Two days later I received a visit from doña Teresa who, having heard of my fever, gave me a statuette of Our Lady she’d bought on a recent pilgrimage to Medjugorje. While Consolacion, whose esteem for doña Teresa’s piety seems to stem entirely from her wardrobe, served iced tea and caramelised plantain, I took the opportunity to ask a favour for one of my parishioners, Leonora Veloso. Leonora is a seamstress, a spinster in her forties, much like Mrs Henshaw’s niece – was it Jean or Joan? – anyway, the one whom Cora accused of sewing secret codes into her skirts. Her brother was killed on a building site in Baguio and his wife died shortly afterwards of a haemorrhage (I’ve heard rumours of a botched abortion, but Father Teodoro must have discounted them since he buried her in hallowed ground). The couple’s four children were orphaned and Leonora took them in, even though she can barely support herself. On the one hand, she embodies the practical compassion that the Church enjoins on us all; on the other, as she freely admits, she’s acting out of duty rather than love. The children are fed and clothed, but they’re also berated and beaten. Consolacion, who is my eyes and ears in the parish, told me that, while I was ill, the neighbours regularly heard their screams. I’m afraid that one day Leonora will snap and then… you can fill in the rest. So I asked doña Teresa if she might be able to find a job for Girlie (my predecessor was inclined to be lax at the font), the eldest niece, who’s twelve years old.
Doña Teresa offered to take her on as a maid, ‘out of respect for you, Father’, which isn’t quite the motivation that I’d have wished. Nor do I feel altogether happy about finding jobs for children, especially as servants, but I have to be practical. This is a world without safety nets. Maybe Greg’s right and Britain renounced its sense of personal responsibility when we brought in the Welfare State; but we gained far more than we lost. The next time he jumps on his soap box to denounce nannyism (not that I recall him objecting when Nanny P pandered to his every need), you might care to tell him about Leonora or, better yet, Ariel and Grace Quebral, whose four-year-old son, Joel, was suddenly stricken with diarrhoea. Diarrhoea here isn’t the mild irritation it is at home and, as Joel began to shrink – no, shrivel – before my eyes, I had to prepare his parents for the worst. Which was when Ariel told me that Joel hadn’t been baptised. They’d never had sufficient cash to pay for the christening robe and celebration lunch, which are mandatory in hacienda culture. So I performed a hurried ceremony in a fetid room a few hours before he died.
Sometimes it’s hard not to despair.
Consolacion took Joel’s death especially hard but, when I questioned her, all she would say was ‘Kagustuhan ng Diyos’ (‘It’s God’s will’). ‘Kagustuhan ng Diyos!’ Is it the Church that’s bred this fatalism? I’m starting to think that we could learn from the Protestants with their history of revolt. Maybe the Basic Christian Communities (BCCs) will be a spur for action? They’ve come on by leaps and bounds, and we now have more than eighty across the two parishes. Our aim is for about twice that number. We finished training the lay leaders in August and, although we had eleven dropouts, which upset me more than it did Benito, our remaining choices have been vindicated. We couldn’t have wished for a more dedicated team. The sessions were intense. We held twelve residential weekends when, with the help of three priests from the diocese plus the Sisters of the Holy Face of Jesus, we encouraged the men to examine both their own communities in the light of the gospel and the gospel in the light of their own communities. It was a revelation to me too. Through all my years of study, I’d never realised that the Bible was so politically charged.
No doubt you’ll echo Benito’s view of my naïveté. He even called me Father Oxford until I explained that, however kindly meant, it stung. I presume that he pictured an ink-stained scholar in mortar board and gown, mulling over the minutiae of Greek and Latin translations. Little does he know! For the first time in my life I’m beginning to understand the Bible, and it’s precisely because I’m not agonising over the historiography and exegesis but rather looking at it through the lens of the lay leaders’ lives. It may sound glib, but they teach me far more than I do them. Every Friday evening, a hundred or so men pour into the poblacion from the outlying barrios. We study and debate the weekly readings – sometimes quite heatedly. Then, fully primed and taking their share of the Host, they return home to lead their Sunday services. Thus people, who were long deprived of the Word of God and the Body of Christ, now have regular access to both. What’s more, we’ve shown them that they needn’t be passive recipients of everything the authorities – that includes priests as well as landowners and politicians – dole out, but they can take decisions for themselves. I’m proud of us – yes, I say that without boasting; I can think of no other group who’d so readily relinquish their own power.
