The Breath of Night

by Michael Arditti

  ‘She hasn’t changed. Even as a girl she was always bubbling with enthusiasm for her latest cause.’

  ‘But at least then they had some value: animal welfare and the like.’

  ‘She discussed them with you?’

  ‘I read your letters. I’m sorry; I thought you were dead.’

  ‘An easy mistake.’

  ‘I would never have presumed if I’d known the truth.’

  ‘Do you mind if we walk a little? My back tends to seize up if I stand still for too long.’

  ‘Not at all. Just a second.’ Philip rubbed his arms and legs with the crushed leaves that Irene had given him. ‘Once bitten…’

  ‘Akapulko leaves. I’m impressed. You’re becoming a true man of the forest.’

  ‘The mosquitoes don’t think so. They make a beeline for me – if that’s not a contradiction in terms.’

  ‘Me too! My friends used to claim it was poetic justice. Nature’s revenge on Caucasians. Ready?’

  ‘Sure. Is there anywhere special you want to go?’

  ‘Everywhere is special up here. Shall we say “wherever the spirit moves us”?’

  Philip watched anxiously as Julian strode off through a clump of ferns and down a path lined with bracken, fungus and pine needles. ‘Are you sure you can manage? It’s fairly rough underfoot.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve been down far rougher paths than this. And not just figuratively.’

  Philip felt impelled to keep pace with the older man, while maintaining a steady flow of conversation. ‘Did you have any idea that the Bishop of Baguio had launched an investigation into your’ – He struggled to articulate the phrase ‘– “heroic virtue”?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Julian replied. ‘I follow the news on the radio and in the papers far more assiduously than I ever did in San Isidro.’

  ‘So how do you feel about the prospect of becoming a saint?’

  ‘I can honestly say it has no meaning for me at all. I may not be dead, but the priest they’re investigating is.’

  ‘It may not mean anything to you, but it means a great deal to the people who believe in you: who’ve based their faith on an illusion.’

  ‘Mightn’t an illusion lead them towards a deeper truth? I remember when I was at the seminary in Holland and, without (it should be said) official sanction, we each chose a handful of the ten thousand or so saints and tried to assess their authenticity. One of mine was St Margaret, who escaped from the belly of a dragon by making the sign of the cross. Yet she was a great favourite in San Isidro. Must we dispatch her into some kind of spiritual lumber room, or can we acknowledge that as a focus of devotion she can be a force for good?’

  ‘You amaze me! You sound exactly like the Vicar General of Baguio.’

  ‘I don’t know him, I’m afraid. He’s new since my day.’

  ‘He professes a kind of Christian utilitarianism: the greatest good is what promotes the greatest belief in the greatest number.’

  ‘I think you’d find that where we part company is in the application of that belief.’

  ‘True! I haven’t read any letters he wrote thirty or forty years ago – and I may be doing him an injustice – but I doubt that there’d be page after page about the need to live according to the gospel.’

  ‘I’m relieved; I was afraid there’d be interminable accounts of domestic trivia.’

  ‘You’re missing the point! For the past twenty years – more – you’ve been living a lie.’

  ‘Have I?’ Julian came to a halt on a narrow ridge overlooking a vast coniferous slope, dotted with waterlogged gullies. ‘Don’t forget that Father Julian Tremayne isn’t living at all. I went to immense efforts – there’s “heroic”, if you like – to kill him off. I make no claims of any sort on his behalf. But, if you’re speaking of the claims that others make for him, remember that there were those who credited him with miraculous powers during his lifetime.’

  ‘What about you?’ Philip asked, perturbed by Julian’s switch to the third person.

  ‘As a priest, I always believed that I was an instrument of the Divine Will, irrespective of my own merits. Perhaps God will choose to work through me again? Perhaps the Blessed – even Saint – Julian will keep alive the memory of Father Julian and his lifelong quest for justice which will in turn inspire others to take up the cause?’

