Early one afternoon Sharon was called to the phone, returning with a puzzled expression to where she and Ysabella were planning a permanent Intramuros exhibit for the museum.
‘I’m afraid I’ve got to go out for an hour. It seems I have to see a cop.’
‘Trouble?’
‘I sure hope not. He’s someone I met here about three years ago. I needed reminding but I do vaguely remember him. We had a scandal here: stuff was disappearing a bit too fast and a VIP visitor noticed. They sent some cops over and this guy was one of them. This isn’t about that, though. He says he’s got a pot he wants to show me.’
‘Why can’t he come here, then?’
‘I asked him that. Says he doesn’t want to make it too official.’
‘Flimsy. Where are you meeting him?’
‘Paco Park.’
‘Why don’t I come too?’
‘I didn’t like to ask,’ Sharon admitted. ‘But thanks. It’d be a lot less risky. In this city you can never tell, can you? A voice on the phone turns out to be a dingaling, a rapist or a perfectly normal cop black-marketing antiques.’
Ysabella had never visited Paco Park before and was not expecting it to be less a park than a cemetery. It was a perfect circle of high Spanish stone walls built thick enough to accommodate the long niches for coffins, each sealed with a square plaque. Together the inscriptions commemorated countless colonials who had mostly fallen victim to the various plagues and epidemics which had periodically ravaged Manila in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth centuries. At one point on the circle a small church grew out of the wall. Old trees spread their shade over stone benches on which students sat in twos and threes, doing each other’s homework and flirting decorously.
‘That’s him,’ Sharon said at once, spotting a middleaged man with greying hair sitting by himself. ‘Yes, I do remember him.’
‘Looks a tough customer to me.’
‘I remember that look. He’s okay, for a cop. Or he was then. Anything might have happened to him in three years.’
‘It must be a very small pot,’ Ysabella observed as they approached, for the figure was sitting empty-handed with no bag in sight. ‘Be careful.’
The man stood up. ‘Miss Polick?’ he said, offering his hand to Sharon. ‘I remember you exactly. You haven’t changed at all.’
‘Neither have you, er, Lieutenant.’
‘Inspector. That’s changed, anyway. Inspector Dingca.’ Ysabella took the offered hand which felt like a piece of board. A good face, she thought; an impossible face, really, being both tough and sorrowful, depending on how one read it. ‘I apologise for this, Miss Polick,’ he said. ‘It looks shady, I know, not coming to the museum. But I’ve promised someone I’d be as discreet as possible and you know how it is. You turn up in one office and tell your tale, then they say they’re not really the right people to be talking to and off you go and do it all over again further down the corridor. By the time you’ve finished everyone in the building knows.’
Sharon had to concede this and was reassured. ‘So what’s the story?’
The policeman sat down again and from his pocket pulled a small cotton bundle. Beneath the lightweight windbreaker, Ysabella noticed with a thrill, the butt of a gun showed, tucked into the waistband of his trousers. It seemed an authentic touch. The man undid the bundle which was a knotted handkerchief containing shards of pottery and a few pencil-thin fragments of bone. ‘These,’ he said. ‘They’ve just been dug up. Go on,’ he added as Sharon’s hand went out to pick up a shard.
‘Not in the city?’
‘Right here in Manila. About three miles away, I’d guess. Not more. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed. I should’ve explained the pot wasn’t in one piece.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Her fingers were fitting it roughly together with the practised topological skill of a jigsaw puzzle addict. ‘It’s all one pot, anyway.’ She showed it to Ysabella, a blue and white porcelain bowl as thin as a sea urchin’s shell. ‘A beauty. When was this found?’
‘A few days ago, a week. This person I know was having a pit dug for a CR. She tried to keep quiet about it because she was afraid of what might happen if the news was leaked to the wrong people. They’ve also found a skull. But it’s going to get out now, anyway, hence the rush. I thought if you could tell me if this thing’s interesting or just worthless rubbish we’d know how to handle it when the story breaks. It would help us a lot.’
