The Breath of Night (7 page)

17 November 1972

My dear Mother and Father,

As you see, I’m writing this myself, so you can stop worrying. Three weeks of bed rest in Baguio and I’m as right as rain. I was under sisters’ orders which, believe me, are far stricter than doctor’s. I now have an inkling of what Agnes and Cora went through at school. No books meant no books. Not even the Bible slipped under their radar, although they took it in turns to read psalms to me in the afternoon. I wasn’t allowed visitors, cigarettes or a radio, and Lights Out was at seven. I’ve warned them that I’ll have my revenge when I come back to hear their confessions; they’ll be working off the Hail Marys for the next twenty years. ‘It’ll be worth it, Father,’ the Mother Superior said, ‘to know that you’re fully recovered.’ They’re wonderful women and I’m for ever in their debt.

It takes a serious illness to make a priest stop and pause. I spend so much time ministering to the sick and the dying that it’s easy to suppose myself indestructible. Then one insect bite and wham, my head’s cracking, my chest’s crimson and my joints feel as if they’ve been set alight. On the positive side, I was deeply touched by the parish’s concern. From now on, whenever I feel daunted by my own inadequacy or by the casual cruelty of
everyday
life, I’ll look back on the constant stream of well-wishers, some of whom walked thirty miles or more to see me, bringing food that they could ill spare but which it would have been the gravest insult to refuse. Even the
baylan
came – she’s the local wise woman (think a Philippine Miss Thurrock in a white wrap and armlets). Staying safely outside the gate, she handed
Consolacion
a green paste made of powdered larvae and palm oil
which she swore, if rubbed on my chest, would cure me at once. Dismissing Consolacion’s protests, I insisted that she threw it out, although I suspect that she’s kept it for her own use.

I begged the Regional not to bother you, but he said that he had no choice. He told me that Greg had offered to fly out at a moment’s notice. That was decent of him. I know we’ve had our differences but, to me, he’s still the twelve-year-old boy whom Nanny sent to bed in onion-filled socks when he had flu and who’s not eaten an onion since, rather than the junior Home Office minister. As soon as I’m feeling 100 percent – and not just the current 97.5 – I’ll write to thank him. With my
convalescent
scrawl even harder to decipher than usual, it’s unfair to inflict it on anyone but you (I mean that as a compliment). On which note and in belated answer to your query, Mother: yes, it is BAT I’ve been eating. Please don’t think that I’m piling on the agony, let alone trying to outdo John the Baptist with his locusts – which, incidentally, are regarded as a delicacy in some parts of Luzon – but bat is a much undervalued source of protein. Besides, after Great-Uncle Lennox, it ill behoves a member of the Tremayne family to cast aspersions on anyone else’s diet.

I’m back in harness, although not in cassock. I’ve made use of my enforced break to bring in a change that I’d long been contemplating. In a bid to remove the barriers between priest and people, I’ve resolved that, except in church, I shall wear the same clothes that they do… well maybe not nylon shorts and flip-flops, but something casual. The move hasn’t been
universally
welcomed. Some of the
haciendos
prefer their priests in skirts (not least symbolically), but they’re in a minority. I suspect it may be one that includes you (I remember how Father harrumphed when nuns first exposed their shins), nevertheless I’d be most grateful if you’d send me half a dozen shirts (white, short-sleeved, 15½ collar) and grey or beige cotton shorts (32 waist – don’t worry, I’ve only lost a couple of inches). It may comfort you to know that, even with Consolacion’s dedicated ministrations, the cassock was getting very stained – and not
just from sweat. One of their more arcane superstitions is that, if a baby urinates on someone who’s holding him, they’ll bond for life. I’ve lost count of the number of mothers who’ve handed me their leaky children. I’m thinking of putting up a sign, along with ‘Please don’t play ball games in the churchyard’, ‘Please don’t pee on the priest.’