  ‘That may already have started. There’s an Ibaloi tribesman who swears that he woke one night to see you standing over him, holding up two rifles in the shape of a cross.’ Julian burst out laughing. ‘Why’s that funny?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Did he say where he saw me?’

  ‘Not that I recall. I’ve only read the official report.’

  ‘If you check the dates, I think you’ll find it was the night of a raid on the Lamtang gold mine. As we were driving away, we passed a drunk sprawled in the middle of the road. I jumped out of the truck to move him. He must have seen and recognised me in the glare of the headlights. Now that truly is a miracle!’

  ‘Have you taken part in a lot of raids?’ Philip asked tentatively.

  ‘I’ve obeyed whatever orders I’ve been given. That’s something that has never changed. When I was ordained, I was taught that the essence of priesthood is to offer up one’s life unconditionally. The same holds true for a revolutionary.’

  ‘The commitment may be the same, but everything else – doctrine, practice, let alone the end result – couldn’t be more different.’

  ‘Not at all. It took me many years, but I finally came to realise that the gun is as much an instrument of salvation as the chalice.’

  Philip wondered whether spending so long undercover had affected Julian’s brain. ‘So are you saying that you became a revolutionary because you lost your faith?’

  ‘No, I’ve never lost my faith – at least not in the way you imply. But I’ve lost my faith in the power of faith. I no longer believe that all I have to do is to ask and God will answer, even if it’s only to tell me that I’m not worthy of His help. I believe that He has already given us all the answers: in Christ, of course, but also in Moses.’

  ‘You mean in the Ten Commandments?’

  ‘No, in the Exodus. The hero who set his people free.’

  ‘But what if people don’t want to be free? What if bitter experience has left them wary of change? Better the devil you know and all that!’

  ‘Didn’t the Jews turn against Moses? Remember how they attacked him: “Was it for lack of graves in Egypt that you had to lead us out to die in the desert?” The paradox is that like all great revolutionaries (and I choose my words with care), Moses had to impose his own will on the people in order that they could express theirs.’

  ‘And you’re suggesting that the same applies to you?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ Julian sounded offended. ‘I’m saying the same applies to the movement of which I’m a part.’

  ‘A movement which, unless I’ve got it wrong, is implacably secular. In the four months I’ve been held captive, I’ve not once heard God mentioned, except in a curse.’

  ‘I’d be surprised if you had. I’m here not as a priest but as a fighter. My comrades don’t see my presence as legitimising theirs. If anything, they feel it’s the other way round. But my priesthood – my former priesthood – informs everything I do.’

  ‘Including murder?’

  ‘In certain circumstances.’ Julian paused. ‘I understand – and respect – your objections to bloodshed, but as a Christian I’ve always believed in the “just war”. I was born during one and I’ve no doubt that I will die during another, the only difference being that the first took place on a world stage and the second is locked within national borders. Our enemies can smear us with terms such as “terrorists”, but the truth is that we’re fighters for justice and freedom: in other words, soldiers for Christ.’

  ‘I feel as if the rug has been pulled out from under me. I came here suspecting that you’d been the victim of a murder plot and instead find that you’re
the one brandishing the gun.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, I haven’t fired a shot in years. I’m going blind, which makes me a liability.’

  Philip was suddenly aware of Julian’s proximity to the edge of the ridge. In quick succession he imagined the harrowing scream as he stumbled and fell, the guilty verdict of the kangaroo court and the volley of shots as he himself was condemned to summary execution. ‘Don’t you think you should stand a bit further back?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t worry. I can make out shapes, just not details.’

  ‘So long as you’re sure,’ Philip said doubtfully. ‘I don’t want to open old wounds, but I have to ask about Quesada. Were you in any way involved in his death?’

  ‘No. I’ve no reason to lie to you. I’ve made it clear that I have no qualms – although I may have regrets – about taking all necessary steps to advance the revolution. But while I supported the NPA’s aims and gave them whatever help and information I could, I didn’t take part in any of their actions until I joined them in 1989.’

