‘You’re sure you don’t want to have a go?’ Max asked Philip, as they were swept forward.
‘Please!’
‘Everyone’s a winner. They suffer for their sins and you get to act out a fantasy that would cost you good money anywhere else.’
‘Is there nothing you hold sacred?’
‘Come on! You can’t pretend that this is a profound spiritual experience for you.’
‘Not for me, no, but it is for them.’
‘Really? Take off your rose-tinted glasses and look around,’ Max said, grabbing Philip’s arm, causing him to bump into a passing legionnaire, buckling his sword. After apologising profusely, Philip examined his surroundings. On every side were stalls, some selling drinks and snacks, others inflatable horses, dolphins and Spidermen. One, either making a connection that would have warmed Julian’s heart or simply offloading surplus stock, displayed a stack of Che Guevara T-shirts. Tourists chatted on their phones and Filipinos texted. In large banners, Pepsi and Jollibee prided themselves on sponsoring this year’s Kalbaryo. ‘So which is it? The Via Dolorosa or another marketing opportunity?’
‘Why did you agree to come since you despise it all so much?’ Philip asked, deflecting the question.
‘Revenge.’
‘On me?’
‘You flatter yourself!’ Max said with a laugh. ‘No, on all the high-minded Christians who made my life hell for so many years. And there’s another reason, but you won’t want to hear it.’
‘If you say so,’ Philip replied.
‘Pain is one of the few things that still excites me. Oh, don’t give me that look! It’s always consensual and usually my own. Where’s Dennis?’ he asked, in a train of thought Philip preferred not to follow. ‘Well, I did say it was a marketing opportunity.’ He gestured towards Dennis, who was talking to an expensively dressed woman with Titian hair and freckled skin. ‘Like a moth to a flame – or should that be a hustler to a flame-haired hussy?’
They walked down a street as nondescript as a parking lot to the start of the Passion procession. The only sign of life in the boarded-up shacks came from the T-shirts and shorts hanging out to dry. The only blast of colour in their junk-shop gardens came from the boughs of purple bougainvillea, as deep-rooted as the residents. Somehow the destitution and squalor felt even more desperate here than it had in Manila. When a gaunt teenager ran past with an intricate tattoo of the Man of Sorrows across his back, Philip was left to reflect once again on the relationship between the violence of the people’s lives and the brutality of their culture.
Although seven sets of Christs and thieves were due to be crucified, only one man was to personify Christ on the way to Calvary. He stumbled forward, blood streaming down his cheeks from the crown of thorns and crippled by the cross, followed by a motley crew of soldiers, some wearing Roman helmets and tunics, and others orange T-shirts and sunglasses, who punched and kicked him as he fell down the mandatory three times. They, in turn, were followed by a group of wailing women, two of whom held up a large cloth stamped with multiple images of Christ: a Veronica’s handkerchief that resembled a Warhol silkscreen.
They arrived at a patch of wasteland on the edge of the barangay. Three crosses stood on a mound in an otherwise desolate landscape. The Christ, bent double, staggered up the path, collapsing at the foot of the mound, where he was again whipped by the centurion and kicked by the soldiers. Stripped of his robe to reveal a blood-and-grime-streaked torso, he was led up to the central cross, which had been lowered in readiness for the crucifixion. The crowd, true to its biblical role, surged forward, eager not to miss a single gory detail. Philip, his throat choked with dust and his stomach churning from the crush of hot, damp bodies, trailed behind Dennis who, with characteristic temerity, marched up to the press compound and, despite their lack of accreditation, secured entry. Proximity proved to be a mixed blessing as they watched the first three men being nailed to the wood. With the fake Rolex on the centurion’s wrist providing a momentary distraction, Philip thought of Isabel Olliphant at Whitlock, elegantly sipping tea beneath the El Greco, and wondered whether this were the religion she so ardently espoused that she would not rest until her uncle became one of its saints. He thought of Ferdinand Magellan, five hundred years earlier, facing appalling hardships as he crossed the globe in the name of the Universal Church and wondered whether this were the religion for which he had sacrificed himself, along with so many of his company. Was he alone in seeing the irony in the West, having exported its faith and then lost it, now claiming it back as a tourist spectacle?
