The alien ethos and grandiose setting contrived to deny Philip his usual sense of graveyard peace. He felt no closer to his dead than when he had visited the Great Pyramid: a thought which was eerily underlined as he confronted that monument in miniature. Guarded by a youthful sphinx, several generations of an extended family sat round a dining table in its courtyard. Their conspicuous display emboldened Philip to scrutinise them when Amel stopped for a brief chat.
‘Friends of yours?’ Philip asked, as they moved on.
‘Only on Qingming,’ Amel replied, with a smile Philip refused to think of as inscrutable.
‘So, is this the most important day in the Chinese calendar?’
‘It’s the most important day for our dead – the equivalent of your All Souls’ Day. Although, if I’m not mistaken, that expresses – or at least grew out of – a belief that praying and making offerings to God would lessen the sufferings of the dead. Whereas we don’t believe that the dead suffer – at least no more than the living. For us, the afterlife is not separate from life but a part of it. Our ancestors are here with us. They take care of us, just as we do them. So we come here to venerate them and to bring them what they need for this new phase of their existence.’
‘Christians aren’t that different,’ Philip said. ‘We also believe that some dead people – saints – will look after us. Although of course they don’t have to be our ancestors. By definition, very few of them have descendants.’
‘You have saints on the brain,’ Max said tetchily.
‘Why else have I come to Manila?’
Moments later they reached the top of the incline, standing in front of a flamboyant building with a blood-red façade, upturned eaves and a pair of undulating dragons on the roof.
‘Is this it?’ Philip asked, awestruck.
‘I wish!’ Amel replied, laughing. ‘This is the Chong Hock Tong temple. Our family tomb is on the other side.’ He led them down a side avenue to an elegant grey mausoleum with a pink doorway, framed by tall, narrow windows made of engraved glass. They walked into a shaded courtyard, dominated by a life-size griffin, and up to fretwork doors, which Amel slid open. All at once, Philip was hit by a blast of cold air as strong as that in the hotel lobby. Despite the traditional painted lanterns, the light was dim, but as his eyes gradually adjusted he made out two large black sarcophagi to his left, with garlanded bas-reliefs of a man and woman above them, a row of wall graves on either side and an incense burner in front. Several lacquer chairs and a formal dining table stood at the back of the room and, as Amel pointed out to him in the nick of time, a small carp pond was set into the inlaid marble floor.
Ray welcomed them with a shrill ‘Cooee’, which paid little regard to either the solemnity of the tomb or the presence of his wife. With his hand proprietarily poised in the small – and sweat – of Philip’s back, he ushered him over to meet his ‘good lady’, a pale woman whose hair and dress – a glittering ruby butterfly in a braided chignon and a turquoise silk cheongsam with a line of beaded fans along her left leg – made up for the impassivity of her face. Philip took her hand and thanked her effusively for inviting him. ‘My husband has told me so much about you,’ she said, her voice trailing off as if in boredom. ‘We are honoured that you could join us.’ Philip thanked her again and ceded his place to Max who, bowing slightly, raised her fingers to his lips with the old-world courtesy that must once have endeared him to Imelda.
‘This is my daughter, Janice,’ Ray said, indicating a young woman in a black silk brocade jacket and skin-tight blue jeans, buried in the Philippine Tatler. She lowered the magazine languidly. ‘Ciao!’ she said, with a pout of her purple lips.
‘Janice, you look more delectable every time I see you. Would that I were thirty years younger,’ Max said, as though age were the only check on his ardour. He contented himself with kissing her on both cheeks. Philip, meanwhile, gazed at the open magazine, trying vainly to identify the featured gala, until Ray steered him towards the final member of the party, his elder son, Brent, who sat with his laptop at an ebony writing desk. He held up his left hand to forestall his father while he sent an email, before turning with a broad smile to Philip, echoing both his mother’s words about the honour of his visit and his brother’s mode of addressing him by title as well as by name.
‘Please excuse me; I’m just finishing off some work,’ Brent said.