  ‘Can you remind me of the chronology? You came back to the Philippines in the autumn of 1988; you were posted to a new parish in Quezon province; then, six months later, you faked your own death and defected to the NPA?’

  ‘I prefer “enlisted”.’

  ‘But why? I don’t mean why enlist, but why then? Marcos had been deposed. Shouldn’t you have given the new government a chance?’

  ‘I did. They’d been in power for three years.’

  ‘Three years, really! I don’t wish to sound facetious, but really!’

  ‘It’s easy to mock, but we’d waited so long. I returned from England to find that not a single soldier had been brought to trial for his actions under Martial Law. Aquino governed in the interests of her own class – at times even her own family! When 10,000 farmers marched down Mendiola Street, demanding that she implement her promised land reforms, she sent in the army to disperse them. Thirteen were killed and hundreds were injured. Her predecessor would have been proud.’

  ‘So you joined the NPA out of disillusion?’

  ‘No, not at all. Is that what it sounds like? It’s my fault for trying to simplify. The truth is that there was no single reason. On one level I was hitting fifty and taking stock of my life. On another I’d spent two years in England, which had convinced me – if I’d needed any convincing – that it was no longer my home. My brother’s party was in power and avarice was in the ascendant. My one thought was to come back and play a part in the new Philippines. I’d hoped to return to San Isidro, but after representations from the haciendos the Bishop sent me instead to Sariaya, an urban parish in Quezon, where I found it hard to settle. So I came up here on retreat, to pray and to meditate, but also to visit Rommel Clemente, the son of… well, of course, you know. Although it was a military camp, I felt utterly at peace with him and his friends. Even their arguments seemed more reasonable and sincere than the ones I was used to in the Church. They were ready to fight – and die – for their beliefs (no, that’s too abstract!): for the people, the very people whom Christ taught us to put first, but whom the Church, with its gelded gospel and bloodless chalice, had so often failed. Rommel asked me – not for the first time – why I didn’t throw in my lot with them.’

  ‘But you were a priest!’

  ‘I wouldn’t have been the only one. You’d be amazed at how many of my fellow clerics were involved in the struggle: in the CNL, in the BCCs, in the Chi Rho, in the Kabataang Makabayan. The difference was that I was a public figure. So although I was tempted by his offer, I felt bound to refuse, not on my own account but for the many thousands of people who’d given me their love and support, especially during my year in prison. If I’d abandoned the Church and proclaimed my faith in the revolution, they’d have felt betrayed. They wouldn’t have seen the logic, only the scandal. They’d no doubt have felt, like you, that I was guilty of Quesada’s murder, and added deceit and hypocrisy to my list of crimes. Then, by an extraordinary stroke of luck, on the day I was due to return to the parish, news came from a nearby camp that an American hostage had been shot trying to escape.’

  ‘That’s what you call luck?’ Philip asked, feeling vulnerable.

  ‘Very well then, providence.’

  ‘No! I was pointing out that a man had died.’

  ‘He was a former marine turned mercenary, attached to one of the most ruthless right-wing death squads in the Philippines. Trust me, he was a legitimate target. And in a further stroke of luck – or what you will – he was exactly my height and build. I can’t remember who it was that first suggested I take on… what? Not his identity, not even his body, but rather his bones. But as soon as the scheme was mooted, I knew that it solved everything. We hid the corpse in the forest, where it was stripped clean by an army of carrion beetles and flesh flies. Then we put my ring on its finger, hung my crucifix round its neck and left the skeleton in a ditch to be discovered.’

  ‘Didn’t the authorities think to do a DNA test or to check dental records?’

  ‘We’re talking 1989. DNA tests were in their infancy, even in the West. The regional police chief had no wish to waste valuable resources on a case which, to his mind, was closed.’

  ‘But what about the mysterious light and the heavenly music, so vividly described by the foresters and the police? Not to mention the odour of sanctity? Or are we to we conclude that it emanated from the mercenary?’