But you needn’t take my word for it; I’m hoping you’ll soon have a chance to see for yourselves. Have you given any more thought to a visit? The flight’s long, I admit, but you could stop over for a day or two in Singapore – or would that bring back too many memories for Father? Please don’t let all my horror stories scare you off. There’s some spectacular scenery, such as the 2,000-year-old rice terraces, which are only a few hours’ drive away. Accommodation in the parish may be basic (although I’m sure that the Pinedas or the Arriolas would be happy to put you up), but the hotels in Manila are excellent. As for food, I guarantee that the bats and locusts will be confined to the cellars. Joke! The moment I know that you’re coming, I’ll shave off my beard so you won’t need to disown me. Truth to tell, I was a little hurt when Greg wrote that you were spending New Year with Alice’s parents. I can promise you that our seas are just as blue and our beaches as golden as any in St Bart’s. Plus, the people are a lot less pompous than the Leveringtons, but I won’t go into that. I treasure your letters, both Mother’s chatty and Father’s concise ones (that’s a hint that you’re allowed to write on both sides of the page), but they’re no substitute for seeing you face to face.
On the subject of letters, I should warn you to avoid anything intimate. I’ve been reluctant to say so before because I’d hate to inhibit you, let alone deter you from writing at all, but letters here are opened – not clandestinely steamed but blatantly slit. At first I blamed it on the censors, but I soon learnt that news is regarded as communal and, when the mail is delivered every Wednesday (to the town hall, not to the door), it’s almost a case of first come first served. They’re inveterate gossips with as detailed a knowledge of bloodlines as the most ardent devotee of Debrett’s. Having exhausted their own family’s news, they turn to their neighbours’. It’s quite harmless but there are things, about Cora for instance, which you mightn’t wish to share with the world. It’ll sound far-fetched, but it’s possible that some titbit will be passed to another priest and then to Manila, where it’ll reach the ears of the Regional who’ll report it back to his aunt in Cheltenham and, hey presto, it’s all over Catholic England.
One last request if I may: I know you’re proud of our ancestry, Father, and rightly so, but I’d rather you didn’t put ‘the Hon’ on the envelope. People here, who know no better, assume that I must be related to the Royal Family or, at the very least, heir to an ancient dukedom. Which is exactly the sort of nonsense I’m trying to escape. Plain Father is enough.
Your loving son,
Julian
No twenty-first-century tourist entering Intramuros could be in any doubt as to the enduring legacy of colonial power. The grey stone walls that had once marked the confines within which only Europeans were permitted to live might now be crumbling and dotted with Buddha belly bamboo; the conquistadores and courtiers might long since have returned to Spain; but the wooden relief of St James trampling four Moors underfoot, which adorned the main gateway, attested to the abiding influence of the Catholic Church. In its heyday, Intramuros, the city within walls, which the Spanish with supreme arrogance defined as the city itself, had been home to one cathedral, twelve churches, several monasteries, convents and church
schools. It now housed the Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines building, where Philip was due to meet the Vicar General of Baguio at three o’clock, an appointment for which, as usual, he had arrived early.
Afraid that his undue punctuality betrayed a deep lack of confidence or, worse, a desperate desire to please, he envied those who could turn – no, roll – up for meetings at the last minute, but whenever he tried, even for meals with his mother or godmother, it reduced him to panic. So, finding himself with an hour to spare, he asked the taxi driver to drop him in front of San Agustin, the oldest surviving church in the city, which he had been planning to visit. It presented an unusual picture: the lopsided pink façade flaunting its truncated tower like a beggar’s stump, as if the building itself were soliciting alms. Four Chinese fu dogs guarded the entrance, which he welcomed as a corrective to the triumphalist tableau of St James, until a glance at his guidebook revealed that they had been placed there in memory of the Chinese workmen who had died during the church’s construction. He made his way inside where, once his eyes had adjusted to the shadows, he was enchanted by the trompe l’oeil frescoes. He stood in the transept, gazing up at the intricate pattern of columns and vaults, and wondered how far the painterly deception on the dome reflected a priestly deception about what lay beyond.
