The Breath of Night (6 page)

‘What were you expecting? A photo of him hovering two foot above the nave?’

‘It was worth a try. Besides, I’d just have been kicking my heels till we went up to San Isidro. Any news on that front by the way?’

‘Don’t worry. It’s all in hand.’

‘Great,’ he replied, trying not to sound sceptical. ‘I thought that might be what you wanted to discuss. I’m sure it’s the most fertile field of enquiry. I have a list of all the people I’d like to interview: his former housekeeper, that is if she’s still alive; parishioners, several of whom are named in the letters; fellow priests and missionaries; the lay leaders with whom he set up the Basic Christian Communities; and, of course, anyone who’s been touched by one of his miracles. Before then, I should call on the Bishop. It’s only polite, not to say prudent, since I need him to fill me in on the progress so far and let me have copies of all their documents. That way I won’t waste time going over old ground.’

‘For one so young, you have a morbid obsession with time. Haven’t I told you that time here is flexible?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Philip said, afraid that his impatience was itself a sign of inflexibility, ‘it must be how I’m made. Isabel Olliphant gave me a letter of introduction to the Bishop. Do you think I should send it straight to him or ring to introduce myself first – or simply turn up at the door?’

‘None of the above,’ Max said. ‘I’ve made an appointment with the Vicar General – he’s like the Bishop’s support act – who’s coming to Manila on Tuesday.’

‘To see me?’ Philip said, keen not to betray his excitement.

‘To see the Cardinal. You’re just an extra.’

‘Of course,’ Philip said, feeling crushed.

The food arrived. Max tore into his cuttlefish while Philip picked tentatively at the
kare-kare
and its accompaniment. Honour demanded a show of enthusiasm, but he was relieved to find that the rich, salty stew, with the thick tang of peanut butter and the tart green mango salad, merited it of its own accord. The fermented shrimp paste, however, was an acquired taste.

‘Have you made plans for this evening?’ Max asked.

‘Dinner in the hotel followed by another session of Pay for View, I expect,’ Philip said. ‘I’m catching up with all the films I missed on the plane.’

‘Not tempted by the fleshpots of Manila?’ Max asked, his yellow grin accentuated by sweetcorn.

‘Not remotely,’ Philip replied, unnerved by a question that took him back to the early hours when, alone and restless, he had abandoned
Moneyball
and turned to the adult channel, tantalising himself with the trailers. He trusted that it was
disapproval
of the commercialisation of sex and the exploitation of women that had prevented his pressing Enter, and not just revulsion at joining the ranks of middle-aged businessmen, too cheap or too flaccid to make their demands in person, let alone the fear that either Max or Hugh would decipher the entries on his bill.

‘I have a couple of friends coming to dinner whom I’d like you to meet.’

‘Men friends?’ Philip asked, a little too fast.

‘Let me think. Yes, as it happens. Is that a problem?’

‘No, of course not. Not at all.’

‘Good. Ray Lim works at the National Museum. He’s been invaluable in obtaining export licences for Hugh’s collection. Red tape!’ Max made a snipping gesture with his fingers.

‘We’ll have that in common. I read art history.’

‘Dennis Santos is something else. I can’t play Mary Poppins throughout your trip. You need an interpreter, a driver and a bodyguard.’

‘Come on! I don’t scare that easily.’

‘I’m serious. Nothing in this country is the way it looks. You think because the Filipinos have Spanish names and speak English that you understand them. Big mistake! Dennis is bright, streetwise and fearless; he’ll keep you out of trouble. True, at first sight, he might seem like trouble himself, but that’s just an act. I’ve told him all about you and the canonisation process, and
he’s very keen. In his own way he’s quite devout. And I make no bones about it; you’ll be doing me a favour. He’s scratched my back in the past. Now I try to scratch his.’

‘Well, I’m happy to help out. So long as it’s understood that I reserve the right to say “no”.’

Max crossed his heart with a flourish that did not inspire
confidence
and pressed Philip to join him in a glass of brandy. He declined, insisting on the need to go back to the library, while avoiding any compromising reference to time. He finally reached the microfiche room only twenty minutes late and set up the machine. After three hours of staring at newsprint by turns faded, smeared and out of focus, his head was as groggy and his notepad as blank as if he had accepted Max’s drink. He handed the spools back to the assistant, his frustration at having exhausted all his leads tempered by relief at having no further call to return, and took a pedicab to the hotel, where he had a quick shower to refresh himself, followed by a long bath to relax. Cocooned in a
bathrobe
, he stretched out on his bed, switched on the TV and flicked between BBC World and CNN, comparing the relative value of news stories with a trainspotter’s rigour. He put on the designated dinner wear of T-shirt and jeans, which gave the Home Counties boy in him an illicit thrill, and took a taxi to Max’s flat in Legaspi Towers, a destination that met with his driver’s approval: ‘Very favourite building. Much people go there.’

