Hugh introduced me to one of his associates, Max, an Englishman of about my age, a strange mixture of scruffiness and sophistication, with a widow’s peak and a goatee, wearing a heavily stained linen suit and doused in a sugary scent that put me in mind of Granny Courtenay’s parma violets. He’s fanatical about ballet, having come here in some unspecified capacity with Margot Fonteyn and stayed on at the behest of Imelda Marcos to run a home-grown company. He won’t hear a word against his patron, whom he reveres for ‘being herself’ – whatever that means! His conversation veers between the vapid and the offensive. He appeared to think that I’d respect the candour with which he attacked the Church (being himself?). Mindful that I was Hugh’s guest, I challenged him only once, when he referred to the Holy Father in the feminine. I’m astonished that Hugh, who strikes me as a man’s man to the core, can stomach him. Isabel found him amusing, but then she studied art.
Max evidently opens doors for Hugh, the grandest of which are those to the Malacañang Palace. The Marcoses were holding a reception during our stay. Having already secured invitations for Hugh and Isabel, Max offered to obtain one for me. I can’t think why, unless he wanted to impress me with his influence. My first instinct was to refuse, but then I remembered your story of being taken to tea with Hitler in Munich in the thirties, Mother. As a boy, I used to rewrite history, devising a scenario in which you pulled out a knife and stabbed him, preventing war from breaking out, Father being sent to Singapore and – last, but not I fear, least – sweets being rationed. It was a thrilling fantasy and one which reverberated thirty-odd years later, as I put on a cassock (I’d decided to wear full canonicals) and wondered how easy it would be to conceal a knife.
The Hitler analogy is not as far-fetched as it sounds, since the Marcoses are known, at least in BCC circles, as the Molochs of the Malacañang. No one would deny, however, that they’re able to put on a show. We entered the palace grounds through vast castiron gates embellished with imperial eagles (which, to be fair, date from the American governorship). Footmen, sweat streaming from their powdered wigs and seeping through their white cotton gloves, flanked the path leading to a low white building. Max, anxious that I should esteem the honour, whispered that this was one of the very first receptions since Imelda had had the palace remodelled. We entered the vestibule and were conducted into a small wood-panelled room, where we waited along with what seemed like half the diplomatic corps and the cream of Manila society. A major domo escorted us up a wide staircase lined with portraits of great European explorers, more suited to the former colonial administration than to the current effusion of national pride. From there we entered the main hall.
Despite the glittering chandeliers, the low ceiling and the capiz windowpanes gave the room a sombre feel. My eyes were drawn to two gilded thrones, which looked as though they were on loan from Versailles. ‘Are they part of the remodelling?’ I asked Max. ‘Don’t worry, Father,’ he said unctuously, ‘they’re purely symbolic.’ While nervous flunkeys served overfull glasses of champagne, I wandered through the room, finding the artworks more appealing than the guests. A flurry of activity heralded the arrival of our hosts, who made their way to the dais where the President welcomed us, while his wife gazed at him as though posing for a bas-relief on his tomb. Even as he was speaking, all eyes were fixed on her. That was hardly surprising, given the shimmering green and blue of her dress, which turned out to be made of actual peacock feathers. After the official toasts to the guest of honour, a Hong Kong banker who, according to the well-informed Max, is financing many of the Marcoses’ projects, the President left. Imelda then circulated among her guests with what, even I am compelled to admit, was effortless charm. As you know, I’m not a natural society portraitist and I’m sure that Isabel will already have painted you a vivid picture, but for what it’s worth here’s mine.
Imelda appeared genuinely pleased to see Max, who kissed her on both cheeks, which had the sheen of fine china. He introduced each of us in turn and she took my hand so delicately that it felt as if she were brushing my fingers with a feather. I’m far too low down the clerical hierarchy to interest her, but she gave me a smile of what I can only describe as vivacious blankness. If that makes no sense, think of a sea with a rippling surface above leagues of eerie calm. She emits such a powerful aura that although she can have stayed with us for no more than ninety seconds, she left us all revitalised. After she’d moved on, the party seemed devoid of purpose, so I slipped away. The next morning I said goodbye to Isabel and Hugh, who were leaving for Boracay, and returned to San Isidro. I won’t dwell on the horrors that greeted me. I suspect that you’ve had as many rapes, tortures and murders in these letters as you can bear. But just because I don’t mention them, don’t imagine that they’ve come to an end. Like everyone else here, I lead a double life. Half the time I’m going about my day-to-day activities; the other half ferrying the injured to hospitals and the dead to their graves.
