The Breath of Night (18 page)

‘Relax,’ Max said, ‘or as you people say, “Chill!”’

‘I’ve never said “Chill!” in my life.’

‘That’s half the problem. You’re not here to meet your bank manager but to enjoy a slap-up lunch.’

‘It’s not the food that spooks me but the setting.’

‘Take it from your Uncle Max, it’s a compliment. I must have known Ray six or seven years before he invited me to join them on Qingming, and here you are, scarcely five minutes off the plane!’

‘That’s one of the things that spooks me. What if his wife and kids get the wrong idea? Is the Lady Precious Stream act reserved for selected company? Does he butch it up at home?’

‘At the risk of repeating myself: ‘Chill!’ They’re not naïve; they’re well aware of Ray’s catholic – sorry – tastes. And here’s Amel now.’ Max waved to the man heading towards them. ‘Amel,’ he said, giving his cheek a pat, ‘this is your father’s new friend, Philip.’

Amel’s broad grin at the ambiguous phrase bore out Max’s claim of his ease with his father’s proclivities. Everything about him spelt sophistication, from the slicked-back hair and
monogrammed
white shirt to the grey silk trousers and snakeskin loafers. Which made it all the more incongruous that he should call him ‘Mr Philip’, like an ancient retainer addressing the son of the house.

‘A thousand apologies! I had no idea you were waiting.’ He glanced at his watch, as if to absolve himself.

‘Don’t worry. We’ve only just arrived,’ Max said with a smile.

‘Are you ready?’ Amel asked. ‘I’m afraid it’s a bit of a hike.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Philip said, gazing at the gradual slope and
trusting
that he was being treated as a typically effete European and not as his relatively fit self.

Max and Amel strolled ahead, chatting with an intimacy Philip would not have expected and leaving him to marvel at the mausolea, many as big as houses, all of them bigger than the houses he had seen in San Isidro. Christians, Buddhists and Taoists lay side by side in sepulchral splendour, united by both the refusal of the colonial authorities to admit foreigners into existing cemeteries and the wealth that had enabled them to circumvent the ban. With tombs dating from every decade since the 1850s, the architectural diversity rivalled the religious. Ornate pagodas and multi-tiered temples flanked neo-baroque chapels and squat, open structures, reminiscent of Mies van der Rohe. As with so many other vistas in Manila, the effect was marred by the occasional ruin which, nonetheless, provided a welcome corrective to the prevailing pomp.

The alien ethos and grandiose setting contrived to deny Philip his usual sense of graveyard peace. He felt no closer to his dead than when he had visited the Great Pyramid: a thought which was eerily underlined as he confronted that monument in miniature. Guarded by a youthful sphinx, several generations of an extended family sat round a dining table in its courtyard. Their conspicuous display emboldened Philip to scrutinise them when Amel stopped for a brief chat.

‘Friends of yours?’ Philip asked, as they moved on.

‘Only on Qingming,’ Amel replied, with a smile Philip refused to think of as inscrutable.

‘So, is this the most important day in the Chinese calendar?’

‘It’s the most important day for our dead – the equivalent of your All Souls’ Day. Although, if I’m not mistaken, that expresses
– or at least grew out of – a belief that praying and making
offerings
to God would lessen the sufferings of the dead. Whereas we don’t believe that the dead suffer – at least no more than the living. For us, the afterlife is not separate from life but a part of it. Our ancestors are here with us. They take care of us, just as we do them. So we come here to venerate them and to bring them what they need for this new phase of their existence.’

‘Christians aren’t that different,’ Philip said. ‘We also believe that some dead people – saints – will look after us. Although of course they don’t have to be our ancestors. By definition, very few of them have descendants.’

‘You have saints on the brain,’ Max said tetchily.

‘Why else have I come to Manila?’

Moments later they reached the top of the incline, standing in front of a flamboyant building with a blood-red façade, upturned eaves and a pair of undulating dragons on the roof.

‘Is this it?’ Philip asked, awestruck.

‘I wish!’ Amel replied, laughing. ‘This is the Chong Hock Tong temple. Our family tomb is on the other side.’ He led them down a side avenue to an elegant grey mausoleum with a pink doorway, framed by tall, narrow windows made of engraved glass. They walked into a shaded courtyard, dominated by a
life-size
griffin, and up to fretwork doors, which Amel slid open. All at once, Philip was hit by a blast of cold air as strong as that in the hotel lobby. Despite the traditional painted lanterns, the light was dim, but as his eyes gradually adjusted he made out two large black sarcophagi to his left, with garlanded bas-reliefs of a man and woman above them, a row of wall graves on either side and an incense burner in front. Several lacquer chairs and a formal dining table stood at the back of the room and, as Amel pointed out to him in the nick of time, a small carp pond was set into the inlaid marble floor.