‘Is this it or are there more?’
‘I think this is the only pot they’ve found but apparently there were more of these chicken bone things.’
‘How deep’s the pit?’
‘Oh, three metres? Maximum. Probably less. I had a look at it.’
‘That’s a hell of a latrine.’
‘She’s a hell of a woman,’ he smiled. ‘She doesn’t do things by halves.’
‘She certainly hasn’t this time. We’d have to see the site, of course; but if this pot wasn’t planted deliberately and if these bits of bone really are from the same hole, then we could have a major discovery on our hands. What do you make of it, Yzzy? Any opinions?’
‘You know I’m no expert on ceramics. Off the top of my head I’d say late southern Sung or maybe early Yüan.’
‘So would I.’
‘Doesn’t mean a damn thing to me,’ said the Inspector. ‘Sounds Chinese. Do I take it this isn’t something they broke last week in the kitchens of the Lotus karaoke on Mabini?’
‘Correct,’ Sharon said. ‘Though unfortunately it was broken last week. Look at these edges: they’re clean. If they’d been lying broken under eight feet of earth for the last seven hundred years they’d be quite a different colour. Also, there’d be some infiltration beneath the edges of the glaze, but there’s none. It’s a shame. It’s vital that the site’s properly dug. There’s probably more stuff like this waiting to be smashed.’
‘Seven hundred years?’ The policeman was still getting to grips with this immense slab of time. ‘You mean as old as that church over there?’
‘Good God,’ said Sharon, ‘about four times as old. I doubt if that’s much older than the beginning of last century. Probably less. We’re talking about a date roughly around 1280. And these bones aren’t chicken, they’re human. Children. These two are metatarsals or possibly phalanges. Almost certainly the foot bones of a kid, somewhere around four to six years old, I’d guess.’
‘I don’t do forensics,’ said the Inspector with the faint belligerence of someone whose expertise has been trumped.
‘Now’s your chance to learn,’ Sharon told him briskly. She looked him full in the face. ‘Level up, okay? This isn’t a scam someone’s pulling?’
‘I can’t swear to it,’ the man admitted, ‘because I didn’t see the stuff dug up. I wasn’t there. But I’ve known the woman ever since I was posted away from this area here,’ he glanced around, ‘and her I trust. It was her husband who dug it up.’
‘But him you don’t?’
‘Old Eddie? Well, now.’ The Inspector smiled reflectively. ‘Put it this way. Old Eddie keeps a weather eye peeled for the smart move. Only trouble is, he’s too nice for that kind of smarts. Too dumb, too. Too nice, too lazy, too drunk. He might steal your pooch if it had a bit of meat on it but this sort of caper’s way out of Eddie’s league. Far too elaborate. No, if this was a hoax it would have to have been planned by someone with real knowledge. You’re talking about salting, right? The old “My God, I’ve found a gold mine – look, take this bit of gold and get it analysed” trick. Sure. But not this one. I don’t see it. I’m betting it’s the real thing.’
‘Then what we could have is another find like the one at Sta. Ana, which incidentally is just down the road from here. That would be something else. An untouched pre-Hispanic burial site in the city? That’s big.’
‘So what do we do?’ the Inspector asked. From his expression Ysabella thought he was not a man who relished finding himself out of his depth.
‘Oka
y. First, is the site secure? I mean, is it on private land which can be locked up? Somebody’s back yard?’
‘No. Just the opposite. It’s a squatter area.’
‘Oh God. If we’re not careful we’ll get a free-for-all. Have you got colleagues you can trust?’
‘Some,’ said the policeman cautiously.
‘Then in my opinion you ought to organise a guard at once. Twenty-four hour job. I’d like to come up and look at it right away to make quite sure, okay with you? If it checks out we’ll have to get the help of someone big enough to give us the chance to do a proper dig, easy clearances, site security, etcetera.’
‘Your director?’