Please don’t be alarmed, but since returning from Manila I’ve suffered something of a crisis of confidence – or is it identity? More than ever before, I’ve been forced to question the nature of my role. On the one hand the brutal repression while I was away shows that, if nothing else, my presence offers some protection against the excesses of the regime. On the other it’s become increasingly clear – at least to me – that the words I speak and the Church I represent erect a barrier between the people and God. By telling them that they are the living embodiment of His love when they endure such unceasing oppression I’m denying the truth – the validity – of that love. For too long the Church has comforted – some would say anaesthetised – the poor with the claim that they’ll receive their reward in Heaven. But Christ also said that the kingdom of Heaven was at hand. Was He referring to an imminent apocalypse? In which case how come we’re still here 2,000 years later? Or did He mean that by following Him we could establish His kingdom on earth? I know which I choose. Even the mass, the fulcrum of our faith, is as much a symbol of His liberating us from tyranny as of His redeeming us from sin. After all, He instituted it at a Passover supper, the meal that celebrated the deliverance of the Jews from bondage in Egypt.
In a bleak world, my one hope lies in the BCCs. Whether setting up credit unions to make loans to destitute farmers or offering food and shelter to the dispossessed, they’re at the forefront of the struggle to empower the community. By teaching people that they have a right to a reasonable standard of living, by encouraging them to band together to resist the soldiers and landlords who intimidate them, they are giving them back their self-respect. By putting victims in touch with lawyers who plead their cases in the courts they show them that justice isn’t the preserve of the rich and powerful. Repression breeds violence breeds repression. The BCCs are working tirelessly to break that cycle. By channelling our faith into the fight for justice, I’m convinced that we’re a step closer to building the kingdom of Heaven on earth.
Not everyone who shares our objectives shares our beliefs. There are many who’ve turned away from Christ along with the Church. Their weapons aren’t words but M-16 rifles. I may not – I cannot – endorse their tactics, but I have to respect their integrity and commitment. For too long I fell for all the official disinformation about the NPA. They may be godless (although I have my doubts about that), but they’re certainly not shameless or savage. Moreover, I have conclusive proof that the army commits crimes, which it blames on the NPA as justification for increasing its own powers. I know of soldiers shooting farmers who’ve refused to pay them protection money, claiming that, if they don’t need protection from them, they must be getting it from the rebels. I’ve lodged so many complaints with the local Constabulary Commander that he no longer even goes through the motions of filing reports.
As a foreigner and one whose faith is his lifeblood, it’s easy for me to urge restraint. But you’d have to have the patience of Job – or St Job, as Consolacion insists on calling him – to wait for the don Enricos and don Floran
tes of this world, let alone the Marcoses, to change their ways. Ever since I saw how unsparingly Alma, Rommel and their friends threw themselves into the rebuilding work here, I’ve kept in indirect contact with them, passing on intelligence that might be useful. It’s remarkable how much a priest can pick up. Whether it’s because the police chiefs, army commanders and haciendos believe that priests, like God, must be on their side or else because, despite the lip service they pay to the Church, they regard its clergy as of little consequence, they discuss raids and manoeuvres openly in front of me. I know of at least one occasion on which my information saved an NPA unit from ambush. Yet the military think me so incompetent that even when they interrogated me they failed to make the link.
