The Breath of Night

by Michael Arditti

  ‘I appreciate that you’re overwrought. And under the circumstances who can blame you? Plus, I see where the trouble lies. It’s all down to language or, rather, terminology. When we speak of the Church, you and I, we mean two quite different things. You mean buildings and treasure and popes and power; I mean the people: the people for whom the Church is the only road to salvation.’

  ‘What about the gospel?’

  ‘The gospel is nothing without the Church.’

  Philip was torn. While eager to hear what guarantees the Bishop would demand of him, he was determined to pin down the Vicar General. ‘In which case, how far would you be willing to go to protect it?’

  ‘As far as was necessary.’

  ‘As far as murder?’

  ‘That would never be necessary.’ The Vicar General looked shocked.

  ‘No? There are those who claim that Julian’s death was ordered by a group of right-wing priests to whom his views were anathema.’

  ‘We are well aware that you’ve made contact with a psychopath in Bilibid jail.’

  ‘How did you…?’ Philip started; to his certain knowledge the only person to whom he had mentioned it was Max.

  ‘You keep on asking me how, when you should be asking yourself why.’

  ‘I’ve told you why several times: to discover the truth! And, unlike the Church hierarchy, I believe that the truth is the same as the facts.’

  ‘Then your understanding is deeply flawed. The evidence of the miracles means that Father Julian’s views – and even his actions – are no longer material. What counts is his example. There is a long-standing Church tradition that on the Day of Judgement we will be made to answer not just for our actions but for the consequences of those actions after our death. So, is a saint a saint solely by virtue of… well, of his own virtues, or by virtue of the virtues he inspires in others?’

  ‘Presumably you expect me to opt for the latter?’

  ‘Most people have a simple faith. They have neither the time nor the training for complex – indeed, for any kind of – theological argument. They need signs, which Father Julian is already giving them. And I am sure that St Julian will give them many more. Are you still intent on taking that away?’

  ‘Do I have any choice in the matter?’

  ‘We all have a choice.’

  ‘I was thinking more of my current state than the human condition.’

  ‘There is of course an easy solution,’ the Vicar General said, standing and facing the wall, where he clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘Unlike some, the police have due respect for the Church. I am sure that I can persuade them to release you into my custody – not literally, of course: our humble clergy house is no match for the Manila Hotel. The charges against you will be deferred while you complete your report and then quietly dropped.’

  ‘You have that much power?’

  ‘Not me, no, not at all: the Church!’

  ‘And what assurances do you have that once I’m free, I’ll comply?’

  ‘When they searched your room –’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Standard procedure. The officers took the precaution of removing your passport. It will be returned when you board the plane next Thursday.’

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ Philip said, anxious to assert his integrity even as he acceded to the demands and despising himself for both. ‘You’re asking me to lie in the report?’

  ‘Not at all,’ the Vicar General said, turning back to him. ‘I had hoped that we would have understood each other by now: “to excise things which would cause confusion”. Surely you see that it’s the best way for everyone? For us; for the Olliphants; and above all for yourself. The Bishops Conference has strongly condemned the deplorable conditions in our jails, but so far to little effect.’

  ‘I can’t think; I think I’m going to collapse!’

  ‘Would you like me to call for some water?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’ Philip gulped. ‘It’s passed.’

  ‘Of course we can’t expect you to reach a decision at once. If you prefer, I can go now and come back on Saturday.’

  ‘And leave me here?’

  ‘They will no doubt move you into the holding cell.’

  ‘That overcrowded cage at the front?’

  ‘Exactly. I am sure that, like Father Julian, you would refuse any special treatment.’

  ‘And if – only if – I were to agree to your proposal, how can you know that once I’m back home, I won’t renege and submit a second report to Isabel and Hugh?’

  The Vicar General looked hurt. ‘An Englishman’s word is his bond: isn’t that what you say? But in case things have changed since I was in Guildford, I should remind you that although your laws on abortion may be shamefully lenient, those on child abuse – even when committed overseas – are not. We would have no trouble in proving that Miss Santos is a minor.’

