‘It’s beyond me.’
‘Don’t knock it! If it weren’t for superstition, you’d be out of a job.’
Grimacing, Philip turned back to the ring where the white bird was being trounced. ‘Putang Ina!’ Dennis exclaimed. ‘This is bad chicken. His owner, he is giving him drugs like junkie. He is sewing hot chillies up his puwit to make him fight.’
‘A principle which might be usefully applied elsewhere,’ Max said.
Philip had no need to ask for the meaning of puwit, since Dennis’s hiss made it all too clear. He focused his attention on the ring where the black cock, his hackles up, swaggered round his dazed rival, lashing out in all directions and slicing his chest with his blade. A thunderous cheer rose up from the crowd, followed by a low moan from Dennis, looking as broken and bruised as the dead cock.
He was roused by one of the kristos who, with a prodigious memory for the quick-fire transactions, came to collect his debts. ‘Poor Dennis,’ Philip said to Max, as they watched him extract the banknotes from inside his shorts with the painful precision of someone removing a splinter.
‘Is not fair. This match is fixed,’ Dennis said. ‘This owner, he is bringing man to train chickens. From Texas!’ he added, as if it were the ultimate treachery.
With Dennis bewailing the injustice of life in general and America in particular, they left the arena. Suspecting that Dennis would seek to cut his losses by reaching an accommodation with Max, Philip strode ahead. Entering the street, he was hailed by a trio of sweaty, stocky young men.
‘Hey mate!’ shouted one, with the image of a muscle-bound torso straining across his barrel chest. ‘Good to see another white face!’
‘Hello,’ Philip replied warily.
‘You English? Put it there!’ Philip, relaxing now that the connection was merely national, shook hands with all three of them.
‘Been watching the fights, then?’ asked another, with a cork hat, peeling nose and Union Jack tattoo on a pasty leg.
‘Unfortunately, yes. If you’re thinking of buying a ticket, don’t bother! You’d have as much fun at a factory farm.’
‘It’s the experience, innit?’ said the third, whose high forehead and clip-on sunglasses gave him a bookish air that was belied by his open beer can and I’m a Lesbian T-shirt. ‘It’s their culture. Gorra respect their culture, donchya?’ He held out the can, which Philip politely refused.
‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ Philip said, moving away as Max and Dennis approached.
‘Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friends, Philip?’ Max asked in his most pointedly epicene tones. Reluctantly, Philip presented Max and Dennis, after which the three tourists supplied their own names: Warren, Jez and Trevor.
‘And what are you doing in this den of vice and iniquity?’ Max asked with a jaunty smile. ‘That’s to say Manila.’
‘We’re on holiday, aren’t we?’
‘Are you? That’s what I’m trying to find out.’
Trevor looked at him with suspicion. ‘Yeah. We’re on an adventure tour. We’ve been all over. Angeles City. Olongapo. Subic Bay. The company guarantee your money back if you spend more than one night in the two weeks on your tod. You can’t say fairer than that now, can you?’
‘You most definitely can’t,’ Max replied.
‘I help you,’ Dennis said. ‘I know all bars. Hot girls, sexy girls.’
‘Thanks for the offer mate,’ Jez said, ‘but it’s all laid on. Different girl every night. Two or three if you’re up for it.’
‘Are we up for it?’ Warren asked. ‘Does a squirrel love his nuts?’
‘Some of them are so young it shouldn’t be legal!’ Jez said.
‘But it is, mate,’ Trevor said quickly. ‘Everything above board.’
‘And a regular supply of Viagra for young Jez here,’ Warren added.
‘Hey, speak for yourself. Balls of steel, me!’ Jez said, with a pelvic thrust that spilt his beer.
‘What about you, mate?’ Warren asked. ‘What brings you out here?’
‘I’m with the World Health Organisation,’ Philip said with a glare that dared Max or Dennis to contradict him. ‘We’re investigating a lethal new drug-resistant strain of syphilis.’
‘You’re having a laugh!’ Warren said.
‘I wish I were. It’s spreading like wildfire through the bars and massage parlours of Thailand and the Philippines.’
