‘I know this is him. I felt his hand like a blade on my breast, cutting out all that is rotting and wicked but also making me whole. It is me – I am the one – who is the first to tell the world that he is a saint. Is this not true?’ She appealed to Jocelyn, who nodded sagely, and to Benigna, who hung her head. ‘So you must tell my story. Victoria Lopez. You know how to write this name?’
‘L – O – P – E – Z,’ Philip replied.
‘Yes,’ she said and then, as if taking no chances, walked over to check his notebook.
‘Honestly!’ Jocelyn said, affronted on Philip’s behalf. ‘Mr Seaweed is a famous person. I think that he can know how to write a simple – a very simple – name like yours.’
‘Not that famous,’ Philip interjected. ‘But perhaps Benigna will tell us her story?’ he asked, turning a page deliberately.
In contrast to Victoria, Benigna had to be coaxed at every step, although it was this very hesitation and humility in the face of what had happened to her that Philip found most compelling. Echoing the Vicar General, she described how, after her neck had swollen ‘like a puffer fish’, Julian appeared to her at night and told her to go straight to the church. She insisted, however, that she had been wide awake. ‘I was not sleeping for three days.’
‘How can you be sure that it was Father Julian? Did you know him when he was the parish priest? You must have been very young.’
‘Yes, this is true, and I do not remember his face at all. But I have seen many pictures. And when he spoke to me – like so many people, you will say to me that I am dreaming – but I hear his voice from when he is giving me my names at my christening. I feel his arms round me like when he is holding me in the water. This is the first miracle, no?’
‘It’s certainly remarkable.’
‘And the second miracle is when I come to the church – after my husband and his mother and his father and all of the people are telling me “no” – I am finding that the door, it is open. At night it is always locked. Father Marlon, he swears that he has locked it also after mass, but it is open for me to go inside. And I kneel on the steps. It is hard for me to sit up in the bed, but when I am there it is easy to kneel. And when I look up, I see Father Julian with the Blessed Virgin. And she is smiling at me. But it is not just a smile on her lips; it is like the whole air is smiling. And I am there through all of the night, but it does not feel like a night; it does not feel like time at all. Then my husband, he carries me back to my bed and for three days they are afraid I am dying. But on this third day I have no lump on my neck. I have no wound and no mark. You must look!’ She twisted her neck to reveal the unblemished skin. ‘After this everyone is happy for me and I am happy, but I am also sad. I hear a voice – although it is not the same voice of Father Julian – telling me to give up this life and go inside a convent. But my husband, he speaks to Father Marlon, and the priest, he tells me that God will be wanting me to stay with my family, so this is what I am doing. But all the time I am thinking that this can be another message from the saint.’
Philip thanked her for her moving testimony. After another glass of iced tea and a respectful flick through Jocelyn’s Los Angeles album he escaped and returned to the hotel. As he sat in his room typing up his notes, trying to capture the women’s views and voices, he had a strong sense – almost a revelation – that they might be a springboard to something more. For the first time since abandoning his novel, he saw a way to revive his literary ambitions. A dread of personal revelation had led him to defy the conventional wisdom to write about what he knew; but now, either by chance or providence, he found himself in a world so different from his own that he would be able to make the unknown his theme. Fired with enthusiasm, he sketched out a series of plots about foreigners grappling with Philippine culture: first, an adventure story about a gang of rogue marines who stayed on after the US withdrawal and mounted a military coup (he could hear Hollywood tills rattling); next, a mystery about an aid worker in Manila who uncovered an organ-farming racket run by the Vatican (less cash but more kudos); finally, a romantic comedy about a troupe of ballet dancers, headed by a thinly disguised Margot Fonteyn (Max’s memories would be invaluable), who toured the country, losing their hearts to the locals.
He dismissed each idea as fast as he jotted it down, taking his notepad with him to dinner where Dennis, seizing his advantage, pulled out his mobile to text. Even so, Philip felt too euphoric to stop and, after wolfing down his food, he returned to his room, where he continued to map out characters and scenarios before ripping up his notes, a destruction which for once felt creative, and settling down for an early night in a bid to bring his subconscious into play. Any dreams were lost, however, when he was shaken awake by Lerma.
‘Please, mister, please. You must hurry and leave this hotel!’
‘What?’
‘Please, mister, please!’ She continued to shake him, even though he was wide awake.
‘What’s the time?’ he asked, shrugging off her hand and looking at his watch. ‘Quarter to two!’
‘Please, mister, my husband has come back a day too soon to surprise me.’
‘It’s a hotel! Aren’t you supposed to have guests?’
‘He surprises me in the bed with Dennis.’
‘Dennis?’
‘It is correct. He has run away into the car.’
‘My car?’
‘It is parked in the street, in the other side of town. I take you there.’
‘Tomorrow,’ Philip said implacably. ‘He’s made his own bed – or whatever – let him lie in it.’
He turned on his side, emphasising his resolve, at which she began to shake him harder. ‘My husband will search for him. I am fearful; you must leave.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’
‘You must pack up your case. I will make your bill.’