True to their code, none of the victims uttered a sound when their hands and feet were nailed and their crosses raised. Silence descended on the crowd, broken only by the amplified keening of Mary and the rhythmic scourging of the flagellants at the base of the mound. Watching what was as much a display of machismo as of devotion, Philip recalled the Vicar General’s attack on the participants’ sincerity and was fired with indignation on their behalf. So what if their motives were mixed? Were his own, or the Pope’s, or even Julian Tremayne’s, 100 per cent pure? These were not men with the means to donate to charities or subscribe to galas or even take part in sponsored walks. What else did they have to contribute but their flesh?
He could not conceive of submitting to such a trial. Was it just that his pain threshold was too low or did he lack the necessary faith? How he envied people who were able to affirm their belief in such a direct – albeit extreme – way, while his own was riven with questions and qualifications! Nevertheless, even the most unsophisticated Christian knew that Christ had suffered on behalf of humanity. Were they not disparaging – indeed, deriding – that, by seeking to sacrifice themselves?
After five minutes of searing exposure, the men were lowered, first the penitent thief, then the impenitent, and finally Christ, and the nails prised out with surprisingly little blood. Meanwhile, the next three participants were led up the mound and laid on the crosses. Philip wondered if one of them might be Jejomar whom, despite repeated requests to the prison authorities, he had yet to meet. Neither Max nor Dennis nor a crotchety Korean journalist was able to help, and he was left with no means to identify him but a grainy snapshot in the Manila Times. Abandoning the attempt, he turned to the crowd, whose markedly different response to the various participants set him thinking about how they were chosen. Jejomar’s involvement showed that they did not have to be local. Was there a rigorous selection process, or was it open to anyone who volunteered? And, given that the two thieves shared all the pain and none of the glory, was there a natural progression from this year’s thief to next year’s Christ?
He turned back to the mound just as the centurion drove a nail deep into the penitent thief’s foot. An Australian cameraman pushed forward, anxious for a shot that was as crucial to the crucifixion coverage as the vows to a wedding video. Philip, following his gaze, caught a look of anguish on the thief’s face, which was more chastening than any grimace. The crosses were again raised, and the men underwent their pseudo execution before being lowered on to stretchers and rushed to the recovery tent. Through the open flap, Philip saw the previous trio, propped up on pallets, clasping cups in lightly bandaged hands, looking no more depleted than blood donors.
An air of expectancy gripped the crowd as the next three participants stepped on to the mound. The taut, elaborately tattooed torso of the man in the middle, a striking contrast to his two oddly flaccid companions, convinced Philip that this was Jejomar. His identity was confirmed when, with overblown humility, he held up a crucifix, supposedly given to him by Julian in jail, which he now revered as a talisman. Taunts and jeers broke out when, rejecting both of the obvious roles, he stationed himself by the central cross, but they were silenced by the dignified fortitude with which he embraced his fate.
While refusing to accept that names held any mystic significance, least of all in the Philippines where Bambi, Bogie, Joker and the like were bestowed, not in the playground but at the font, Ph
ilip had no doubt that, by trumping all the Jesuses, Josephs and Marys of their acquaintance and calling their son after the entire Holy Family, his parents had destined him for higher things than a life of crime. Yet, ironically, that crime had led him to this intense identification with Christ. The Julian connection, however bogus, made Philip particularly sensitive to Jejomar’s ordeal. The few minutes that he spent on the cross were agonising, even for a spectator. Finally, the signal was given to let down each of the crosses in turn. The two thieves were carried off to the recovery tent but, with what seemed like lunatic bravado, Jejomar waved the stretcher bearers away. Tottering only slightly, he stood beside his cross and, to the amazement of the crowd, stretched out his totally unscarred palms.
‘Is miracle,’ Dennis cried, falling to his knees. Shouts of joy, praise and wonder erupted all around them. Some of the onlookers jumped up and down; others joined Dennis in kneeling. Parents lifted their children in the air. People at the back, whose view was obscured, fired questions at those further forward, who stood dumbstruck. One man clambered on to the mound, as eager to touch Jejomar’s palms as Thomas had been to touch Jesus’s wounds, only to be beaten away by the centurion.