They drove down Roxas Boulevard and drew up outside a shabby tower block with a rust-coloured – and coated – frame, and chipped white balconies. An apathetic security guard waved Philip through the low concrete porch into a huge atrium,
bordered
by shops, offices and a hair salon, with a torrential water feature at the centre. He took the lift to the fifteenth floor and walked along a cheerless, uncarpeted corridor lined with steel doors as heavily padlocked as bank vaults. Spotting the one open grille, he pressed the doorbell, which Max answered, wearing a silky pink pinafore apron. Philip fixed his gaze on his face.

‘Welcome to Casa Bradshaw,’ Max said, stepping aside to reveal a room as cluttered as a museum repository.

‘Wow!’ Philip said, staring at the two life-size ebony gods guarding the window who took virility to extreme lengths; the large brass cockerel inlaid with beads and mother-of-pearl; the rattan tub chairs and sofa, with clashing zebra- and
tiger-print
cushions; all cast in a variegated glow by a string of fairy lights hung with brightly patterned paper lanterns. Meanwhile, every wall, ledge and table was crammed with photographs of women in tutus and men in tights, several posed with Max and all inscribed to him.

‘Wow’s the word,’ Max said, taking his astonishment at face value. ‘Sit yourself down. Asia or Africa?’ He pointed to the respective cushions. Philip opted for the tiger print, which was closer. ‘Quite right. When in Rome…. Would you like a drink? I’ve made some pink gin, in keeping with the theme of the evening.’

‘Is there a theme? I didn’t realise.’

‘Friendship. Speaking of which. Ray!’ He called through the open door. ‘We’re waiting!’ He turned back to Philip. ‘He’ll spend all night powdering his nose.’

Philip smiled at a euphemism he associated with his
grandmother
, only to discover, when Ray appeared, that it was to be taken literally. He was reluctant to judge another culture, let alone another subculture, but the light dusting of make-up on Ray’s elderly face, together with the frilly diaphanous shirt which exposed every hollow in his scrawny torso, were deeply unappealing.

‘Ray Lim, curator, entrepreneur and life-long reprobate, meet Philip Seward, saint-catcher and innocent abroad.’

‘Not that innocent,’ Philip said, shaking a hand as pliant as a puppet’s.

‘Oh, what a firm grip!’ Ray said. ‘Let me look.’ He studied Philip’s palm. ‘Such bold lines! I shall tell your fortune later.’

‘What?’ Max intervened. ‘That he’ll meet a small, grey, raddled Chinoy? Hands off!’ He wrenched Philip away. ‘Come and sit down and let Mother pour you some of her Ruin.’

Max walked over to a drum-shaped drinks cabinet and pulled several ice cubes from the belly of a plastic Buddha. Philip moved to the sofa, discreetly shifting continents to avoid Ray. He accepted a full tumbler from Max, hoping that he had not stinted on the soda. ‘Cheers!’ he said expansively.

‘To your very good health,’ Ray said, fluttering a large
butterfly-covered
fan.

‘Bottoms up!’ Max said, smacking his hand once again.

‘How long have you lived here?’ Philip asked, sounding unnervingly like his mother.

‘Since before you were born,’ he replied. ‘Oh my God, it really is!’

‘My friend Max came to this country with Dame Margot Fonteyn,’ Ray said reverently, pronouncing her Christian name with a hard ‘t’, which Max made no attempt to correct.

‘Were you a dancer?’ Philip asked, reassessing the photographs.

‘In my dreams,’ Max replied fervently. ‘No, I met Margot through a mutual admirer. We hit it off and she took me on as a sort of general factotum, an aide-de-camp.’ Ray tittered at a pun he had clearly heard many times before. ‘We first came to Manila in 1976 with the Australian Ballet.’

‘And you stayed on?’

