‘Julian never spoke of it.’
‘I never told him. Wounds heal, but guilt festers: I had no desire to add to his.’ Benito stood up. ‘I think we should stop there. I’ve told you all I know and you must be exhausted from taking so many notes.’
‘I’ve one last question, then I promise I’ll leave you in peace,’ Philip said.
‘Very well,’ Benito said, resuming his seat.
‘Julian wrote to his mother that he was sustained by the conviction of his innocence. But he also mentioned supplying information to the NPA and driving a wounded fighter – or at least one of their wives – to a doctor in Baguio. Consolacion admitted that he wasn’t even at home on the night of the murder. Do you think he might have crossed the line?’
‘That supposes I think there was a line to cross. If you know the slightest thing about Julian, you’ll know that he believed it was as much a priest’s job to fight for justice in this world as to promise justice in the next.’
‘You mean “fight” as in work day and night for the cause?’
‘I mean “fight” as in take up arms, like David and Joshua and Samson.’
‘And Christ?’
‘Above all, Christ: Christ who came to bring not peace but a sword. It may not please the Bishop, who’ll want him to be sanitised as well as sanctified, but Julian was first and foremost a liberator.’
‘Rather than a saint?’
‘That’s a term I no longer recognise. It’s forty years since I divided people into saints and sinners.’
‘What about miracles? Or have they also been excised from your vocabulary?’
‘Not exactly, but I see them as changes of consciousness, rather than of matter.’
‘Yet we have sworn statements from dozens of people who witnessed Julian levitate.’
‘Would you want to be the only person in the church that day to have missed out: to have been denied the sign of God’s favour?’
‘I wasn’t there, of course, but I was in Pampanga last month for the crucifixions. I saw the prisoner, Jejomar, stepping down from the cross without a scar’ – Philip flinched – ‘without a mark on his hands.’
‘Well, I wasn’t there either, but I have attended two sessions of psychic surgery –’
‘Which is what?’
‘Faith healing taken to extremes. Unless I was hypnotised or hallucinating (and I’d swear on my life that I was neither), the healer opened up the patients’ bodies, removed the diseased tissue, then closed up the wounds, all with a few strokes of his finger.’
‘Without using any instruments?’
‘None that I could see.’
‘How do you explain it?’
‘I don’t. So-called primitive people have powers that have been lost – or not yet revealed – to the rest of us.’
‘So even though you’ve left the Church, you haven’t renounced all forms of mysticism?’
‘I try to keep an open mind. Just as I do about Julian. And in my view, in spite of all the miracles and testimonies, he’s more likely to have been martyred by the Church than for it.’
‘I’m not sure that I follow,’ Philip said, fearing that he was being drawn into a private vendetta.
‘Ever since the Bishop of Baguio announced his investigation last year, I’ve received dozens of letters from a prisoner in Bilibid who maintains that Julian wasn’t murdered by the NPA, but on the direct orders of a group of pro-Marcos clerics.’
‘That’s absurd!’
‘No, simply far-fetched. Although no more so than the official line that he was ambushed by a gang of insurgents in the Sierra Madre mountains. For one thing, the NPA very rarely targeted foreigners and for another, unless they’d shot him on sight, they’d soon have learnt who he was and honoured him as a comrade.’
‘So was this prisoner part of the plot?’
‘Apparently not, but he claims to have shared a cell with one of the assassins. It was common practice when we were in Baguio for powerful men with scores to settle to bribe the guards (and even the governor) to let a prisoner out for the day to commit a murder. After all, that would give him a cast-iron alibi.’
‘What’s in it for the prisoner?’
‘Any number of things: dropped charges; intimidated judges; cash for himself and his family; a taste of freedom; or maybe pure bloodlust.’
‘Does your informant have a name?’
‘Certainly. It’s no anonymous tip-off.’
‘Do you think it might be possible for me to meet him?’
‘I doubt that the Bishop would be too keen.’
‘Perhaps not, but I can’t allow the opportunity to slip through my fingers. I’ve come this far. I need to find out the truth for myself, even if not for the Positio.’