‘Er, no. Not him. But I think now’s the time to go see your illustrious family friend, Yzzy. The one you don’t have to name but whom you owe for hospitality?’
‘Him?’ But the more she thought about Ben Vicente the more Ysabella knew Sharon was right. A collector himself, he would have an interest in seeing the site protected from ordinary scavengers and pot-hunters, the ‘vamps’ as Sharon called them. As to whether some of the finer pieces they might discover would wind up on his own shelves, that was another matter and in a sense not her business. In any case it would be preferable to seeing things smashed by common looters or smuggled out of the country.
A soft, hollow moaning broke all their trains of thought at this moment as a toddler stopped by their stone bench and stared at them solemnly. As he did so he absentmindedly conducted some inner concert with a dayglo lime-green plastic baton, a groan tube whose internal plummet slid up and down with mortal wheezings. Only then, looking up and smiling, did Sharon know how clearly she would remember this moment in Paco Park, the sunlight falling with the lavishness of benediction on this serious child and his brilliant toy, the quiet knots of students comparing notes in this old plague spot. The burst of excitement had been delayed, suppressed by her being expected to give a professional opinion, to keep a balanced and decisive head. But she had known from the instant she saw the freshly broken fragments lying in the policeman’s handkerchief. She had known that this was not another of the frauds she had been invited to connive at or fall for over the last six years. Something genuine had been found and she, Sharon Polick, was about to authenticate the site. And maybe, she thought with this smile she couldn’t help, those few minutes’ delay proved for certain that she wasn’t ambitious. To be associated with the discovery and identification of a site, let alone with its excavation, was a career opportunity granted to few archaeologists. Always assuming it was a site, of course, and not just a chance pot in a hole. But the bones…
‘Can you get in touch with your man?’ she asked Ysabella. ‘Like now?’
‘If he’s upstairs I can pull him out of the chamber. If he’s not I’ll track him down.’
‘I’ll go with the Inspector here and have a look at this place. What’s it called?’
‘San Clemente.’
‘Never heard of it. Remember the name, Yzzy, but don’t tell your man yet. It might be premature.’
‘Isn’t that the place…? Now where have I…?’ Ysabella the newspaper-reader began, then ‘Got it. Vampires, right? Or ghosts or something.’
‘Quite right,’ said the Inspector, evidently surprised by a foreigner who kept up with popular local news.
‘So are they connected?’
‘Here, anything is possible.’
Outside Paco fire station Dingca’s jeep gleamed silver. They dropped Ysabella back at the museum before heading towards Lawton, Sta. Cruz and the drag northwards through noxious traffic.
‘If you don’t mind, Miss,’ said the Inspector decorously, ‘I’d just like to drop by the station first and pick up a guy. Don’t worry, he’s okay. Young, but he’s got the makings of a first-rate cop. Name of Benhur.’
Two hours later Sharon climbed with some difficulty up an improvised ladder (a single pole to which Eddie had nailed slats crosswise) out of the Tugos family’s new septic tank. She was smeared with mud and so elated she was trembling. In the back pocket of her jeans were the spoon and knife borrowed from Nanang Pipa with which she had just unearthed an infant’s skull and a tiny greyware dish. These had preceded her out of the pit in a basket on a length of string. She ascended into a cloud of faces.
‘Almost certainly a burial ground,’ she told Dingca. ‘That means there’s probably lots more stuff. You can forget gold, I’m afraid,’ she added to Pipa, returning the cutlery. ‘It’s not that sort of treasure. Just bones and tradeware, probably. But it’s extremely important. I’m sorry to tell you your CR’s going to become a national site.’
‘Oh great,’ said Eddie, who apart from a headache had largely recovered from his gin-sodden morning with the Press. ‘First we can’t sleep for vampires and now we can’t shit by decree.’ He had got over his initial amazement at Sharon’s fluency in Tagalog. ‘Who do we pay if we want to fart?’
‘Eddie!’ said Pipa scoldingly. ‘Bastos!’ There was laughter.