  ‘Nineteen is above the age of consent for us.’

  ‘Nineteen? Sixteen? Fourteen? The necessary witnesses could be found.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Philip said, choked with disgust. ‘I asked how far you would go to protect the Church and now I know.’

  ‘As I said, as far as was necessary. So have you made up your mind, or would you like to talk it over with your fellow prisoners?’

  ‘Is that meant to be a joke?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I accept your terms. Of course I do.’

  ‘Of course you do. You may not thank me now, but I am confident that you will as soon as you’ve had a chance to think things over. I’ve noticed a change in you since we first met. There’s definitely a new strength in your eyes, or is it your jawline? My country has been good for you.’ He summoned an officer who escorted them out, past the pen, which had filled up further during the afternoon, to the reception area where, after a brief discussion, the desk officer gave Philip back both his property and his freedom. The Vicar General offered him a lift to the hotel, but he insisted on taking a cab. ‘Very wise,’ the Vicar General said, impervious to the snub. ‘What better time to start drafting your report! You’re here for another week, so I hope that once you’ve finished it, you’ll take the chance to explore the city: the restaurants, the galleries and the malls. You’ll find everything you could want: a Rolex watch or a Louis Vuitton suitcase that even the original designers would be happy to own.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’ve had my fill of fakes.’

  Returning to the hotel, Philip went straight to the front desk to pick up his messages. His conviction that the entire staff knew of his ordeal was confirmed by the receptionist’s shudder, until he remembered that there was ink smeared across his face. With the irony that had become his fate, the only message was from the Bilibid governor’s office authorising him to visit Prisoner N204P-0370 Gerron Casiscas. There was nothing from Maribel, whose continued silence, both here and on his mobile, was a sure sign of guilt. He hurried up to his room, where the tears he had held in check ever since his arrest flooded out at the sight of the clothes, books and papers strewn about the floor. He made a desultory attempt to clear up, before crawling, fully clothed, into bed and pulling the covers over his head.

  The darkness failed to calm his mind. The conspiracy ranged wider than he had feared. Whatever the scope of Maribel’s and Dennis’s involvement, they must have colluded with Max, since no one else could have told the Vicar General of the Bilibid connection. And if Max were involved, then who else? Might the web extend as far as Whitlock? He hugged himself tighter. Had Max warned Hugh that he was looking into Julian’s political activities and Hugh instructed him to use every available means to scare him off? The truth was that he could trust nobody. The one virtue of his arrest was that it freed him from any lingering remorse at leaving Maribel. Whether she were the prime mover in an elaborate subterfuge or merely a pawn, he had no desire ever to set eyes on her again. Having expected less from Dennis, he felt less wounded by his betrayal. The sensible thing would be to sac
k him, but with under a week before he flew home, he would keep him on, but at a distance, restoring boundaries he should never have relaxed. He would take a similar line with Max. By refusing even to mention his arrest, he would deny him the satisfaction of seeing how deeply he was hurt.

  Emerging from the fug, he resolved to eat his way out of misery, ringing down for a meal of coquilles St Jacques, steak and chips, white chocolate parfait and, in a spirit of defiance, an expensive bottle of Saint Émilion. After bolting it down, he felt ugly, bloated and full of self-loathing, which he compounded by logging on to the adult channel. This time he picked an Asian film, Banana Cream Pie, in which, in a hotel room as bleak as his was lavish, a dazed-looking teenager was mounted orally, vaginally, anally and, after much cumbersome manoeuvring, in all three orifices at once, by a tattooed man with gold teeth, a pot-bellied man with a ponytail and a scrawny adolescent with acne. Feeling complicit in her violation, Philip switched off after ten minutes, to be left with a profound sense of shame.