‘Of course,’ Philip said, turning back to Amel. ‘Is it my imagination, or do you have Wi-Fi in here?’
‘Yes, you’re right. Our ancestors want us to thrive, so we must have the chance to do business when we come here. And they want us to relax and eat well and enjoy the time we spend in their company, so we have the kitchen and the shower and the comfort room and the TV.’
‘It’s extraordinary,’ Philip said guardedly. Even by Manila standards, the contrast between the high-tech cemetery and the squalid shanty town propped against its walls struck him as extreme. His unease was deflected by the arrival of Ray’s brother Daio, his wife Faye, their daughters, sons-in-law and grandchildren. Even Janice roused herself to greet them. Philip was transfixed by the sight of the whole family, led by Daio, kneeling in front of the sarcophagi and bowing their foreheads to the ground as if kowtowing to the Dowager Empress. They then went out to the courtyard, where everyone, young and old, rolled up pieces of printed paper and cardboard and threw them into an elegant stone burner with a ceramic dragon’s head on the lid.
‘This is kim,’ Amel whispered to Philip, ‘the offerings we make to assist our loved ones in the afterlife.’
The ritual concluded, Ray led the way to the dining table, where the maids served a sweet-and-sour chicken and melon soup, although a list of ingredients failed to do justice to the wealth of its flavours. Philip longed for more but was too shy to ask, watching helplessly as the maids cleared away the bowls, including the two for the ancestors, which had remained untouched at either end of the table. The ancestors – welcome spectres at the feast – were equally generously served with the main course. While the rest of the diners chose between shredded beef, crispy duck, sausage and sticky rice, sea bass in black bean sauce and suckling pig, their plates were heaped high with a portion of each. Philip could not help reflecting on the half-starved residents of the shanty town. Had Julian been of the company, he would no doubt have upbraided the Lims as roundly as he had once done the Arriolas and Pinedas – although, as Taoists, they would, of course, have been outside his authority: an exemption that gave Philip some comfort as he reached for a deep-fried clam.
Sitting next to his hostess, he tried repeatedly to engage her in conversation, only to be thwarted at each attempt when, after the briefest of replies, she turned to speak to one of the maids. Feeling snubbed, he focused on his food until Daio, who had been talking business with Brent, turned to him abruptly. ‘I understand that you are here to bring the country another saint.’
‘Nothing so grand,’ Philip said, blushing. ‘I’m compiling a report for his family, which may lend weight to the official submission. So far I’ve come up with little apart from some local colour.’
‘So must you be going back to England?’ Mikee asked coolly.
‘Yes, soon I expect,’ Philip replied. ‘I’ve spoken to my employer, who wants me to stay until after Easter, when one of Julian’s fellow missionaries, Hendrik van Leyden – a friend since student days – returns from Holland. But before that I’ve a less orthodox assignment. I’m sure you’ve all read about Jejomar Agbuya, the prisoner who claims that Julian came to him in a vision, promising that his crimes would be pardoned if he had himself crucified on Good Friday.’
‘In Manila?’ Faye asked with a shudder.
‘No, Nanay,’ one of her daughters said, ‘at the Kalbaryo in Pampanga.’
‘In my view he’s an utter fraud,’ Philip said. ‘But it’d be irresponsible not to follow it up.’
At the end of the meal, Amel accompanied Philip and Max to the cemetery gates, where Dennis was wai
ting. They drove off, jolting and lurching through the clogged streets before grinding to a halt on Rizal Avenue.
‘Does he know what’s wrong? Has there been an accident?’ Philip asked, as Dennis wound down his window and shouted to the driver of the adjacent car.
‘No, is rally in park. Many crowding people.’
‘Politics,’ Max interjected. ‘It’s the curse of this country.’
‘No,’ Dennis said. ‘Is not politics; is Church. Is Couples for Christ.’
‘I rest my case,’ Max said.