‘I’d just like to remind you yet again that none of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for you,’ retorted her husband. ‘Only a week ago we were quite happily crapping as we’d always crapped. Then suddenly it wasn’t good enough. Suddenly this was no longer San Clemente, it was Forbes Park. Next week it’ll be sauna baths and tennis courts –’ he swept his hand around to encompass the shack walls which hemmed them all in, standing in the slimy and malodorous gully strewn with green slugs of duckshit. ‘My wife has plans for a two-car garage,’ he confided mendaciously. ‘While I’m out perfecting my driving technique who’s going to volunteer to help build it? Only bayanihan, I’m afraid, but she’ll supply merienda. As many arrowroot biscuits as you can eat.’
He does love his audience, thought Dingca to himself. This man’s one of nature’s performers. The laughter which his extravagance earned seemed to expand but not to swell him, while even his wife couldn’t be really angry in the face of such spirited fantasy. ‘There we are,’ said Dingca in his best policeman’s pacific manner. ‘I’m afraid it can’t be helped. It’s been found and that’s that. I’m placing this pit off-limits as of now and Officer Daldal will stand here and guard it until I get back.’
But Eddie still hadn’t quite finished. He looked haggard and dishevelled after gin and sleep and his voice was aggrieved. Yet the tone of heavy irony which he’d adopted was too powerful and too popular to allow him a change of mood into genuine anger. He only bellowed ‘Is this justice?’ with a wild upwards appeal to the nearby palm tree which hung its unmoving fronds, burnished with evening light, like rooster feathers. ‘Down here, some poor sod finds a skull and that’s it: all further bowel movements forbidden by law. Up there,’ he swung an arm to indicate the Chinese cemetery, ‘the place is asshole deep in skulls and what do they have? Flushing toilets! And, of course, telephones. Call your ancestors collect! Another Philtel miracle!’
And so on. That was how Rio was destined to recall him when Eddie, too, joined the ghosts: a man on a hill at sundown delivering a stream of ebullient words in a voice with a dark edge running through it. At that moment the sense of community was very solid: village elders gathered beneath a palm tree’s ordinary splendour to examine an ominous pit from which a common threat boiled up in invisible vapour. From nearby and afar came muffled waves of children’s voices soaring in excitement and sagging in groans, interspersed with vigorous clapping. All over San Clemente, as all over the city and the nation, the latest TV soap was playing to barefoot audiences crammed around flickering screens at the day’s end. Mga Yagit ng Lansangan, ‘Street Trash’, revolved around a squatter family’s life and tribulations, and an entranced urban poor could at last watch their own counterparts saying their daily lines for them. Dallas had been about men from Mars growling in Martian; Mga Yagit was about kids from the barrios speaking street argot.
The sound of this devoted participation rose and fell on the drowsy air. Dingca assumed that the skulls buried eight feet below where he was
standing had also once met to gossip at sundown while children had sung and played in groups on the grassy hillside. And one day, presumably, other feet would walk and talk and laugh a couple of oblivious metres above his own emptied head (he glanced involuntarily upwards). There was no making sense of that. Just layers covering and being covered in their turn, sinking forever further from the light of day. Well, it was getting to be time to quit, that was for sure. Policemen couldn’t afford such thoughts. It was strange how in middle age a new meaning for death crept up on one like lengthening eyesight, changing the focus of everything. Somehow death on the streets, death as duty – with which any cop was familiar and even ruefully prepared – had a completely different flavour from this inexorable obliteration. Death in the line of duty positively glowed, was masked in pageantry. All those rites and taps and rolls of honour and posthumous medals made it seem less than final. While he’d still been at Station 5 he’d often been struck, even puzzled, by the verse which was the first thing anybody saw when coming down the steps of WPDC Headquarters on United Nations Avenue, engraved in cement capitals:
GO SPREAD THE WORD
TELL THE PASSERS-BY
Ghosts of Manila Page 25
