The Breath of Night

by Michael Arditti

  ‘No, we took a cab. Why? Do you want him?’ Philip asked, surprised that Ray should permit the two sides of his life to converge.

  ‘I have lent him something which I would like back. Are you sure he is not with you?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I’m sorry; I am not doubting you. It is most inconvenient. Still, it will wait. Now, I must introduce you to my wife. She is eager to meet you again. Please do not move from this spot!’

  ‘Not one inch,’ Philip said, forcing a smile at the prospect of facing Mikee. Ray scurried away. ‘He seems quite cut up about Dennis. Do you think he lent him money?’

  ‘Not likely!’ Max said. ‘He’s as tight as a tranny’s fanny.’

  ‘Thank you for that.’ Philip frowned. ‘Well, Dennis can look after himself. I’m sure he’s ripped off bigger men than Ray and lived to tell the tale.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on it! Don’t be misled by all the swish. You’ve heard of the butterfly that flapped its wings in Brazil and set off a tornado in Texas?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Its name is Ray.’

  Philip viewed his host with newfound apprehension when he returned with Mikee, resplendent in a glittering silver cheongsam with yellow and orange tongues round the hem, as if it were on fire.

  ‘I am sorry to be neglecting you,’ Mikee said, ‘but I have so many important guests.’

  ‘I understand,’ Max said, lifting her right hand and kissing it, leaving a film of grease. ‘It’s the social event of the season.’

  ‘I’ll second that,’ Philip said, uncertain whether to kiss Mikee’s hand or shake it. ‘I’ve never seen such a gargantuan feast. You’ve done us proud.’

  Mikee stared at him coldly. ‘I must assure you that I have done nothing at all. But I thank you on behalf of my chef.’ She smiled at Max and walked off, closely followed by Ray.

  ‘How to win friends and influence people!’ Max said with satisfaction.

  ‘Why? What have I done now?’

  ‘There’s nothing worse than complimenting a hostess on her food. It’s like saying she’s so poor that she had to cook it herself.’

  ‘Dos and Don’ts in the Philippines has a lot to answer for! No matter how hard I try, I’ll never get the hang of things.’

  ‘Don’t worry, your ordeal will soon be over. A week from tomorrow you’ll be on your way home.’

  ‘You’ve booked the flight?’

  ‘Oh yes. Ever so humble.’ Max tugged an invisible forelock.

  ‘Thank you,’ Philip said, feeling strangely light-headed. ‘No doubt it’s another faux pas, but I’m calling a cab.’ He took out his mobile. ‘Are you coming back with me or will you hitch a ride with somebody else?’

  ‘And forgo one moment of your scintillating company? Although I trust you’ll allow the condemned man a final drink.’

  No sooner had Max moved away than Philip was accosted by Amel. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘am I interrupting?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m texting the taxi firm to pick us up.’

  ‘What about your driver?’

  ‘He’s busy at his second job.’

  ‘No, I rang the manager at Mr Universe and he told me he hasn’t turned up yet.’

  ‘You know Dennis? And the club?’ Philip felt the world grow both smaller and more menacing.

  ‘I need to speak to him urgently.’

  ‘About anything special?’

  ‘Business,’ Amel replied in a sinister echo. ‘He’s been doing some small jobs for Brent and me.’

  ‘Really? He never mentioned it. But then he’s not himself right now. His sister died.’

  ‘That was three weeks ago.’

  She was his sister!’

  ‘He has another one, doesn’t he?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So he should take care.’

  ‘Are you threatening him?’ Philip asked, mystified by the change in Amel’s manner since their lunch on Qingming.

  ‘Not at all. Just offering him a word of advice. Which I’d be grateful if you’d pass on. Now please excuse me, I must go back to my guests. And we’ll meet again on Friday, won’t we, Max?’

  Philip turned to find Max behind him, clasping a brimful glass of champagne.

  ‘Don’t remind me!’

  ‘We will?’ Philip asked.

  ‘I hope so. It’s Max’s birthday. We’re throwing him a celebration at the club.’