They lapsed into silence, broken only by Dennis’s high-pitched humming, as they crept forward, gathering speed as soon as they passed the park. Halfway down Roxas Boulevard, Dennis turned sharp left, negotiating a warren of narrow side streets until brought to a standstill by a row of traffic cones. ‘Now we will walk,’ he said to Philip, who trusted that Diamond Rent a Car’s insurance contained provision for parking in such desolate spots. They made their way past lean-to shacks, some built of corrugated iron, others of planks and plastic sheeting, with upper floors as flimsy as a house of cards. A cat’s cradle of wires and cables festooned the roofs. Remnants of obsolete posters turned every available wall into a collage. Three scraggy boys in shorts and flip-flops played skittles with empty San Miguel bottles. Two young girls sat on their heels, braiding each other’s hair. An older girl kept watch over a line of washing, scowling at every passer-by as at a potential thief.
Philip’s misgivings, prompted by Max’s refusal to reveal their destination, dwindled when they emerged from the fetid threat of the slum into a large square dominated by a white church with two wedding-cake towers, which made it the perfect setting for the ceremony currently taking place. Huge posters of a bride and groom, framed like the stars of a Bollywood movie, hung over the porch, which was draped in purple and white bunting.
‘Is this my surprise? An authentic Filipino wedding?’
‘Do I look like Patience Strong?’
His anxieties returned, Philip surveyed the forecourt where a small group of guests had gathered. ‘I feel sorry for the women, all dolled up in this sweltering heat. It’s easier for the guys. They just have to wear those Tagalog thingies. Hell! What to do you call the traditional Filipino shirts?’
‘Barong Tagalogs,’ Max said.
‘Is not Filipino; is Spanish,’ Dennis said. ‘They are making it lawful we must wear these because they are frightened of us. They are wanting to see we are not hiding our swords.’
‘Really? I read it was because the pineapple and banana fibres were cool in the heat.’
‘You read this in books; I know this in heart!’
‘Yes, of course. I don’t mean to belittle –’
‘You think we must say thank you to the Spanish?’ Dennis said, widening the scope of his grievances. ‘Thank you! Is so very kind of you for coming to this place and stealing our lives and our money and our names.’
‘Your names?’
‘Just like they are taking away our clothes so we cannot fight them, so they are taking away our names so we cannot know who we are. They are giving us all foreign names, like I am Dennis.’ His anguish made Philip ashamed that he had let himself be influenced by the name’s comic-book associations. ‘Then they are giving us family names from where we live. So I am Santos because my ancestors are living near to graveyard and dead people are supposed to be like saints. But, if you are living near to church, your name must be Iglesias. If you are living near to governor’s palace, your name must be Reyes. If you are living near to gardens, your name must be Flores.’
‘It’s lucky your ancestors didn’t live near to the sewers,’ Max said, ‘or you might have been Cloacas.’
‘You are bad man,’ Dennis said, looking at him with loathing. ‘You are wishing to make all things into joke! But soon you will be laughing with your tears.’ Philip felt a rush of sympathy for Dennis, caught in the chasm between cultures, with nothing to cling to but the faint hope of revenge. Here was someone who sought to whiten his skin, while singing about the oppression of the brown man: who cherished his village faith while compromising it nightly in the capital. Whatever the contradictions of his own life, they paled in comparison to Dennis’s.
‘Oh, don’t be such a drama queen!’ Max said. ‘Let’s go and see some cocks.’
‘What?’ Philip asked, more suspicious than ever of Max’s surprise. Before he had a chance to protest, the air was filled with a raucous crowing. He swung round to face a circular concrete building, like a cross between a small sports stadium and a sixties church. A red flag fluttered on the roof and mawkish music blasted out of tinny loudspeakers. An old man on crutches scuttled crablike towards the gate.
‘This is the surprise?’ he asked Max.
‘The same.’
‘Cocks as in cock fight?’
‘You look disappointed. Why? Did you think I meant “country matters”?’ Max sniggered.
‘Do you plan on going inside?’
‘Of course. We haven’t come all this way to admire the architecture.’
‘What’s the point?’ Philip asked.