He continued to explore, losing track of the time, until the hourly carillon brought him up short. He hurried down the nave, past a group of elderly tourists who were blithely ignoring the No Flash notice, pulled open the door and ran across the square to the CBCP building, its initials reassuringly emblazoned on the front, although its entrance turned out to be 200 yards down a side street. His horror at the unsightly air-conditioning units protruding from every window changed to gratitude when he stepped into the foyer and the sweat trickling down his arms began to freeze. As he took a seat and waited for the Vicar General, he peered at the security guard who had waved him through with culpable laxity. Did he go further than Dennis in seeing a white skin as a mark, not just of attraction but of virtue, or did he assume, more cynically, that it would stick to white-collar crime?
Lost in contemplation, Philip was caught unawares when the Vicar General, a small, balding man, whose rimless glasses matched his thin lips, walked over to introduce himself. After enthusiastically shaking hands (and then discreetly wiping his own on his cassock), the Vicar General led him upstairs to a meeting room where he sealed his welcome with a cup of English Breakfast tea. Philip, loath to be thought insular, was relieved to find that it was his host who was the Anglophile, his vowels growing ever more refined as he reminisced euphorically about his six-month-long placement in a seminary outside Guildford. Philip, not to be outdone, voiced his admiration for the Philippines, while admitting that he had yet to venture beyond the centre of Manila.
‘We are a poor country, Mr Seward,’ the Vicar General replied, ‘you must take us as you find us.’ He handed him a plate of crackers. ‘They are not like your English squashed fly biscuits,’ he said sadly. Then he sat down, added three spoonfuls of sugar to his cup and fastidiously smoothed his cassock over his knees. Philip was startled to see that his socks were the same deep purple as his sash.
‘How are my good friends, Hugh and the Honourable Isabel Olliphant?’ the Vicar General asked.
‘I didn’t know you knew them,’ Philip replied, feeling strangely threatened by the connection.
‘I have met Hugh many times when he has visited his mines in the Cordilleras. I have met the Honourable Isabel only once, when I was staying in Guildford. Hugh is a great champion of our people – and of our art. But for all that, I’m afraid that he doesn’t trust us. Why else has he sent you?’
‘I’m sure it’s not a lack of trust.’ Philip squirmed as though the charge had been levelled at him. ‘More like a lack of patience. Hugh is an “I want it done yesterday” sort of guy – man, whereas people here are much more laid back.’
‘What does he expect from us? The Bishop, as you are aware, has authorised an investigation into Father Julian’s sanctity. This will not be reporting overnight.’
‘No, of course not. But, knowing how hard pressed you are, Hugh (not that I can speak for him) felt that you’d welcome another pair of hands. And here they are.’ He held them up self-consciously.
‘I assure you that we too are eager for the canonisation to take place. We have 75 million Catholics in the Philippines and only one saint. San Lorenzo Ruiz.’
‘Yes. Julian wrote of attending his beatification ceremony when Pope John Paul II came to Manila.’
‘It would be a great blessing for us to have another saint. Not a Filipino by birth of course, but the next best thing. An honorary one, if I may make the claim.’
‘He certainly felt more at home here than anywhere else. He identified deeply with the Filipino people, especially the peasants. He led his parishioners in their struggle against oppression.’
‘Like any other candidate for sainthood, Father Julian has to exhibit four virtues of a holy life. Poverty, chastity, obedience –’
‘And zeal for the Church. Yes, Isabel explained. I bear them constantly in mind.’
‘Then you’ll be aware that nowhere among them is there any mention of political action, no matter how righteous the cause.’