  ‘Which club?’

  ‘The Mr Universe, of course.’

  ‘Why “of course”?’ Philip asked Max, as Amel walked away. ‘He talks as if he owns the place.’

  ‘He probably does. Tucked away in some portfolio or other.’

  ‘But Mr Universe. A male go-go… what do you call it?’

  ‘Macho dancing.’

  ‘Macho dancing club, that’s right! It’s all so tacky.’

  ‘Believe me, “tacky” is just the tip of the Lim brothers’ iceberg.’

  ‘And they’re giving you a party?’

  ‘So it would appear.’

  ‘Then you’ll get me to the club after all. If it’s not an indelicate question, how old will you be?’

  ‘A great lady once told me –’ Philip gazed instinctively into the house. ‘No, another one! This great lady once told me that a true friend was someone who remembered your birthday but forgot your age.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to put a single candle on your cake. Let’s walk round to the front and wait for the car. I really don’t feel comfortable among all this.’ He stretched out his arms to include both the buffet and the guests.

  ‘Not your idea of a fun evening?’

  ‘Don’t worry, it hasn’t been wasted. I thought I’d understand Julian by meeting the people who were closest to him, but I’ve understood as much – if not more – by coming here.’

  ‘I expect I’m being very obtuse but… what the hell do you mean?’

  ‘What right-minded person faced with all this – the extravagance and the waste, not to mention the cruelty – wouldn’t want to blow it up?’

  ‘You are talking figuratively?’

  ‘Am I? I used to wonder whether Julian had taken an active role in any of the NPA’s campaigns and, if so, how far it would have jeopardised his faith. I feel now that his faith would have been jeopardised if he hadn’t taken action.’

  ‘I doubt that’s the sort of thing that Hugh wants to hear,’ Max said, his voice suddenly sombre.

  ‘What do you mean? He sent me here to find out the truth.’

  ‘No, he sent you here to assist the investigation.’

  ‘And I shall do both. If the miracles are genuine – and all the evidence points that way – then it shows that God has singled Julian out. He won’t be a turn-the-other-cheek saint like St Francis, but an I’ve-come-to-bring-a-sword saint like St Joan.’

  ‘Well, I only hope that God is on hand to plead his cause in Rome, because he’ll get short shrift from the cardinals. And, while He’s at it, perhaps He’ll plead mine with Hugh. If you screw this up, I’m the one he’ll blame. He’ll think that I haven’t opened the right doors, given you the right tips, pointed you in the right direction. Sixty-nine years old, that’s the answer to your question! No, who am I trying to kid? Seventy-one! My work for Hugh – however dull, however demeaning (do you think I enjoy playing nursemaid?) – is all I have left and I warn you, I won’t give it up without a fight.’

  Philip’s phone bleeped.

  ‘The car’s outside. We should go.’

  They walked back across the patio and into the house, where a crowd had gathered around a singer. Although unable to see above their heads, Philip was transfixed by the voice, which swooped up and down the scale like a pubescent boy’s.

  ‘It’s her! Just like the old days. Sh-sh!’ Max said to a speechless Philip. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? They’ve persuaded her to sing.’

  Ten

  7 July 1983

  My dear Mother,

  I write straight
after reading your letter. What on earth was Greg thinking? Let me put your mind at rest: I have NOT joined a gang of Communist assassins – although, to give them their due, the NPA, whom I take to be the assassins in question, are a highly professional revolutionary force. I’m touched by your concern, but please, please, I beg you not to commit such tittle-tattle to paper. I remember warning you about the vulnerability of the mail when I first came out here. The warning is even more urgent now that tensions are running so high.