I must end now since Consolacion has called me twice already for dinner and antagonising her is a far more daunting prospect than antagonising the haciendos (I’m only half-joking). Isabel and Hugh are driving up tomorrow to say their goodbyes before they return to London. Knowing that there’s no danger of this letter being intercepted has permitted me to write far more freely than would otherwise have been the case. After all, if Hugh can smuggle out crates of ancient treasures without alerting the authorities, Isabel should be able to take a few sheets of paper. I shall be miserable to see her go. Even though she’s spent much of her time in Borocay and the Visayas, just to know that she was a few hundred miles away has made me feel so much closer to home. I realise that the chances of your coming out here are growing ever slimmer. Even if you both feel strong enough, my disputes with the haciendos make it harder for me to put you up in comfort. There again, you may see me sooner than you think. Isabel is convinced that Hugh is about to propose and I’ve promised her that I’ll come back to marry them.
Meanwhile, I hope that you’ll remember the Philippines in your prayers, Mother, and that you, Father, will use any influence you have with Greg and the Foreign Office to put pressure on Marcos to respect human rights. However bad things may be here, I’m far from desperate. The Holy Spirit isn’t static; it evolves and deepens over time.
Your loving son,
Julian
Dennis threw up his hands at the slow-moving traffic, wafting a raw, animal scent towards the passenger seat. Philip, reckoning that for once Max’s aura of mildew and talcum powder might have been preferable, tried to account for the lapse in one who was usually so fastidious.
‘How reliable is the water supply in Manila?’ he asked casually.
‘Rains come in May,’ Dennis replied. ‘Till then is dry.’
‘No, not the rains. The mains supply to bathrooms and showers. Is it ever cut off like the electricity in San Trinidad?’
‘That is bad town. Small people,’ Dennis said, frowning at the memory of his humiliation. ‘Manila is great modern city.’ He hooted angrily at a ragged cigarette seller weaving between cars.
‘I suspect that what young Philip is asking, in his usual mealy-mouthed way, is why – not to put too fine a point on it – you reek,’ piped a voice from the back.
‘Is not Dennis who reeks, is traffic! How can I move more fast? Look!’ He waved expansively, spreading the stench.
‘No, reek! Pong a little. Not your usual fragrant self.’
‘I am dancing all through night. Is holiday. Many baklas in club.’
‘Did you have no time to shower?’ Philip asked, now more concerned about Dennis’s competence than his smell.
‘No shower on Good Friday. Is sin.’
Philip, amazed to find evidence in present-day Manila of a folk belief Julian had encountered in San Isidro thirty years before, shrugged off his qualms and turned his attention to the traffic. On current progress they would arrive in Pampanga too late for the crucifixions. For once the delay was due not to Dennis’s timekeeping but to the hordes of people heading north for the Easter break. Refusing to panic, Philip gazed across the empty pavements at shop signs, which might have been devised to divert the flustered foreigner. First came a grocer selling Fresh Frozen Chicken, then a carpenter making Modern and Antique Furniture and finally a large billboard advertising secretarial vacancies for which Experience is needed but not required.
A small boy stepped up to the car and tapped on the windscreen, holding his hand out for change. As Philip searched in his pocket, Dennis, with eyes more bloodshot and a manner more febrile than usual, opened the glove compartment, pulled out a gun and aimed it at the boy, who sprang back in terror, almost falling beneath the wheels of a passing jeepney.
‘Are you mad?’ Philip asked, his heart leaping. ‘Put it down!’
‘Is good. Is gone.’
‘Where the hell did you get it?’ Philip swivelled round to face Max. ‘Did you know that he had a gun?’
‘Boys and their toys,’ Max replied nonchalantly.
‘Is my job,’ Dennis said. ‘I am bodyguard so I must be ready to kill for you.’ He curled his lip and Philip pictured him repeating the phrase without the preposition.
‘We’re talking about a kid of five or six!’
‘So? He grows.’
‘Yes, but not in the few weeks I’ll be in the Philippines.’
‘Manila is most dangerous city. I know some most dangerous people.’
‘Is that meant to be reassuring?’
‘Boys, boys,’ Max interposed, ‘there’s no need to bicker. And Dennis, if you must wave your weapon about, put away the symbol and stick to the real thing.’
‘I am never understanding English,’ Dennis said. ‘You are saying “Do this, Dennis,” and then “but you must never let other persons see”. I put gun in box, like you ask.’ He replaced it in the glove compartment. ‘But I leave lid open,’ he added, truculent as ever.