Philip remained stock-still, his eyes fixed on Jejomar, certain that the temporary loss of blood to his hands and feet must soon be restored. What other explanation could there be? Even if Jejomar had been prepared to resort to fraud, obtaining a supply of rubber nails and training himself to balance on the narrow footrest, the centurion and his assistants would have been sure to denounce him. The crucifixion ceremony was far too sacred for them to subvert. As the seconds slipped by without so much as a speck of blood to be seen on Jejomar’s skin, Philip was forced to acknowledge that he might have witnessed a genuine miracle, and one for which the photographic evidence would be of inestimable value to Julian’s cause.
Pandemonium broke out as the crowd surged forward to reach Jejomar, who swaggered back and forth, holding up his hands like a Baptist preacher. The prison guards, who had been chatting to their Roman counterparts, rushed up the mound to surround him. Patently less impressed by his feat than their fellow spectators, they snapped on his handcuffs and, for the first time, he seemed in danger of collapse. To a storm of protest, they dragged him through a gap next to the press compound. Seizing his chance, Philip rushed out and blocked their way.
Wasting no time on preliminaries, he addressed Jejomar: ‘Did you feel Father Julian?’
‘No, Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ, he is with me.’ He struggled to raise his wrists to his crucifix. ‘Jesus Christ, he makes me light like a bird.’
‘But did you pray to Father Julian?’ Philip persisted, as a guard elbowed him aside.
‘Yes. To Father Julian. To Father God. He say for me to go out of prison and preach the gospel to all the sinners, so that they end up like him, not like me. You say this. You show them this.’ Once again he held out his manacled hands and, although even at close range Philip could see no scars, he smelt the coppery tang of blood.
As he tried to make sense of the conflicting sensations, the guards threw Jejomar into an unmarked black van, which was immediately circled by camera crews and tourists. They jumped back in a cloud of dust when the driver, oblivious to anyone in his path, sped out of the enclosure. Philip walked back to the mound where, in a bizarre return to normality, three more crosses were being raised.
‘Satisfied?’ Max asked.
‘I’d say perplexed.’
‘Then can you be perplexed in the car? I need to find a loo. At my time of life, I excrete when I’m excited.’
‘Of course,’ Philip said, feeling deflated. He turned to Dennis who, to his surprise, was still on his knees. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Is miracle.’
‘Well, perhaps. That’s why I’m here. To look for proof.’
‘Is miracle.’
‘It’s no use trying to reason with him, not where Our Saviour is concerned. Upsy-daisy!’ Max grabbed Dennis’s arm. Philip waited for a show of anger or at least resistance, but Dennis complied without demur.
‘Is miracle.’
‘Yes, and I’m the Archangel Gabriel,’ Max replied.
‘Surely you must allow that it was extraordinary?’ Philip asked Max, as they trekked back to the car.
‘Is miracle,’ Dennis repeated distractedly.
‘If it was, then it wasn’t one of Jessica’s. Look at the yogis and swamis who pierce their bodies without bleeding – remind you of anyone? – or walk through fire without a single burn. They simply have to psych themselves up. If you’re looking for a miracle, try Margot dancing the Rose Adagio when she was pushing fifty. Now that was truly divine.’
They returned to the car to find the bonnet sprayed with blood which, either from squeamishness, superstition or the hope of gaining kudos with his friends in Manila, Dennis flatly refused to wipe.
‘I vote we give Pampanga a miss and go straight to Angeles City,’ Max said, his delicate bladder notwithstanding. ‘It’s only ten minutes down the road, so you’ll appreciate the contrast.’
‘I know this place. Is very bad place,’ Dennis said with a grin. ‘Is very good.’
‘I know it too. At least by repute,’ Philip said. ‘If I’m not mistaken, it’s where Julian came in search of one of his parishioners. Isn’t it full of brothels?’