  That said, what’s so terrible about Communists? Have you ever met one outside the pages of The Times? I have, and I can assure you they’re not all cold-blooded commissars shooting plucky grand duchesses or brainwashed students brandishing little red books. They’re decent, high-minded people who think deeply about the world and set about improving it with a zeal that would put the average priest to shame. And, before you tell me that priests should concern themselves with the next world rather than this one, may I respectfully point out that Our Lord Himself instructed his followers to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, protect the vulnerable and, here’s the clincher, sell everything they had for the benefit of the poor? What’s more, there are striking parallels between Christ’s and Marx’s social teaching. ‘In so far as you did this to one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did it to me’ finds echoes in ‘From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs’. And think of the first apostles who ‘owned everything in common’. That’s where you find the authentic note of the early Church, the true spirit of Christianity, not in papal tiaras and bishops’ thrones.

  I should explain what I mean by ‘tensions’. Obviously, Father’s funeral was neither the time nor the place to discuss parochial problems but, in the twelve years I’ve lived here, I can’t remember a period of so much friction. If you ask whether I think that the haciendos have plotted with the civil and military authorities to launch a concerted attack on people’s rights, my answer would have to be ‘No’. If, however, you ask whether they’ve decided to stand shoulder to shoulder to snuff out any flicker of resistance, my answer would be ‘Yes. Absolutely. Beyond a shadow of a doubt.’

  Events have unfolded with a sinister synchronicity. Every barrio has been affected, but by far the hardest hit has been the Arriola estate. Its particular difficulties stem from the logging concession granted by President Marcos to don Bernardo’s cousin back in the seventies, and the legal challenge mounted by a group of farmers to the supply road, which would have cut across their fields. The interminable case has finally exhausted don Bernardo’s patience. In an effort to put pressure on the farmers, he’s resorted to ever more draconian methods. First, he demanded that his encargado impose heavy penalties on the gleaning and foraging that provide families with a vital source of food. Then he arbitrarily revoked the traditional right of estate workers to plant their crops between his coconut palms. When they carried on regardless, he summoned the local army chief, insisting that he apply the full force of the law. Either from common decency or, as Benito would have it, an inadequate pay off, the officer refused. Quesada, the Constabulary Commander, showed no such scruples, ordering his men to shoot any ‘land invader’ on sight.

  A week later, I stood at the altar in front of eight plain wooden coffins. The church doors were open to include the vast overspill congregation in the square, but I suspect that even those who secured a place inside caught only a fraction of my words above the shrieks and moans. None of the haciendos or their stooges deigned to attend although, to her credit, doña Teresa Romualdez paid her respects, standing meekly at the back, her trademark black taking on new poignancy. I neither know nor care whether the government spy, who drives down from Baguio every Sunday and sits ostentatiously taking notes during my sermons, showed his face, but if he did, he’d have been amply rewarded. Gone were the days when I exhorted the victims to turn the other cheek; now I reminded them of Christ’s claim that ‘I have come to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were blazing already!’. Moreover, I declared that we had no need to wait for Christ to return to establish His kingdom (which would merely be another form of dependency) but had it in our own hands to establish Heaven on earth.

  As I led the cortège out of church, I found myself face to face with Quesada, who slowly, mockingly, doffed his cap, releasing the shoulder-length hair that he wore in defiance of official regulations and to set himself apart from his men. Flashing me a grin like a knuckleduster, he fingered the gun on his belt before raising his hand to his chest, to what at first looked like a pectoral cross, but on inspection proved to be an anting anting in the shape of a scimitar. Whatever its provenance, it failed to impart the necessary protection since that brief glance was the last I saw of him. Two days later he was killed, along with three soldiers in a textbook NPA ambush. While publicly and privately lamenting the loss of life, I couldn’t put my hand on heart and condemn the killers. All my training has disposed me to follow Christ who, even in the turmoil of His arrest, restored the high priest’s servant’s ear. Lately, however, I’ve found alternative inspiration in the Old Testament leaders who took up arms on behalf of their downtrodden people.

  As you can imagine, Quesada’s death left the constabulary hell-bent on revenge. No matter that he’d treated his own men almost as brutally as he had the populace, beating them with his belt, his rifle butt and his bare fists when they failed to carry out his increasingly erratic orders (and this was a man who’d cherished ambitions to be a priest!), the honour of the company was at stake. As they combed the parish for the perpetrators, our only hope, as so often in the past, lay in the bitter rivalry between the various authorities, with the police and the regular army joining forces to prevent the constabulary from indulging in an orgy of reprisals.