As if infant incontinence weren’t enough, we now have a dog. I’ve no idea what breed he is. There’s a hint of Golden Retriever and another of German Shepherd, but the rest is anyone’s guess. I bought him in Baguio where he was one of sixty puppies cooped up like battery chickens and destined, I fear, for a similar fate. And no, I wasn’t being the dewy-eyed Englishman; I can’t spare the time for animal rights when there’s so much to do for humans. I’d just been given the all clear by the doc and was taking my first steps outside the convent when I heard a furious barking. I wouldn’t be my sister’s brother if I’d passed by on the other side. Moreover, I wanted to celebrate my good news. I’d have liked to buy the whole pack, but I’m running a parish not a kennel. So I chose one at random. Not that Grump has shown his appreciation. Two chewed sandals, one upturned rice jar and countless soiled floors later, and I suspect that Consolacion would be happy to casserole him herself. We had the ‘either he goes or I go’ conversation the day I brought him home, although neither of us took it seriously. I promised that I’d be the one to clear up his mess but, the moment I pick up a cloth, she prises it from my hands (I’m not sure whether she considers it beneath my dignity or enjoys the sense of martyrdom). She vehemently refuses to buy dog food, which is understandable from someone who had to feed her children on scraps. Instead she gives him leftovers, including bat bones, which splinter just as easily as chicken’s, but when I pointed out the danger she laughed. Either dogs here have developed cast-iron stomachs, or else canine life, like its human counterpart, is cheap.

In other news, the big story is that President Marcos has imposed Martial Law which, although it sounds frightening, is
much like Mr Heath’s State of Emergency, only with guns. Of course there are dangers in awarding the government
additional
powers, but the overwhelming consensus among people of all sorts is that it’s a crucial step towards healing the nation’s ills. Indeed, I’m told that behind the scenes it was a
prerequisite
for obtaining further foreign aid. City dwellers will benefit from the crackdown on weapons, drugs and pornography (my visit to Hendrik in Cabanatuan was an eye-opener), while in the country we’ve been promised radical land reform. As you’ll have gathered from my previous letters, farmers here have a raw deal. They do all the work and then the landlords take half the profits – more if you count the high interest they charge on loans for hospital fees, building repairs and even emergency grain. If the proposed changes go ahead, and it’s a big if since legislation here is often shelved, tenants will enjoy a far greater measure of independence, paying a fair rent and reaping the rewards of their labour.

It’s an irony you may or may not relish, Father, but I’ve become as intimately involved in land management as if I’d stayed on the estate. I suspect, however, that conditions here are more like those in the time of your great-great grandfather than anything to be found at Whitlock today. The farmers have a sense of indebtedness that goes way beyond indenture. They feel an almost mystical bond to the
haciendos
who, more often than not, are either their or their children’s godfathers. I wince every time that I see don Florante Pineda or don Bernardo Arriola standing at the font. The relationship is far too Sicilian for my liking. The godfathers pay the expenses of the baptisms just as they later do of the funerals of children (so many of the funerals I conduct are of children) who die as a direct result of policies that they themselves have put in place.

Their loyal tenants, however, see it differently. All their
criticisms
and complaints are levelled at the managers, for whom I’ve gained increasing sympathy. They’re the ones on the spot, while the
haciendos
are carousing in Manila and their wives are
on shopping sprees in Hong Kong. Take the Romualdez family, the third of our large landowners and the ones with whom I’m least acquainted, since they’re so seldom here. I can’t tell you how often I’ve heard people say: ‘If only don Enrico knew how the
encargado
treats us.’ Well, last week he had a chance to find out, when he paid a rare visit to the estate. Although I was still recuperating, I drove out to watch his semi-regal progress in a carriage drawn by two carabaos and garlanded with
sampaguitas
, the sweet-scented national flower. He sat next to his wife, doña Teresa, a plain woman wearing her trademark black, and opposite his children, Regina, as brightly dressed as her mother was sombre, and Joey, who exuded an air of scornful indolence, which he had no doubt practised at Harvard. The entire
hacienda
had turned out to line the route. Joey winced at every jolt of the carriage; Regina simpered beneath her sunshade; doña Teresa waved modestly; and don Enrico threw sweets to the children, who darted dangerously close to the wheels. At the compound gate he announced, to tumultuous applause, that there would be free beer for everyone. Four of his lackeys carried out a dozen crates and the crowd toasted their beneficent landlord. Within an hour, all their grievances had been forgotten. No wonder cynics claim that San Miguel should be the country’s patron saint.