  He awoke the next morning with a pounding headache and a sour taste in his mouth, as though he had drunk a bottle of vinegar. Braced by a strong dose of caffeine, he embarked on his report. Sticking to the Vicar General’s guidelines, he eliminated anything that might be deemed contentious. What remained was a full description of Julian’s miracles, along with a history of his work in San Isidro, all of which, apart from some incidental details in the parishioners’ testimonies and his own account of Jejomar’s crucifixion, was well known to the investigators. After reading through the nascent hagiography he felt the futility of his visit as never before.

  Apart from a workout in the hotel gym before lunch and a dip in the pool at teatime, he did not stir from his laptop all day. He received only two phone calls. The first was from Max who, making no reference to his arrest, confirmed the arrangements for the evening’s party. The second was from Dennis who, with unprecedented – and unsettling – diligence, asked if he were needed for work. Curbing his surprise, Philip gave him the day off, apologising for not having informed him earlier and asking him to apologise too to Maribel for his failure to bring her the makabuhay. ‘The traffic around Quiapo was so heavy that I was forced to give up,’ he said, trusting that his pauses were as inscrutable as Dennis’s grunts. ‘Anyway, I expect I’ll see you later. Will you be dancing at the club?’

  ‘I am always dancing. I am star attraction. When I am not dancing, all the baklas are asking: “Where is Dennis?”’

  ‘So you’ve solved your problem?’

  ‘What problem is this you mean? There is no problem.’

  ‘Your money problem: your 10,000 pesos problem! I had a hunch that it had something to do with Ray.’

  ‘This is no problem. Ray is big friend of me. I am giving him massage. I am best masseur in Manila.’

  ‘Fine,’ Philip said wearily and put down the phone.

  Although he had no wish to see Max, let alone to celebrate his birthday, Philip was determined to put up a brave front. So at 9.30 he hailed a cab to drive him to Legaspi Towers, where he found Max waiting impatiently in the forecourt. ‘Many happy returns!’

  ‘Thank you,’ Max said, stepping into the car with a sly expression, which looked more than ever as if it should be set off by whiskers: not mutton-chops or sideburns, but cat’s whiskers sprouting from the corners of his mouth.

  After a strained ride, they pulled up outside the Mr Universe, a two-storey building in a patch of wasteland. Red, white and blue fairy lights festooned the façade and a giant plywood bodybuilder, whose perfectly curved biceps looked as if they had been traced with a compass, was propped up beside the door. Philip nervously surveyed the seedy display and desolate setting, while Max chatted to the hefty doorman.

  ‘Happy birthday, Mr Max,’ the doorman said. ‘They’re waiting for you inside.’

  ‘Thank you, Madame.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem the sort of guy to have a female nickname,’ Philip said, as they walked through the plastic-strip door.

  ‘That’s because he’s a she,’ Max replied.

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘We call her Madame Papaya.’

  ‘After the fruit?’

  ‘After the tree. It’s one of Nature’s freaks. The male papaya bears the flowers and the female the fruit. You can turn the female into the male by cutting it. That’s what she’s saving up for.’

  ‘You can’t even trust the trees in this country,’ Philip said, as he stood in the doorway and took in the ambience. The low ceiling was hung with paper streamers, which looked as if they had been left over from an office party. The walls and bar were painted the ox-blood of a fleapit cinema. Twenty or thirty small tables faced a raised stage, the size of the dais in his old village hall: an image he immediately tried to shrug off. The air was stale and thick with smoke.

  The manager, a florid man in his forties with a shirt to match his manner, greeted Max with two hurried pecks and several waspish comments, before leading the way to an alcove where Ray and Amel were sitting. ‘Your guests have arrived, sir,’ he said to Amel, who stood up to welcome them, wishing Max a happy birthday and apologising for his brother’s absence.

  ‘Brent is standing for congress. We have had to put this club solely in my name.’

  ‘Philip, my friend, you must sit here besides me,’ Ray said, making room for Philip on the banquette. Philip slid into his designated place, trusting that Amel’s presence would act as a restraint on Ray’s roving hands.