  I found myself in a quandary when the Constabulary Regional Commander asked me to celebrate Quesada’s requiem. I’d assumed that his body would be returned to his family on Mindoro, but no one from the island came forward. To add to the confusion, when I asked to meet his widow, he turned out to have three (is there such a word as trigamist?), each of whom had been unaware of the others’ existence. After much soul-searching, I informed the Commander that I would fulfil my obligation to give him a funeral blessing but I was under no such obligation to celebrate his requiem. The officer was outraged, as were the haciendos in whose name Quesada had been acting, along with the Mayor and Police Chief, who had no love for Quesada but a vested interest in maintaining the status quo. They appealed to the Bishop, who summoned me for a meeting. Much to my surprise, he accepted my argument that by burying Quesada in the full solemnity of the Church, we’d be tacitly endorsing his tactics. He refused to yield to the mounting pressure, and the simple service went ahead in the presence of the military top brass, the provincial elite and the three widows, who jockeyed for position beside the coffin. Quesada’s baleful influence lingered to the end when, during the three volley salute on the church steps, a rifle backfired, taking out the gunner’s eye.

  The Bishop was bitterly attacked for backing me, with our enemies even playing the race card but, far from swaying him, their cheap jibes appear to have strengthened his resolve. He asked, in return, that I should lie low for a while and added that if I were to do anything in the future that might compromise him, I should tell him only under the seal of the confessional. I thought that very fair, and have been happy to enjoy a time of reflection and recuperation, my own version of R & R. So here I am in my study, listening to Haydn’s Creation, one of the records you sent me via Isabel all those years ago and which I have at last had a chance to play. Yes, the twentieth century has finally caught up with us, only eighty-three years late, bringing electricity (who knows, in another eighty-three we might have the telephone!). It’s wonderful to be able to play the music of my choice – or rather, your choice, thank you – instead of depending on whatever comes crackling over the airwaves. My one regret is that Consolacion, who in another life would have been a regular concert-goer, refuses eve
ry invitation to join me, preferring to sit deferentially on a hard chair in the hall.

  On which note – and a very melodious one – I shall sign off, but not before sending you every blessing for the move to the Lodge. I remember how reluctant you were to leave it at the end of the war; I pray that you and Cora will find an equally happy home there now.

  Your loving son,

  Julian

  The Quiapo market spread out in all directions, blurring the distinction between street and mall, arcade and square. Well-stocked stalls of exotic fruit and vegetables stood beside meagre crates of carrots, leeks and turnips, which seemed to have been scratched out of dusty backyards. Fresh fish, their raw eyes gleaming accusingly from a heap of tarnished scales, lay next to strips of dried squid, redolent of rodents. Dusters, with parrotlike plumage, were jumbled with bright pink plastic bowls and coconut fibre doormats. Old men roamed through the crowd peddling cigarettes, lighters, batteries and soap, and boys with more spirit than acumen proffered matchboxes containing fighting spiders, several of which appeared to have suffocated in confinement. While other traders haggled over prices, a gnarled fortune-teller sat impassively beneath a scrawled sign setting out her services, on which there was a fifty per cent discount for senior citizens, whose futures were presumably easier to predict.

  Elbowing his way through the shoppers, Philip emerged in front of the Quiapo church. A young woman, cradling a baby low in her arms, offered him a garland of wilted sampaguitas, which he politely refused, before heading for the row of herbalists who sat, as Maribel had described, beside the railings. She had been up all night with severe menstrual cramps and, although he had begged her to see a doctor, she insisted that the most effective remedy was an infusion of makabuhay leaves. Despite his scepticism, he had come to buy them, partly because he could not bear to see her in such discomfort, but also out of guilt: guilt that their last full day together had been blighted by a condition which, in some indefinable way, seemed to be related to his pleasure; guilt that the very pains she was suffering relieved his fears about the split condom; guilt, above all, that he was already thinking about her in the past.