Two days later I received a visit from doña Teresa who, having heard of my fever, gave me a statuette of Our Lady she’d bought on a recent pilgrimage to Medjugorje. While Consolacion, whose esteem for doña Teresa’s piety seems to stem entirely from her wardrobe, served iced tea and caramelised plantain, I took the opportunity to ask a favour for one of my parishioners, Leonora Veloso. Leonora is a seamstress, a spinster in her forties, much like Mrs Henshaw’s niece – was it Jean or Joan? – anyway, the one whom Cora accused of sewing secret codes into her skirts. Her brother was killed on a building site in Baguio and his wife died shortly afterwards of a haemorrhage (I’ve heard rumours of a botched abortion, but Father Teodoro must have discounted
them since he buried her in hallowed ground). The couple’s four children were orphaned and Leonora took them in, even though she can barely support herself. On the one hand, she embodies the practical compassion that the Church enjoins on us all; on the other, as she freely admits, she’s acting out of duty rather than love. The children are fed and clothed, but they’re also berated and beaten. Consolacion, who is my eyes and ears in the parish, told me that, while I was ill, the neighbours regularly heard their screams. I’m afraid that one day Leonora will snap and then… you can fill in the rest. So I asked doña Teresa if she might be able to find a job for Girlie (my predecessor was inclined to be lax at the font), the eldest niece, who’s twelve years old.

Doña Teresa offered to take her on as a maid, ‘out of respect for you, Father’, which isn’t quite the motivation that I’d have wished. Nor do I feel altogether happy about finding jobs for children, especially as servants, but I have to be practical. This is a world without safety nets. Maybe Greg’s right and Britain renounced its sense of personal responsibility when we brought in the Welfare State; but we gained far more than we lost. The next time he jumps on his soap box to denounce nannyism (not that I recall him objecting when Nanny P pandered to his every need), you might care to tell him about Leonora or, better yet, Ariel and Grace Quebral, whose four-year-old son, Joel, was suddenly stricken with diarrhoea. Diarrhoea here isn’t the mild irritation it is at home and, as Joel began to shrink – no, shrivel – before my eyes, I had to prepare his parents for the worst. Which was when Ariel told me that Joel hadn’t been baptised. They’d never had sufficient cash to pay for the christening robe and celebration lunch, which are mandatory in
hacienda
culture. So I performed a hurried ceremony in a fetid room a few hours before he died.

Sometimes it’s hard not to despair.

Consolacion took Joel’s death especially hard but, when I questioned her, all she would say was ‘
Kagustuhan ng Diyos
’ (‘It’s God’s will’). ‘
Kagustuhan ng Diyos
!’ Is it the Church that’s bred this fatalism? I’m starting to think that we could learn from the
Protestants with their history of revolt. Maybe the Basic Christian Communities (BCCs) will be a spur for action? They’ve come on by leaps and bounds, and we now have more than eighty across the two parishes. Our aim is for about twice that number. We finished training the lay leaders in August and, although we had eleven dropouts, which upset me more than it did Benito, our
remaining
choices have been vindicated. We couldn’t have wished for a more dedicated team. The sessions were intense. We held twelve residential weekends when, with the help of three priests from the diocese plus the Sisters of the Holy Face of Jesus, we encouraged the men to examine both their own communities in the light of the gospel and the gospel in the light of their own communities. It was a revelation to me too. Through all my years of study, I’d never realised that the Bible was so politically charged.

No doubt you’ll echo Benito’s view of my naïveté. He even called me Father Oxford until I explained that, however kindly meant, it stung. I presume that he pictured an ink-stained scholar in mortar board and gown, mulling over the minutiae of Greek and Latin translations. Little does he know! For the first time in my life I’m beginning to understand the Bible, and it’s precisely because I’m not agonising over the historiography and exegesis but rather looking at it through the lens of the lay leaders’ lives. It may sound glib, but they teach me far more than I do them. Every Friday evening, a hundred or so men pour into the
poblacion
from the outlying
barrios
. We study and debate the weekly readings – sometimes quite heatedly. Then, fully primed and taking their share of the Host, they return home to lead their Sunday services. Thus people, who were long deprived of the Word of God and the Body of Christ, now have regular access to both. What’s more, we’ve shown them that they needn’t be passive recipients of everything the authorities – that includes priests as well as landowners and politicians – dole out, but they can take decisions for themselves. I’m proud of us – yes, I say that without boasting; I can think of no other group who’d so readily relinquish their own power.