  After pouring the champagne and toasting Max, Amel excused himself for a moment, leaving Max and Ray to gossip, and Philip to watch the stage. Whatever the relevance of the club’s name, it bore none to the dancers, most of whom looked as if they should still be competing on their high-school sports fields. Wearing leopard-print pouches, feathered headdresses and beaded armbands, a dozen young men were performing a tribal number. The rotating lights were, however, more animated than the dancers who, either from lack of space or the limitations of the choreography, remained rooted to the spot, gyrating their hips, rolling their bellies, sliding their hands up and down their torsos, and making no attempt whatever to engage with their audience.

  ‘Is that all they do?’ Philip asked Max.

  ‘Patience, dear! The pants don’t come off until midnight.’

  ‘I can live with that,’ Philip said. ‘But I don’t see any sign of Dennis.’

  ‘Don’t worry, he’ll be here.’

  At the end of the number the dancers jumped off the stage, resuming their gyrations beside and even on top of the tables, their pouches turning into purses in which the audience could both express their appreciation and fondle the flesh. Philip, who had abhorred every kind of audience participation since a boyhood encounter with Widow Twankey, sank back in his seat and gave thanks that the alcove was set apart. His gratitude was cut short by the arrival of a dancer, his penis poking out of his pouch like the gun in the policeman’s holster. He stood by the table and stroked himself, seemingly oblivious to the two arms, one white and one brown, stretched out to squeeze his thigh. Then, lifting his right foot on to the table, he leant forward to make himself more accessible. Max and Ray took full advantage of his presence before, in an impromptu move that looked better timed than any on the stage, their hands met as they simultaneously stuffed bills into his pouch. As he drew back, Ray lowered his hand and let it rest on Philip’s crotch. Philip snatched it away.

  ‘Oh, I am so sorry. This is my mistake!’

  ‘Big mistake!’ Philip said gruffly.

  ‘Boasting again,’ Max said with a giggle.

  The dancers returned to the stage, which had been reset during the break to reveal a backdrop of Manila Bay at dusk. Midnight must have passed, since they were now naked, but along with the licence came a new coyness as they kept one hand constantly clamped over their groins. The nudity had at least some bearing on a routine in which they soaped and showered themselves, and played with the giant bubbles that were blown in from the wings.
Their repertoire of movements remained minimal: the same straight backs, swinging hips and rolling stomachs, with one arm after the other reaching slowly up their chests and into the air. At all times, including the fleeting crossover, they made sure to keep their genitals covered, giving the bizarre impression that these bodies for hire were as anxious to conceal their nakedness as Adam in a medieval woodcut of the Fall.

  Given the lack of either erotic charge or choreographic complexity, Philip found that his only interest lay in watching Dennis, who had finally appeared. The narcissism of the performance perfectly matched that of his personality, as he caressed every inch of the well-toned flesh, which would be his sole means of survival once Philip returned home.

  The number ended, and with it any artistic ambitions the show might have harboured. The dancers, half-coated in suds, dragged on chairs from the wings, which they lined up at the edge of the stage and, to a brassy soundtrack, sat down and began to masturbate. An abrupt silence was followed by a fevered clamour, as the audience cheered on their favourites, although it was impossible to tell whether they were applauding their dexterity or their physiques. Philip felt a mixture of disgust and outrage, and wondered if it would have been the same had the dancers been female, until a sudden recollection of Banana Cream Pie both repelled and reassured him.

  ‘You look the way I feel,’ he said to Max. ‘Isn’t it your thing?’

  ‘Just a fit of the birthday blues. I’m thinking of all the nights I’ve spent at this club. All the boys. All the transactions. All as fleeting and as desultory as that.’ He gestured to the stage where one of the boys had reached orgasm, to a smattering of applause. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ve got a touch of the “where are they nows?”, maybe married to a dash of the “what were they thens?”. I’ll be fine.’

  Amel returned to the table, and for all his attempts to engage with the proceedings Philip was heartened by the presence of another straight man.

  ‘Enjoying yourself?’ Amel asked him.

  ‘Well, I’m enjoying the champagne and the snacks. The floorshow’s not exactly to my taste.’