‘Don’t get your hopes up too high. The stews have lost their savour.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, never mind! The town grew up to service the US airbase. And when the Yanks pulled out, so did the girls. But there are still enough veterans reliving their glory days on military pensions to keep the place afloat. They rent rooms in former whorehouses and every afternoon they head down to the bars.’
‘How depressing!’
‘What do you know about it?’ Max asked, so violently that Dennis swerved. ‘You come here still wet behind the ears and turn up your nose at the rest of us.’
‘What? I never.’
‘You have no idea the things these men have seen out here. How easy do you suppose it is for them to go back to Swindon and sit around making small talk?’
‘Swindon?’
‘What?’
‘How many American airmen came from Swindon?’
‘Did I say Swindon? I meant Ohio; Kentucky; Illinois. Oh Sigmunda!’ Max giggled. ‘See what happens when you make me lose my cool.’
They arrived in Angeles where, as if to crown the day’s incongruities, no sooner had they parked the car than they spotted an autonomous flagellant whipping himself while a trio of bar girls watched idly from a doorway. They lunched at the oddly named Beach Café, before making their way down the main street, whose garish signs and brash billboards smacked more of an amusement arcade than a red-light district. After passing Rauncho Notorious, Paradise Island, Bottoms Up and Miss Lucy’s, Philip paused outside The Birdcage, staring through the smoked-glass windows at the sole occupied table, where two thickset elderly men sat beside two sloppily dressed young women, none of them looking at each other or, from what he could see, exchanging a single word.
‘I pictured something glitzier,’ he said.
‘You find more of that in Manila.’
‘Manila is best. I know all bars. Hot girls, sexy girls.’ Dennis repeated his patter.
‘They cater to a different clientele,’ Max said, ignoring him. ‘Japs and Koreans who want a little glamour. Feathers before fannies. The Yanks are more upfront. A couple of drinks and they get straight down to business. And business it is. The one thing you can say for these girls is that they’re cheap.’
‘Is there anywhere we can have a quiet beer without being hit on?’ Philip asked.
‘Fear not, I promise we’ll protect you from temptation. How about here?’ Max stopped outside an American-style saloon with a log-cabin façade called, for reasons of either copyright or confusion, My Little Chickadey. ‘Sacrilege!’ he said, pushing open the batwing door and leading the way into the colourless ba
rroom. The Western theme was confined to the exterior. In place of the brasses, barrels and bridles of Philip’s imagination were a jukebox, plastic tablecloths and a smell of alpine air freshener. The one idiosyncratic touch came from three rocking horses on a minuscule stage, which wobbled ominously as they crossed the floor.
The only other customers were four grey-haired men in Hawaiian shirts sitting with a young girl in what Philip prayed was a purely social arrangement. Two of her colleagues, more buxom than the average Filipinas, leant wearily on the bar.
‘Plastic tits. Is no good,’ Dennis said, giving them a disdainful look.
‘Says the man who’s never stuffed a sock in his jockstrap,’ Max said.
Dennis hissed and planted himself at a table where, after deferring to Max, Philip drew up a chair. A well-preserved American in his mid-sixties, with a dimpled chin, piercing blue eyes and hair the colour and consistency of lichen, came up to take their order. Watching him walk back to the bar, Philip wondered aloud whether he might be an ex-serviceman.
‘There’s an easy way to find out,’ Max said.
‘He might take offence.’
‘So?’
‘English is big wussy,’ Dennis said.
Keen both to prove him wrong and satisfy his own curiosity, Philip questioned the barman – who turned out to be the owner – on his return. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, but were you stationed here yourself?’
‘I sure was. I did three tours of duty between 1982 and 1991, when our president, in his wisdom, decided to get the hell out.’
‘Did you move in here when the base was closed down?’
‘No sir. I went home along with the rest of the guys, but I got antsy. It’s hard for the Flips – no disrespect –’ he said to Dennis – ‘to understand when they queue up all day outside the Embassy for visas, but some of us kinda like it here. I guess you know what I’m speaking of, sir,’ he said, taking the measure of Max at first meeting.
‘I do indeed.’
‘So when a buddy tipped me off that Ramos needed help training men to wipe out the insurgents, I was on the next plane back, lickety-split.’
The Breath of Night Page 19
