down a side street that was full of restaurants. They stopped at a large blue-and-white sign inscribed Kamayan.

  ‘Is here we must meet sister.’

  ‘Sure. But don’t forget that we must also plan our trip to Benguet. I spent the morning with the Vicar General, who’s sending me a list of people to interview.’

  ‘Sister is working very hard. Today she has afternoon off. You must not be boring to her.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, but you’re not the only one with business.’

  ‘You are sad English. I am sorry for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  Disdaining to reply, Dennis marched into the restaurant. Philip followed in exasperation. For days he had wanted to discuss arrangements, but Dennis had plied him with excuses that would have tried the patience of a saint, and Philip was not Julian. Now he was fobbing him off with his sister – that is, if she really were his sister and not some bar girl he was seeking to pimp. As soon as Philip saw her, however, his suspicions vanished. He knew better than to pin his faith on looks, but no one with such a candid smile and modest demeanour could be an imposter. Dennis introduced her simply as ‘my sister’, which she elaborated to ‘Maribel May Santos’.

  ‘That’s a lovely name,’ Philip replied, trusting that the compliment was sufficiently anodyne. Blushing, she lowered her gaze. He hovered awkwardly while Dennis grabbed the empty chair next to her, leaving him to sit at the opposite side of the table, a perfect vantage point from which to study her. Her café crème complexion was enhanced by a hint of make-up on her eyelids and cheeks, giving her the delicate charm of a hand-tinted postcard. She wore a purple peony in her chignon, and he wondered whether it was for his benefit or the usual accoutrement of an afternoon off. He glanced from Maribel to Dennis in search of a family likeness but acknowledged, to his shame, that he still could not see beyond skin tone. Such resemblance as he detected was largely vocal. She had the same light timbre and lilting vowels as Dennis, although they suited her better. For the first time in Manila, Philip found himself talking to someone without feeling either compromised or sullied. He pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his forehead and promptly put it away.