‘What?’
‘For your visit.’
‘Of course! Don’t forget to charge for sundry services,’ he added with a bitterness that seemed to stem from his groin.
Angry and frustrated, he threw on his clothes and gathered up his few belongings. Feeling like an actor in a second-rate farce, he hurried into the corridor, where he was met by Armin, who took his grip and, steering him away from the main staircase, led him down an even more dingy and decrepit staircase at the back. As they sneaked through a bare concrete hallway, past sacks that might have been filled with rice, vegetables, or the body parts of adulterous guests, Philip studied Armin in the hope of finding out what he felt about such goings-on, but his face gave nothing away. Lerma met them at the door and wordlessly thrust the bill into Philip’s hand. A cursory glance showed that, whatever the hotel’s failings, he had not been overcharged.
‘I don’t suppose you take American Express?’ he asked, dragging out her misery.
‘Only cash,’ she said anxiously.
‘Master card? Visa?’
‘Only cash.’
He peeled the notes from his wad and, as an afterthought, peeled off two more for Armin, who mutely bowed his head.
‘Armin will take you to find your car,’ she said, as she disappeared into the hotel.
‘No “We hope to welcome you back here soon”?’ Philip called after her, before following Armin down a shadowy alley, past rows of closed shops, unlit houses and a jeepney depot, to his car, which stood alone in an otherwise empty street. Armin handed him his grip, bowed his head again and walked briskly away. Seeing no more sign of the fleeing lover than of the vengeful husband, Philip began to wonder whether 12 March were the Filipino equivalent of 1 April. He punched the door in exasperation and, hearing a rustle, peered through the window to find Dennis cowering beneath the driver’s seat.
‘Open the door, you idiot!’ Philip shouted.
‘Why you wait so long? Quick, quick!’ Dennis replied, turning on the ignition before Philip had even sat down.
‘Take it easy!’ Philip said. ‘I’ve already had my sleep broken. I’d prefer to keep my
neck in one piece.’
‘We go to Manila, yes?’
‘No, we go to San Isidro. I have a very important appointment at eleven o’clock tomorrow – today.’
‘Then we go there now,’ Dennis said, taking no chances.
‘Unless you have a better idea. Perhaps another hotel where you can bed the proprietor’s wife?’
‘She good, yes? I see you are liking her. But, no, she is only liking me.’
‘Who wouldn’t like you? A gutless little cheat, scared stiff of being beaten up. You’re irresistible.’
‘What you mean? She is begging me to go away. She is afraid I am killing him.’
‘Oh, shut up!’ Philip said and, much to his surprise, Dennis did.
They parked on the outskirts of San Isidro, where they opened the windows, pushed back the seats and curled up for what remained of the night. Dennis’s bubbly snores, following closely on his brazen ‘Goodnight’, were the final indignity for Philip who, torn between fatigue and fury, steeled himself for a lonely vigil. He awoke several hours later to a gust of foul breath, which he instinctively blamed on Dennis, until he turned to find a goat staring through the window. His startled yelp scared off the animal and roused Dennis, whose unkempt, unshaven, bleary-eyed confusion would have been amusing had it not been such a mortifying reflection of his own. He felt grubby and parched, and for the first time wished that he had come here during the rainy season, when he would have been able both to take a shower and slake his thirst. He tried to shift position, but his body rebelled at the slightest movement and so, easing himself out of the door, he leant back against the roof and cautiously stretched.
He did what he could to freshen up, using face wipes on his face, neck and chest, along with liberal dabs of aftershave. He brushed his teeth with bottled water in full view of a gang of schoolchildren who, he trusted, were impervious to Western eccentricity. He put on a clean pair of socks and T-shirt but refused to risk a change of underpants, even in the semi-concealment of the car. Dismissing Dennis’s pleas of hunger with an iciness he was determined to maintain until they returned to Manila, he asked him to drive to the poblacion square. With more than two hours to spare before he had arranged to call on Consolacion, he was planning to go back to the cemetery, but seeing a steady stream of people entering church he decided to follow, staying for what turned out to be nine o’clock mass. Despite his deep-rooted ecumenism, he thought it both polite and politic to remain in his seat when the communicants went up to the rail. At the end of the service he lingered behind to greet Father Honesto, who thanked him profusely for coming, adding that, had he known, he would have preached in English.
‘But would everyone else have understood?’
‘I speak to them every day.’
Ensconced in the musty sacristy, while the priest made tea on what looked like a Bunsen burner, Philip reported on his progress in the parish, expressing disappointment at having failed to track down the family of the boy with the withered leg.
‘They left San Isidro last year. There had been some trouble. The father was a very greedy man, who tried to make money from the miracle. Many of his neighbours took offence. It was better that they left, although perhaps not better that they went to Manila. I do not know where such a family will live when they are there. It is like looking for a mullet in the sea.’
Philip returned to the car, where a newly compliant Dennis drove him straight to Consolacion’s house to be greeted again by Mark.
‘I’m afraid that I may be a little early,’ Philip said.