‘You’re kidding me!’ Trevor said.
‘We’re trying to keep it under wraps to prevent panic and reprisals. I’m only telling you because it sounds as though you and your friends may be at risk.’
‘Not me, mate,’ Jez said. ‘Cover my stump before I hump!’
‘If only it were that easy, but this new strain is a hundred times more contagious than HIV. Skin-to-skin contact is all it takes. But we’re holding you up. Besides, we have to get back to the field – that is, the bars, the field of study. Enjoy the sabong!’
Leaving the three men stupefied, Philip led Max and Dennis towards the car.
‘Well, young Philip,’ Max said, ‘you’ve quite taken my breath away. Where did all that come from?’
‘They deserved it,’ Philip said defensively.
‘They certainly did. Men that ugly shouldn’t be allowed to have sex, even with women.’
Back at the hotel, Philip found a message from Maribel, cancelling their date for the evening. Frustration welled up in him as he punched her number into his phone, to be replaced by guilt when she explained that her supervisor had rearranged her shift to punish her for arriving late on Thursday; which had been entirely due to his keeping her back for a flurry of last-minute kisses. He had taken her protests for the ploy that they would have been in England; he should have known that, however flexible time might be elsewhere in Manila, at the call centre it followed the clock. The supervisor had warned her that with the scores of applicants for every seat, no one was indispensible. Philip, trusting that a casual reference to the Bishop would resolve the problem, had promised to contact the supervisor himself, which drew such an effusion of gratitude from Maribel that he felt ashamed.
Just to think of Maribel – to picture her face, her smile, her skin at once porcelain and pliant, her small but sufficient breasts with their nipples like afterthoughts – brought on a surge of emotion so strong that he feared he might drown in it. She was the one fixed point in an ever-shifting city. He delighted in her bashful glance, her tinkling laugh, her over-precise turn of phrase. He felt himself shine in the glow of her admiration. Yet how much did he know of what went on inside her head? She gave every sign of enjoying their embraces. But how much was it passion and how much compliance? Was she as eager as he was to take their relationship a stage further? In which case, might she have misread his hesitation as indifference? He was still unclear if she were a virgin. The fact that they had never spoken of it – that he could not envisage their speaking of it – was evidence of the gulf between them. He was older than she was, richer than she was, and white. He was the one with power, which meant that, as an honourable man, he had no right to force the issue.
On the other hand, just how honourable was he? Did he truly care about Maribel or was his prime concern to make a good impression – on himself as much as everyone else? Was he afraid of leading her on or of feeling ashamed when he left her stranded? If the former, why had he insisted that she meet him after the Palm Sunday service, instead of going for a clean break? His stay in Manila was temporary and, unless she expected nothing more from him than a few decent meals and the opportunity to practise her English, he was bound to hurt her. He had no wish to play Pinkerton to her Madame Butterfly.
His loneliness grew unbearable. It was Saturday night, and he was stuck in a hotel room with only the TV for company. Conscious that he was crossing a line, he picked up the remote control and switched on the adult channel. For weeks, he had tempted himself with the trailers. Now, despite a firm belief that pornography was nothing but prostit
ution by proxy, he set about ordering a film. The only way to dissociate himself from Warren, Jez and Trevor was to ensure that the title he chose was American rather than Asian. So, in the vain hope that humour might mitigate the offence, he settled on Hannah Does Her Sisters.
Six
17 September 1979
My dear Mother and Father,
First, a word in my defence. I didn’t ignore your phlebitis, Mother; I wrote to you as soon as I heard the news from Agnes. It’s not the only one of my letters to have gone astray, although that implies that it’s accidental. I’ve done some sleuthing and found that postmen steam off the stamps to sell in Manila. It’s hard to blame them when they’re so badly paid, but I wish they’d stick to government circulars. So I hope that you’ll withdraw the charge that I care more for strangers than I do for my own family (I prefer not to use the word ‘natives’ except in the strict ethnographic sense). How can it be ‘Out of sight out of mind’ when your silver wedding photograph stands in pride of place next to the crucifix by my bed?