‘I can give you his name and address, that’s no problem. Here.’ Benito moved to a filing cabinet and took out a folder, copying the details as he spoke. ‘The bigger problem might be getting in to see him. If the Vicar General was as reluctant as you suggest to put you in touch with me, I hardly think he’s going to ease your path with the Bilibid authorities.’
‘Don’t worry. If bribery can get a murderer out of jail, it can surely get me in.’
‘I wish you luck. Here.’ He handed a scrap of paper with a name, prison and block number on it to Philip, who was struck by the copperplate script. ‘Let me know if you discover anything.’
‘Of course.’
Philip took his leave of Benito and made his way down to the gate, in the wake of a particularly putrid delivery. After texting Dennis to collect him, he waited beside the busy pagpag stall where two teenage boys, one with his teeth bared in a broad grin, the other with his teeth permanently exposed by a cleft lip, practised the ultimate form of recycling: selling scraps of chicken bone, burger patty, and pizza crust salvaged from the dustbins of McDonald’s and Jollibee, shaken to dislodge the maggots, fried to kill the larvae, and swamped in tomato sauce to enhance – or conceal – the flavour. Feeling uncomfortable, he crossed the road where he was grateful for Dennis’s prompt arrival.
‘I have need of 10,000 pesos before six o’clock this night,’ Dennis said, while Philip fastened his seat belt.
‘Any special reason?’ Philip asked, in no mood to humour him.
‘Is for lotto. I am already knowing these numbers.’
‘Don’t tell me: you have a friend!’
‘Yes. How are you knowing this?’ Dennis sounded genuinely surprised.
‘An inspired guess! Sorry but no can do.’
‘Please, you must help. I have problem, big problem.’
‘No, you’re in a fix, a temporary bind, and you’ll wriggle out of it as per usual. I’ve spent the morning among people with real problems, who live on rubbish: who build their homes on it, feed their families on it and, in the final obscenity, eat it. It’s a reminder to the rest of us to count our blessings.’
In defiance, Dennis tuned the radio to his favourite station, raucously accompanying the rapper who told his ‘one true momma’ that ‘I’ll cut out your heart, so we’ll never be apart’. Biting his lip, Philip endured the punishing journey back to the hotel.
‘I won’t be needing you this afternoon,’ he said, when they reached the forecourt, ‘but I’d like you back here at seven o’clock sharp – and I do mean sharp – to drive Max and me to Ray Lim’s house in Forbes Park.’
‘No, this is not possible! I must not be going to this house.’
‘Why on earth not? Max says it’s a very smart affair. I’m sure the chauffeurs will be well looked after.’
‘No, you are not understanding. I must not be going there. I must be going to club.’
‘Since when? Your dance or show or whatever you call it doesn’t start until eleven.’
‘No, I have to be early. Now we are going to Cauayan, I have to fill in for missing time. You must understand; I must not go to this house!’
‘All right, there’s no need to shout! If you can’t, you can’t. I’ll text
you tomorrow’s schedule as soon as I know it.’
After lunch and a vigorous swim in the hotel pool, Philip returned to his room, where he planned to spend the afternoon transcribing the notes of his interview with Benito, but found himself distracted by possible plot lines for his novel. Whatever the truth of the prisoner’s allegations, the theme of reactionary priests ordering the murder of a radical colleague struck him as both rich in fictional potential and a telling image for the Church’s stranglehold on the country. He was so absorbed in his imaginings that he barely left sufficient time to shower and dress before taking a cab to pick up Max who, needless to say, was not ready. Rather than wait in the airless cab, he went up to the flat where, instructed to make himself at home, he flicked through the record collection, a love of vinyl being one of Max’s more endearing archaisms. Among the predictable array of female singers was one that astounded him: Imelda Papin Featuring Songs with Mrs Imelda Romualdez Marcos.
‘Is this for real?’ he asked, thrusting the sleeve at Max, who at last emerged from his room, wearing a pink barong Tagalog and smelling strongly of lemons.
‘Of course. It’s an album of her husband’s favourite songs, recorded while he was dying in hospital. Surely you of all people must appreciate the deluded romantic gesture?’