‘Not immediately. Margot danced in Manila several times. Imelda liked nothing more than to sit and chat in her dressing room and, when Margot was busy, she made do with me. She told me about her plans for a Philippine National Ballet and, out of the blue, asked if I’d like to run it. At first I thought it was a joke – not that she was known for her sense of humour – but she was perfectly serious. The next day she summoned me to her office and repeated her offer. I pleaded inexperience, but she laughed it off, claiming that she always followed her instincts and she’d never met anyone – except herself, of course – who felt so passionately about ballet. So what could I say but yes? Yes, yes, yes!’

‘I take it you’ve cut your ties with the company?’

‘There is no company; there never was. Poor Imelda. She was a genuine visionary. Just think of the nerve it took to put a
foreigner
– and an unknown one at that – at the helm of such a high-profile project. She poured millions – and I mean millions – into the country’s cultural life. And for what? She was vilified, attacked and betrayed on all sides.’

‘Is it any wonder? While she was pouring millions into dance or whatever, half the population was starving.’

‘Who was it said that Man cannot live by bread alone? Don’t answer! I grant that Imelda had her faults. She could be petty and erratic and self-deluding. She was so desperate to be seen as sophisticated that she started a rumour that she was a lesbian. And yet… and yet she had courage and style and imagination. She put the Philippines on the map. The one thing no one can deny is that Manila’s a far less exciting place to live than it was in her day.’

‘So have you never thought of coming home?’ Philip asked.

‘To Mr and Mrs Bradshaw, RIP? No, thank you. This is my home. Besides I don’t have the proverbial pot to piss in.’ Ray laughed. ‘Imelda gave me this flat for life. If I went back to England, I couldn’t afford the rent on a bedsit in Bexhill-on-Sea. Ray, I’ll leave you to do the honours while I twiddle some knobs in the kitchen.’

He curtsied and went out. Philip lingered beside the sofa until, sensing that Ray was poised to pounce, he moved to the wall, taking a sudden interest in the dancers’ photographs. He speculated on what Max must have said for Ray to subject him to this absurd and, frankly, offensive charade. Did he try it on with every young man he met or had he singled him out for special treatment? And if so, why? Did sandy hair, green eyes and broad shoulders send a specific message to Filipinos, or did Ray take the arcane view that every ex-public schoolboy was gay?

‘Are you all right?’ Ray asked, as Philip inadvertently growled.

‘Fine, thank you. The drink was a little strong.’

‘Max is too generous. He wants us to have fun. He forgets that we are not all such lusciouses as him. You must come to have
your meals at my house. My wife and my sons will be delighted to welcome you.’

‘You’re married?’ Philip asked, stifling his surprise.

‘Thirty-six years. We have three sons and one girl. One of my sons went to Princeton University and now he is making law in America. The other two are in Manila and have big business. I am a very proud father.’

The doorbell rang, cutting through Ray’s chatter and Philip’s confusion.

‘I’ll go,’ Max called from the kitchen.

‘It will be Dennis,’ Ray said. ‘Such a naughty boy to keep us waiting.’

‘What does Dennis do?’ Philip asked quickly. ‘Max was a little cagey.’

‘He is number one dancer. Max says that, the first time he saw him, he was swept off his knees.’

Philip smiled at the mangled idiom as Max entered with a tall, muscular young man in a baseball cap, blue jeans and classic red Coca-Cola T-shirt of the kind that Philip and his university friends had ironised into Cocaine. ‘Philip, this is Dennis.’

‘Philip Seward, good to meet you,’ Philip said, holding out his right hand, which hung lamely in the air.

‘Your face!’ Ray shrieked. ‘Dennis, what have you done to your face?’ He fanned himself in horror.

‘I am robbed; I am cheated; I am betrayed!’ Dennis exclaimed, with an extravagance to match Ray’s fanning. ‘Angel Placenta cream. It promises top-notch results in twenty-eight days, or else full money is coming back. And look, this is Dennis after less than one whole week!’

Philip gazed at his blotchy red forehead and peeling cheeks. ‘Angel Placenta?’ he asked Max.

‘Skin whitening,’ he replied. ‘It makes you weep. All those beautiful bronze boys whose greatest desire is to look as
washed-out
and pasty as us.’

‘I go back to Quiapo. I tell this man – this thief – I will be cutting off his dick – if he has one – and feed it to my dog.’

‘If you had one,’ Max muttered.

‘He shows me box and says “Here is written:
Do not go out in sun for one week.
Have you done this?” I tell him I do not go out to beach, right? I do not lie by swimming pool with sexy girls. But is February; is sun. Will I walk in street with bag on top of my head? And he tells me “yes”. Just like this. “Yes.” And I spit. I spit on floor and inside heart.’