As for your second charge, however much you may disapprove, please, please avoid any further allusion to my political activities. You’ve no idea of the trouble it might cause. Faced with an increasingly restive population, the authorities are cracking down on the least hint of dissent. Having silenced the official opposition, it’s now focusing its efforts on the Church. The radical message of the gospel turns even the most reactionary priest into a symbol of resistance. Whereas once my cloth would have granted me immunity, it now puts me in the firing line. Last month I was arrested and questioned about my links with the insurgents. It’s easy to make light of it now, but it’s remarkable how quickly your confidence dissolves when you’re blindfolded, bundled in the back of a scorching hot van, and driven at breakneck speed to an unknown destination.
I steeled myself by pretending that I was the hero of a thriller who, for the purposes of the plot, would have to escape unscathed, but as I sat alone and handcuffed in a stale-smelling room, straining to pick up the voices in the corridors (several with distinct American accents) I felt more and more like an innocent bystander whose wanton murder spurs the hero to revenge. Finally, two officers cross-examined me. Refusing to remove the blindfold, they asked me about my association with the NPA and the CNL (Christians for National Liberation). It was clear from both their scattershot questioning and indifference to my replies that their intention was to intimidate rather than to convict me. They released me after a few hours, unharmed apart from some bruises on the neck and wrists, which fade into insignificance beside the horrific injuries sustained by thousands of innocent Filipinos. As you’d expect, the result has been to strengthen my resolve. Nevertheless, I’m anxious not to give them fresh ammunition. Next time they might not show such restraint.
Fortunately, I’d fully recovered by the time of Isabel’s arrival. She had enough to take in after seven years, without seeing me hurt. In other respects, of course, she was the one who’d changed. When I left England, she was a gawky teenager; now she’s a confident young woman. No, she’s a kind, intelligent, beautiful, vivacious and confident young woman, a credit to Greg and Alice, and above all to herself. To my relief, I found that some things about her had stayed the same. She still has the hearty laugh with the glissando that puts me in mind of sliding down banisters and the mellow tones that bring back memories not just of her younger self but of her aunts. When I closed my eyes, I might have been listening to Agnes or Cora. Whatever the Leverington influence elsewhere, her voice is pure Tremayne.
Nowhere was her confidence more marked than when we went to Manila. I was amazed by the ease with which she negotiated a city that is a labyrinth even to the locals. She does, however, have an unfortunate tendency, acquired no doubt from her boyfriend, to suppose that anyone with a brown skin is out to cheat her. For all her elegance and charm, I can’t help missing the wide-eyed enthusiasm that led her to dedicate her life first to animals, then to children and finally to the planet. After three years of reading art history, it’s inevitable that both her perspective and her priorities have changed. When I asked about her plans, now that she’d finished at St Andrews, she became uncharacteristically coy, mumbling something about museum work and Alice having a friend who was head of ceramics at the V&A. I realised that I’d put my foot in it and that her answer – indeed her entire future – depended on Hugh.
I may be reading too much into it, Mother, but when you wrote how fond Greg and Alice were of him you said nothing of what you thought of him yourself. Should I be similarly circumspect? Surely not to you? He’s a highly personable man, polite to a fault (addressing me with the deference due to an ancient cardinal), but at the same time suspiciously detached. Instead of expressing his feelings, he seems to file them away for future reference. Whereas Isabel is utterly besotted with him, he treats her with wry detachment. Indeed, his one sign of passion during their whole trip came when his agent in Manila brought him a late Neolithic burial jar dug up – and, as far as I could tell, removed illegally – from a cave in Palawan. Is it just me or does either of you find it odd that a thirty-two-year-old should be an obsessive collector of antiquities? I took great care not to voice my reservations; you’d have been proud of me – no, really you would. I was determined not to cast a single shadow on Isabel’s happiness. ‘You do like him, Uncle, you promise?’ she asked me several times a day. Perhaps it was that ‘Uncle’, so much more intimate than the familiar ‘Father’; perhaps it was the joy of seeing her again after so long; or perhaps it was simply joy in her joy; but I couldn’t help but answer ‘yes’.