‘Did it kill him off?’ Philip asked, ignoring the jibe.
‘You have no heart!’ Max snatched the disc and put it tenderly back in its place. ‘We can’t stand here gossiping all day. We’ll be late!’
He ushered Philip out of the building and into the cab, where the driver greeted them with remarkable equanimity.
‘Forbes Park, please,’ Philip said, edging away from Max, whose citrus tang was making him nauseous.
‘Millionaires Row,’ Max added smugly.
The exclusive district lived up to its name. In contrast to the teeming streets elsewhere in the city, there were no traffic jams on the elegant avenues and not a single vagrant or vendor on the grass verges. High walls and sharp railings preserved the residents’ privacy, offering tantalising glimpses of chimneys, roofs and gables beneath the lush canopies of leaves. Only Ray’s and Mikee’s house was open to view, although the four security guards at the gate stood armed against intruders. Philip handed his invitation to one of them who, to Max’s irritation, waved them through without a second glance.
‘Don’t I deserve a full body search? Who knows where I might be hiding a grenade?’
Deaf to his grumbles, Philip gazed down the torchlit drive to the elegant white building with its semicircular porch, Doric columns and stucco festoons across the façade. They walked through the Chinese garden, past the miniature pagoda, ornamental pond and willow tree, to the porch, where they were greeted, first by a waiter with flutes of champagne, then by their ever-ebullient host.
‘Philip,’ Ray said. ‘I am honoured to welcome you to my humble home. Max.’ He acknowledged his old friend in passing.
‘It’s very kind of you to invite me,’ Philip said. ‘I’d no idea that it would be so sumptuous.’
‘The house or the guests?’ Max asked tetchily.
‘Both,’ Philip said, surveying the huge open-plan room in which stark white sofas, stools and armchairs were set against elegant displays of antique jade, porcelain and lacquered wood. Dominating the room was a sweeping glass staircase with a steel balustrade. He wondered if the transparent design had been deliberately chosen to compensate for the secrets elsewhere in the owners’ lives.
‘I do not know who half of these people are,’ Ray said, staring happily around the packed room.
‘Are we celebrating anything particular?’ Philip asked.
‘My son, Brent, who is announcing his plan to run for Congress. You will see him soon. First, there is someone of much more importance for you to meet.’
‘You don’t mean…?’ Max said.
‘She is here!’ Ray gestured to a small pink figure with her back to them, standing beside a white baby grand on which a pianist was playing a medley of familiar yet unidentifiable tunes.
‘But how did you manage it? She goes about so little now.’
‘Orlando Gozon. His wife belongs in the same health club as Mikee. He has an office next to hers in Congress. And he does business with Amel.’
‘It’s years since I last saw her,’ Max said. ‘The best years of my life. Not these, those.’
‘Are we talking about who I think we are?’ Philip asked.
‘How should I know? I’m not a mind-reader!’ Max replied, before turning back to Ray. ‘I can’t wait another moment. Take me over to her at once! But… but you might have to jog her memory.’ An anxious look crossed his face. ‘It’s been so long.’
‘Don’t worry. Who could ever forget you, Max?’
Philip followed Ray and Max through the room with a mixture of fascination and dread. With Margot Fonteyn dead, there was only one woman who could produce this effect on Max. Repeating the phrase “blood on her hands”, “blood on her hands”, like a mantra, he willed himself not to be seduced by her charm or dazzled by her celebrity.
She was holding forth to a small group of admirers. Her refusal to interrupt her story gave Philip the chance to observe her at close range. Her familiar helmet of jet-black hair was in sharp contrast to the puffy cheeks on which her overemphatic make-up looked like a gesture of defiance. She wore an ankle-length pink silk dress with high pointed sleeves and a huge diamond cluster ring on her right hand, which drew attention to her chipped nails. Her shoes, which he left until last, were disappointingly plain: open-toed sandals with a plastic flower on each strap.