‘Is good. Is sabong. Is Filipino national sport,’ Dennis interposed.
‘You see,’ Max said. ‘If we turn back, we’ll be insulting the entire Filipino nation. Besides, if you’re squeamish now, what will you be like on Friday when we go to Pampanga for the crucifixions?’
‘That’s quite different.’
‘Why? Or do you have lower standards for men than cocks?’
‘I shan’t rise to that.’
‘An interesting turn of phrase.’
‘If we’re going, let’s go.’
They walked towards the gate, past street traders hawking fish balls and noodles, peanuts, cigarettes, water and slices of pineapple, from improvised stalls on tricycles. Dennis bought some grilled chicken feet, or Adidas, which Philip found doubly distasteful given their surroundings, and followed them into the arena. They took their seats, breathing in the heavy scent of sweat, tobacco and pork, while the packed crowd shouted and signalled its reactions to the ongoing fight. A cacophony of cheers and catcalls marked its climax. A jubilant man, presumably the owner, leapt into the ring and raised the victorious bird to his lips, kissing its beak, while a contemptuous attendant dragged its defeated rival through the dirt.
‘As a rule, the winning owner gets to eat the loser,’ Max said.
‘Is not good,’ Dennis said. ‘Chicken is too tough. You must cook it for many hours, until no more fire.’
Excitement gripped the arena as, after a garbled announcement, a fresh bout began. Two owners carried their roosters into the ring. One was brown with white chest feathers; the other grey with a black tail. The men strutted around the ring as if they themselves were the contestants, before unsheathing the blades on the birds’ ankles and withdrawing to opposite corners. The referee thrust the two birds together, goading them to peck at one another’s throats and tails, tasting the blood that would incite them further. Feathers flew, as they fell to the ground and lunged at each other in fury. All around them the crowd was similarly inflamed, jumping up and down in its seats, applauding and jeering.
‘I don’t see anyone taking bets.’
‘Over there!’ Max said, pointing to a group of white-shirted men with their arms outstretched. ‘They’re called kristos.’
Taking no chances, Philip sat on his hands, since a quick scrutiny of the kristos suggested that they would look less charitably on any accidental gesture than the gentlemanly auctioneers he knew at home. The roosters, meanwhile, appeared reluctant to give the crowd the blood for which it was baying. As the stupefied brown bird retreated to a tumult of invective, its frenzied owner rushed forward, yelling at it to fight, until he was held back by an attendant. Philip watched in horror as the referee picked up the two exhausted birds, pressing their beaks together, until the grey one, striking out in panic, fatally stabbed its opponent’s chest. The brown bird collapsed, the referee counting it
out like a floored boxer, before the attendant dragged it from the ring, leaving its owner to slink away, a chorus of derision in his ears, as though the lifeless cock were, literally, a slur on his virility.
During the break, women patrolled the stands with trays of refreshments. Philip bought a tub of noodles for Dennis and cans of Sprite for himself and Max. For once the synthetic sweetness was a welcome antidote to the sharp, ammonic tang in the air. The relief was transitory, since further bouts followed in swift and sickening succession. Striving to understand their appeal, he could only suppose that the short, squalid struggle was in some way cathartic for people with equally brief, brutal lives. There was certainly none of the grace and skill on display in the national sport of their former colonial masters. Whatever literary inspiration the country might yield him, it would not result in another Death in the Afternoon.
The start of a new bout put paid to his hopes of making a discreet exit. Two more birds were brought into the ring, the differences more pronounced than ever: one almost wholly white; the other, nearly twice its size, black with red markings on its tail.
‘You must put money, much money, on this white chicken,’ Dennis said, either showing his customary faith in pale colouring or else instinctively identifying with the underdog. ‘This man who brings him is a friend of me. He is telling me this is stolen.’
‘Is that good?’ Philip asked, but Dennis was busy semaphoring his bet, leaving Max to reply.
‘Apparently, it’s lucky. The entire culture’s based on these superstitions.’
The Breath of Night Page 16