Isabel filled me in on the family news. I was relieved to hear that for all his disappointment at not being given a Cabinet post, Greg was happy with the Employment portfolio. Besides, as I reminded her, it wasn’t so long ago he was certain that he’d be passed over on account of his support for Mr Heath. I knew that he was worrying unduly. Mrs Thatcher doesn’t seem the sort to bear grudges. Since moving here, my politics have veered to the left, but I’m still excited by the prospect of our first woman prime minister. I was immensely heartened by her quoting St Francis outside Number Ten. Can you imagine any of her predecessors having done the same?
I hope that Isabel and Hugh appreciated how hard Consolacion worked to make their stay a success. In the week before their arrival, no parishioner was allowed to cross the threshold and at times I wondered if I too might be banished to the yard. Grump’s scavenging trips were severely curtailed, which I’m sure was what lay behind his hostility to Hugh, since he’s usually such an excellent judge of character. I tried to reassure Consolacion by showing her the letter in which Isabel wrote that they were looking forward to ‘roughing it’, but she wasn’t convinced. Her greatest fear was that Isabel would return to Whitlock and report that she wasn’t taking good enough care of me. In the event, Isabel insisted that she’d never seen me look so well. One bonus of her trip is that she’ll be able to relieve any nagging doubts you may have about my health.
I’m not sure that Hugh was quite as keen to rough it as Isabel. Despite – or perhaps because of – his previous forays into the country, he brought along a suitcase full of water purification tablets, pills of every description, Lipton’s tea and loo paper. With no spare bedrooms, Isabel slept – ‘like a log’ – on the sitting-room sofa, while Hugh cricked his neck on a camp bed in the study. Had they come as recently as last year, the haciendos would have fallen over themselves to put them up, but our relations have so soured (I won’t go into details, which I’m sure by now you can supply for yourselves) that they didn’t even make the offer. Protocol compelled them to acknowledge the presence of two such well-connected foreigners, so the Pinedas invited us to lunch (which, to everyone’s relief, a service in an outlying barrio kept me from attending) and the Arriolas to an evening barbecue where I spent much of the time talking to don Bernardo’s mother, who’s stone-deaf.
A less lavish but far more congenial affair was the birthday party thrown for me
by some of the BCCs. Thirty-nine! I’ve warned them that I’m booking myself into a monastery next year. It was such a treat to have Isabel here, especially since it was the one occasion on which she defied Hugh, who went off to inspect his mines alone. She was particularly excited to meet the four Ibaloi tribesmen who’d trekked down from the mountains. Has she told you about the magnificent crucifix they carved for me? It was intended for the convento but I’ve put it in the church. It seems right that the people should kneel before a rough-hewn Christ in their own image rather than a polished one with an imported face. Meanwhile, I worked my way through the huge pile of parcels Isabel had brought from home. Thank you so much for the record player. I’m thrilled to bits by it, not to mention the inspired selection of LPs. It may be a while before I have a chance to play them since there’s still no electricity in the poblacion, but we’ve been promised that it’s on its way. The wait will only whet my appetite.
The rest of the family did me proud, even Uncle Lawrence with his crested hip flask, although I suspect that he’s been reading too much Graham Greene. To my surprise, since he’s never been a natural present giver, Greg excelled himself with the briefcase. Agnes’s shirts are just what I wanted, or rather they will be once Consolacion has taken them in.
At five days, Isabel and Hugh’s visit was all too short. I took them to Baguio and Mount Pulag, and north to the rice terraces of Banaue, but the mists were too thick to see them in their full glory, and Hugh complained loudly about the dirt-track/deathtrap roads. As planned, I drove back with them to Manila where Hugh kindly offered to put me up in their hotel but, despite the lure of fine linen and air conditioning, I preferred to remain independent at the Society’s house. That’s when I rang you, Father. I’m sorry that the crackling lines and time lag made the conversation sound so stilted. Which is why I didn’t try again. Although, of course, I’d have loved to talk to Mother.
The Breath of Night Page 17