Having reached the denouement, she turned to the newcomers as if suddenly aware of their presence. Ray introduced Max who, with tears in his eyes, bowed to kiss her hand. Her glazed smile left Philip unsure whether she genuinely recognised him or was putting on a practised act. Her face grew animated only when he mentioned his visits to the presidential palace with Fonteyn.
‘I miss her every day. We were such good friends,’ Imelda said. ‘She was a very great lady.’
‘As are you, ma’am,’ Max said.
‘All my life I have had just one wish: to do what I can for my country,’ she replied, as if on tape. ‘That is why I am still fighting for my people when my friends are at home, playing with their grandchildren.’
Just when she seemed to be sinking into a stupor, Ray introduced Philip. She made no move to hold out her hand and he refused to ape Max by lifting it to his lips, so he gave her a guarded nod and was rewarded with a gaze straight out of Madame Tussaud’s.
‘Philip is a friend from England,’ Ray said. ‘He is writing about Father Julian, a priest – also from England – who is soon to become a saint.’
‘How are you liking my country?’ Imelda asked Philip, with an emphasis on the possessive.
‘I’m overwhelmed by it,’ he replied equivocally. ‘I’ve never been anywhere so full of contradictions. Take today: here I am at this magnificent party, when I spent the morning on the Payatas rubbish dump.’
Philip felt a ripple of unease running through the group, but he was determined to stand his ground.
‘This is the world that God gave us,’ Imelda said. ‘Just as we have mountains and valleys and sun and rain and land and sea, so we have rich and poor. This is something that Westerners rarely understand. In England and in America, you have many poor people but they are miserable. In the Philippines, you will see that they are always smiling.’
‘They live on garbage. They bring up their children on garbage. They’re constantly exposed to infection.’
‘You are quite ignorant,’ Imelda replied blithely. ‘It’s what makes them strong. As I said to the Holy Father when he came to visit me, we should think positive and see it as free immunisation. Now I need to sit down; I am an old lady. Orlando…’ She turned to one of her companions, who had been hovering anxiously throughout the exchange. ‘You promised me some of Mr Lim’s delicious pancakes.’
�
��Please to come this way with me,’ Ray said. ‘I shall tell the waiters to bring you everything you desire.’
‘She’s not the only one who needs to sit down,’ Philip said, as Ray led Imelda and her coterie to one of the richly appointed tables at the far end of the room.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ Max said.
‘I should? I’m not the one who robbed my country blind and was complicit – at the very least – in the deaths of thousands of innocent people.’
‘Tell it to someone who gives a damn! Now we’d better get something to eat before we’re slung out on our ears,’ Max said. ‘The buffet’s outside.’
They walked through the patio doors into the back garden where a huge L-shaped table extended around two sides of a swimming pool. Philip gazed in awe at the display: the sparkling silver tureens and candlesticks; the gleaming porcelain platters; the fantail-shaped sprays of flowers; and above all, the lavishly arranged food. He strolled up from the shallow end, past melons, avocados, quiches and terrines, to dishes of cold salmon, chicken and pork, and a dauntingly large haunch of beef. Halfway along, he stopped to watch a group of chefs sweatily grilling steaks and frying the celebrated pancakes, before continuing to the deep end, where the brightly coloured salad bowls and wheels of cheese gave way to a fantasia of puddings: caramel baskets filled with crème chantilly; three-tiered chocolate towers; berry tarts piled as high as Easter bonnets.
Max walked up to him, mouth full and spirits restored. ‘You must try some of this.’ He held out a plate of reddish-brown meat.
‘What is it?’
‘Think of it as the best pussy you’ll ever eat.’
‘Can’t you give it a rest for one evening?’
‘It’s true,’ Max said with a smirk. ‘Buto sa baboy. Otherwise known as roast sow’s vagina.’
His last shred of appetite destroyed, Philip was contemplating how to slip away when Ray came over to them.
‘The lady is happy. She has encountered some old friends from the Malacañang days. She has promised to have a few words of advice in Brent’s ear. But no more politics! I shall have enough of this when the campaign is starting.’ He turned to Philip. ‘Tell me, did the boy Dennis drive you here?’
The Breath of Night Page 27