‘Surely that depends how you define zeal for the Church?’ Philip replied, pleasantly surprised by how much he had to contribute. ‘Is that zeal for the institution, whether in Rome, London or Manila, or for the message of Christ as delivered in the gospel? Look at Joan of Arc. She had precious little respect for institutions of any sort; she took up arms in a political, not a spiritual, cause; yet she was canonised.’
‘True, but she had to wait for almost five hundred years. From what you’ve said about our friend Hugh’s impatience, I’m not sure that she’s the best example.’ He gave him a thin smile.
‘Did you know Julian yourself?’ Philip asked, changing tack.
‘Unfortunately not. I don’t come from these parts. I was born in a fishing village on the island of Palawan and moved to Manila to study. I became a priest in 1988, the year before Father Julian’s death. Much has changed since then. We now have many more priests and, of those, many more are native-born Filipinos. We’re not so dependent on foreign missionaries as we were in Father Julian’s day.’
‘There’s a Filipino priest whom Julian refers to repeatedly in his letters. Benito… wait, I have it here.’ Philip leafed through his notebook. ‘Benito Bertubin. He clearly had a profound influence on Julian’s thinking, as well as working alongside him and, later, sharing his imprisonment. Unless you have any better ideas, I’d like to start by interviewing him.’
‘I wish I could help. We’ve tried very hard to contact him over the years, but with no success.’
‘According to Julian, he went to live on Negros after his release. So last week I contacted all four dioceses, and the Chancellor of Bacoloid –’
‘Bacolod.’
‘I’m sorry – told me that he’d returned to Luzon in 1995.’
‘Father Benito was a man with many enemies. I fear the worst.’
‘If he were dead, surely you’d know? There must be some record.’
‘Not necessarily,’ the Vicar General stated firmly. ‘The Philippines isn’t England. A million people leave the provinces each year and move to Manila. Do they all register with their barangay captain, let alone the local mayor? No. Thousands simply vanish from sight.’
‘But not a priest? Are there no Church archives?’
‘If he were there, we would have found him. What you must understand is that the population grew by 25 million during the Marcos years. An unparalleled increase, and at a time when the government machinery was already overstretched. Nevertheless, that 25 million constitutes an extraordinary expression of hope.’
‘In what way?’ Philip asked, suspicious of the clerical tendency to cast even the most unpalatable facts in a positive light.
‘That in their dar
kest hour, people still felt confident enough to bring new life into the world. They had faith in their future, indeed, faith in their Faith.’
‘Some might see it rather as an expression of despair. Mightn’t they have wanted – consciously or not – to replace the children whom they were expecting to die of disease, malnutrition and ill-treatment?’
The Vicar General looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘Are you a Catholic, Mr Seward?’
‘No. I thought you knew,’ Philip replied, flustered. ‘I sent the Bishop a letter of introduction from Isabel.’
‘She said that you had a family connection. We assumed –’
‘I was engaged to her daughter, Julia, who died.’
‘Yes of course. A great tragedy. Kagustuhan ng Diyos.’
‘Thank you,’ Philip said tersely.
‘But you are an Anglican?’
‘Yes, in a high-days-and-holidays sort of way. The last time I attended church regularly was at school. No, I tell a lie; it was in the few months after Julia’s death.’ His throat suddenly felt dry. ‘I’ve always had a sense of something other – something beyond – although I worry that this may be no more than a refusal to face up to reality. I’m sorry; you must hear this sort of thing all the time.’
‘I’m not a Protestant, Mr Seward.’ The Vicar General eyed him carefully. ‘Why do you think the Olliphants chose you for this job?’
‘Apart from the family connection? I suppose they thought I’d bring a useful objectivity.’
‘Objectivity is an illusion and never more so than in matters of faith. May I ask you a personal question?’
‘Please do,’ Philip said apprehensively.
‘Did you love your fiancée?’
‘Yes. With all my heart.’
‘But did you examine that love from every angle? Did you subject it to rigorous analysis? Did you require empirical proof?’
The Breath of Night Page 7