‘I think somebody’s overdone the shabu,’ Max said.
‘What’s that?’
‘A drug the bar boys take to keep themselves going.’
‘Like Viagra?’
‘Not that sort of going!’ Max said, laughing.
‘Is you who are needing Viagra,’ Dennis interjected, turning so sharply to face Max that Philip was grateful for the gridlock.
Dennis yawned and pulled into the kerb, signalling to a teenage girl who was cooking Adidas on a rickety stove. She kicked a younger girl dozing at her side, who stood up without complaint, trotted to the window and handed him a bag. Philip stifled the urge to retch as the cloying, greasy smell pervaded the car. ‘Feeling better now?’ he asked.
Dennis looked at him with contempt, chewed on a claw and wiped his hands on his shorts. He took out his mobile and, with an eloquent stare at the stalled traffic, began to text. His repeated chuckles at his own wit strained Philip’s patience. ‘You’re sure we’ll be in Pampanga by eleven?’ he asked, struggling to remain calm.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s “yes, we will” or “yes, I’ll do my best”? Because it’s vital that we catch the whole ceremony.’
‘Yes,’ Dennis replied.
Philip leant back, trying to be fatalistic about Filipino fatalism. An unpunctuated sign reading Slow Men at Work was almost too good to be true and he laughed out loud, drawing a scowl from Dennis, who seemed to be jealous of anyone else’s high spirits.
‘Whatever it is that you two are on, would you pass a bit of it back here?’ Max asked.
‘Suppressed hysteria,’ Philip said.
‘Oh, I’ve been on that for years.’
Philip felt that any amount of delay would have been bearable had Maribel come with them. He would have ceded the passenger seat to Max and snuggled up to her in the back, gently tracing the creases on her palm. The mere thought sent tingles through his flesh. It was outrageous that an American bank, of all places, should keep its call centre open on Good Friday. What was more important: that its customers had access to their accounts 24/7 or that its staff had the right to practise their faith? To make matters worse, she had sent her excuses via Dennis, underlining a relationship that he was trying to ignore.
To Philip’s surprise, Dennis’s forecast p
roved to be accurate and they arrived in the centre of Pampanga shortly after eleven. While somewhat unnerved to find himself stuck behind a rickshaw with a large wooden cross strapped to its seat, Philip was grateful that for once, Dennis’s tenuous sense of direction was not put to the test. Every car, bus and jeepney was heading towards the Kalbaryo, and they followed the flow. ‘We have come,’ Dennis proudly announced, as they drove beneath a banner welcoming them to San Pedro Cutud. ‘Now we find space.’ After negotiating a fee – part parking ticket, part protection money – with a trio of teenage boys who were determined to make the most of their annual bonanza, they joined the crowd streaming down the street. Sensation-seeking tourists and camera crews from across the globe mingled with smiling locals, some in T-shirts, jeans and flip-flops, and others in homespun versions of Roman uniforms and Jewish robes. Tagalog texts echoed over loudspeakers, the lilting voices muffled and occasionally drowned by the tooting of tricycles and the strident cries of street vendors. Only the ubiquitous cocks supplied an authentic – if overemphatic – biblical note.
A line of ten or twelve barefoot flagellants shuffled past, their faces swathed like terrorists, their trousers caked with blood from their butchered backs. Their bamboo scourges rent the air, as they thrashed themselves in rhythm. Two men walked between them, pressing small paddles studded with glass into their flesh.
‘That’s barbaric!’ Philip said.
‘It’s to keep their wounds open,’ Max said. ‘In this heat, the blood congeals fast.’
‘Isn’t that a good thing?’
‘Not if you’re an exhibitionist. See!’ Max indicated two of the flagellants who were offering their scourges to passers-by. Most recoiled, hurrying on to the more camera-worthy cruelty at the end of the road, but a few took up the challenge, with one middle-aged Westerner lashing out like a prep-school master on the eve of a caning ban. His wife screamed when her yellow sundress was splattered with blood.
The Breath of Night Page 18