  ‘That’s always a chance, but I don’t suppose that I – that is, the mercenary – was the only decomposing matter in the vicinity. It’s quite possible that the build-up of methane produced will-o’-the-wisp. And that a nearby acacia or sampaguita bush gave off the fragrance. The music is more puzzling, but our Filipino policemen have always had a weakness for a good story, especially one they dream up themselves.’

  ‘So that was all it took for you to vanish?’

  ‘Yes. For the first time in my life, I was truly free.’

  ‘But invisible.’

  ‘And invisible!’

  ‘What about your family? Didn’t you think about the effect on them?’ Philip asked, picturing his own family waiting desperately for news.

  ‘You said you’d read my letters; so you must realise that we weren’t that close.’

  ‘Was there no one you were sorry to leave?’

  ‘Oh yes, my former parishioners. I’d grown very attached to them over the years. I’ve had the occasional piece of news via Rommel, but it’s no longer safe for him to contact his mother.’

  ‘I saw Felicitas when I was in San Isidro. If I’d known, I could have passed on a message.’ Philip laughed. ‘I saw several of your other old friends. As well as your housekeeper.’

  ‘Consolacion?’ Julian asked eagerly. ‘Is she still alive? I’ve asked Rommel time and again but he can never tell me anything. Is she really alive?’

  ‘Well, I know that such distinctions are blurred around here –’

  ‘Touché!’ Julian said with a smile.

  ‘But in March she was in fine fettle.’

  ‘I always said she’d live to be a hundred. She can’t be far off it now. How wonderful! Did she mention me at all?’

  ‘Lots,’ Philip said, reluctant to add to the toll of shattered illusions. ‘That was the point of my meeting her. She told me that the years she’d spent with you were the happiest of her life.’

  ‘Really?’ Julian asked, his eyes welling with tears.

  ‘Scout’s honour. How about Benito Bertubin? Didn’t you ever want to get back in touch with him? Or maybe you have and he was being discreet?’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen him in twenty-five years. I expect you’ve spoken to him too. How is he? The same as ever?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t know him twenty-five years ago.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘He’s doing remarkable work for the families who live on the Payatas rubbish dump.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. He’s a remarkable man. But it’s everyth
ing we swore we’d never do. It’s dusting the rubble after an earthquake; it’s wiping the blood off the walls after a raid.’

  ‘And it’s giving the dispossessed back their dignity,’ Philip said, feeling as strong an urge to hurt Julian for belittling Benito as he had done to spare him the truth about Consolacion. ‘Every day he sits at his desk and does battle with the bureaucrats. You may denounce it as collusion with a corrupt and oppressive system, but it’s a collusion that brings clean water and flush toilets and schools and birthing clinics. Isn’t that more valuable: isn’t that more Christian: isn’t that more truly revolutionary than hiding out in the mountains with a tiny group of fanatics blowing up saw mills and buses and mobile phone masts, along with the occasional person?’

  ‘Revolutions are made by tiny groups of fanatics, as you call them. Look at Christ! He changed the world with just twelve disciples.’

  ‘Yes, but as far as I recall, he didn’t stockpile weapons illegally obtained from the occupying Roman army, or pay for them with money extorted from Galilean farmers.’

  ‘Meaning what? That I’m as big a fraud now as I was as a priest? That I’m a fool for ever supposing I could do any good?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Philip said, disturbed by Julian’s anguish. ‘Besides, unlike the rest of us, you’ll have a chance to do good long after your death.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Both. Once the Positio is approved and they make you a saint.’

  ‘In which case I’ll be a still bigger fraud. When the faithful gather at my tomb, the bones they’re venerating won’t even be mine.’

  ‘Isn’t that the case for half the saints in Christendom?’

  ‘Then at least I’ll be in good company,’ Julian replied with the hint of a smile. ‘We’d better go back. The others will be wondering what’s happened to us. They might suspect me of spiriting you away.’ Philip felt a fleeting hope that Julian would free him from the trap into which he had, however unwittingly, drawn him, but he knew that it was vain. As Julian himself had explained, the one thing that linked the priest and the revolutionary was obedience.