‘No, it is good. I have stayed away from the school. I am happy for you that she will speak to you. Come inside with me, please.’
Feeling both elated and apprehensive, Philip followed Mark through a dark hall into an uncluttered living room, where a grizzled woman with filmy eyes, sunken cheeks and skin like a dried-up riverbed, sat in a low armchair, her legs wide apart, listening to a madrigal on the radio.
‘You must go close up to her,’ Mark said to Philip. ‘She is blind.’
‘I can see,’ Consolacion said in a surprisingly clear voice. ‘Only not with my eyes.’
Confused by both Mark’s injunction and Consolacion’s response, Philip walked up to her and, praying that it was not presumptuous, lifted her hand from her lap to shake. She pulled him gently towards her, running her fingers across his chest and face. ‘Yes, I can see the resemblance,’ she said.
Philip wondered if she had mistaken his relationship with Julian or were referring to something beyond the physical. Mark switched off the radio and told him to sit next to his grandmother, who was also rather deaf.
‘I hear enough,’ Consolacion said uncompromisingly. Philip hoped that she could not hear the nervousness in his voice, as he told her how thrilled he was to meet someone about whom he had read so much.
‘Really?’ she replied, with an indifference that might simply have been her natural tone.
‘Father Julian mentioned you in every one of his letters home.’
‘I was his housekeeper for thirteen years. I lived with him for longer than I lived with my husband.’ Her eyes misted at the memory of one or both. ‘We had a dog. I forget his name.’
‘Grump.’
‘What is it you say?’
‘Grump! The name of the dog.’
‘No, that was not it. I should know the name of my own dog,’ she said, with a conviction that threw doubt on the rest of her testimony. Philip looked at Mark, who put a finger to his lips, at which Consolacion, as if sensing the movement in the air, spoke to him briefly in Tagalog.
‘Please to excuse me,’ he said. ‘I will bring some snacks.’
As he left the room, Philip asked Consolacion for her memories of Julian. She repeated the familiar stories of his kindness, although with none of the warmth that he would have expected from one who had lived with him at such close quarters. Mark brought in the snacks, plain pastries filled with coconut and peanuts, which contrasted sharply with the sticky confections he had been offered elsewhere. They chatted generally about Julian, with Mark, who turned out to be older than he looked, adding his own impressions of the man who had funded his education.
‘He was good to all the people in my family,’ Consolacion said. ‘He was good to all the people in the parish. To some of the people he was too good.’
‘I suppose that it goes with the territory,’ Philip said.
‘I am not understanding.’
‘I’m sorry. Part of being a priest.’
‘Not all priests are so good,’ Consolacion said. ‘Not one especially: Father Benito. He had been living in Brazil. He brought back many ideas. Bad ideas. It was not for me to say, but Father knew that I did not believe in them.’
‘Lola,’ Mark said in a voice full of warning.
‘Am I not to speak? Mark does not wish me to say any words against Father Julian. He paid for him to study at the university.’
‘Yes, Lola, we have already told him this.’
‘Have we?’ She sighed. ‘Well some things are good to be told again. They are good in the middle of much that is bad.’
‘I think you must go now,’ Mark said to Philip. ‘It is wrong to be reminding her. I am sorry.’
‘You think I forget? I remember these things every day. No, he has come to ask me questions. I shall give him answers.’
‘No, Lola, I do not wish it.’
‘You do not wish it, perhaps,’ Consolacion said, addressing the air to one side of him. ‘But you are not the one who is going to Hell.’
‘No one here is going to Hell.’
Philip listened enthralled, unsure how much their Hell was a figure of speech and how much the full eschatological works.
‘I am. I am the one who has lied. When they asked me where he was on the night when they arrested him, I swore that he was at home, sleeping. I swore this on the Holy Bible.’
‘But you knew that he wasn’t?’ Philip asked, while Mark stared at his feet.
‘I have heard him go out.’
‘Were you trying to protect him?’
‘I thought that he had a woman. I had not seen any sign of it for myself, it is true, but he had been stopped by the soldiers with a pregnant woman on the road to the hospital. There was much talking in the parish. Like many of the people, I expected that the baby was his.’
‘And you weren’t shocked?’ Philip asked incredulously.
‘When I was a girl, we had a priest here from Spain. When he called us his “children” in the church, we all used to laugh because we knew that, for the cases of Anna and Joshua Padero, this was not just a way of speaking. It is strange, I can remember their names but I am forgetting his. Do you remember, Mark?’
‘Lola,’ he said mildly, ‘that was eighty years ago.’
‘Was it? Yes, you are right. When people said how it was strange that they were having European faces, the priest said that it was because this woman – his woman – had prayed before the santos of the Blessed Mother. A beautiful santos that he had brought to San Isidro from Spain.’
‘And you believed him?’
‘He was the priest and I was a small girl; naturally, I believed him. And my mother believed him. All of the people believed him.’
‘But Father Julian didn’t have a woman?’
‘No, he had a different secret. And I was the only one person who knew.’
The Breath of Night Page 14