Ray welcomed them with a shrill ‘Cooee’, which paid little regard to either the solemnity of the tomb or the presence of his wife. With his hand proprietarily poised in the small – and sweat
– of Philip’s back, he ushered him over to meet his ‘good lady’, a pale woman whose hair and dress – a glittering ruby butterfly in a braided chignon and a turquoise silk cheongsam with a line of beaded fans along her left leg – made up for the impassivity of her face. Philip took her hand and thanked her effusively for inviting him. ‘My husband has told me so much about you,’ she said, her voice trailing off as if in boredom. ‘We are honoured that you could join us.’ Philip thanked her again and ceded his place to Max who, bowing slightly, raised her fingers to his lips with the old-world courtesy that must once have endeared him to Imelda.

‘This is my daughter, Janice,’ Ray said, indicating a young woman in a black silk brocade jacket and skin-tight blue jeans, buried in the
Philippine
Tatler
. She lowered the magazine
languidly
. ‘Ciao!’ she said, with a pout of her purple lips.

‘Janice, you look more delectable every time I see you. Would that I were thirty years younger,’ Max said, as though age were the only check on his ardour. He contented himself with kissing her on both cheeks. Philip, meanwhile, gazed at the open
magazine
, trying vainly to identify the featured gala, until Ray steered him towards the final member of the party, his elder son, Brent, who sat with his laptop at an ebony writing desk. He held up his left hand to forestall his father while he sent an email, before turning with a broad smile to Philip, echoing both his mother’s words about the honour of his visit and his brother’s mode of addressing him by title as well as by name.

‘Please excuse me; I’m just finishing off some work,’ Brent said.

‘Of course,’ Philip said, turning back to Amel. ‘Is it my
imagination
, or do you have Wi-Fi in here?’

‘Yes, you’re right. Our ancestors want us to thrive, so we must have the chance to do business when we come here. And they want us to relax and eat well and enjoy the time we spend in their company, so we have the kitchen and the shower and the comfort room and the TV.’

‘It’s extraordinary,’ Philip said guardedly. Even by Manila standards, the contrast between the high-tech cemetery and the squalid shanty town propped against its walls struck him as extreme. His unease was deflected by the arrival of Ray’s brother Daio, his wife Faye, their daughters, sons-in-law and
grandchildren
. Even Janice roused herself to greet them. Philip was transfixed by the sight of the whole family, led by Daio,
kneeling
in front of the sarcophagi and bowing their foreheads to the ground as if kowtowing to the Dowager Empress. They then went out to the courtyard, where everyone, young and old, rolled up pieces of printed paper and cardboard and threw them into an elegant stone burner with a ceramic dragon’s head on the lid.

‘This is
kim
,’ Amel whispered to Philip, ‘the offerings we make to assist our loved ones in the afterlife.’

The ritual concluded, Ray led the way to the dining table, where the maids served a sweet-and-sour chicken and melon soup, although a list of ingredients failed to do justice to the wealth of its flavours. Philip longed for more but was too shy to ask, watching helplessly as the maids cleared away the bowls,
including
the two for the ancestors, which had remained untouched at either end of the table. The ancestors – welcome spectres at the feast – were equally generously served with the main course. While the rest of the diners chose between shredded beef, crispy duck, sausage and sticky rice, sea bass in black bean sauce and suckling pig, their plates were heaped high with a portion of each. Philip could not help reflecting on the half-starved
residents
of the shanty town. Had Julian been of the company, he would no doubt have upbraided the Lims as roundly as he had once done the Arriolas and Pinedas – although, as Taoists, they would, of course, have been outside his authority: an exemption that gave Philip some comfort as he reached for a deep-fried clam.

Sitting next to his hostess, he tried repeatedly to engage her in conversation, only to be thwarted at each attempt when, after the briefest of replies, she turned to speak to one of the maids.
Feeling snubbed, he focused on his food until Daio, who had been talking business with Brent, turned to him abruptly. ‘I understand that you are here to bring the country another saint.’

‘Nothing so grand,’ Philip said, blushing. ‘I’m compiling a report for his family, which may lend weight to the official
submission
. So far I’ve come up with little apart from some local colour.’

‘So must you be going back to England?’ Mikee asked coolly.

‘Yes, soon I expect,’ Philip replied. ‘I’ve spoken to my employer, who wants me to stay until after Easter, when one of Julian’s fellow missionaries, Hendrik van Leyden – a friend since student days – returns from Holland. But before that I’ve a less orthodox assignment. I’m sure you’ve all read about Jejomar Agbuya, the prisoner who claims that Julian came to him in a vision, promising that his crimes would be pardoned if he had himself crucified on Good Friday.’

‘In Manila?’ Faye asked with a shudder.

‘No,
Nanay
,’ one of her daughters said, ‘at the
Kalbaryo
in Pampanga.’

‘In my view he’s an utter fraud,’ Philip said. ‘But it’d be
irresponsible
not to follow it up.’

At the end of the meal, Amel accompanied Philip and Max to the cemetery gates, where Dennis was waiting. They drove off, jolting and lurching through the clogged streets before grinding to a halt on Rizal Avenue.

‘Does he know what’s wrong? Has there been an accident?’ Philip asked, as Dennis wound down his window and shouted to the driver of the adjacent car.

‘No, is rally in park. Many crowding people.’

‘Politics,’ Max interjected. ‘It’s the curse of this country.’

‘No,’ Dennis said. ‘Is not politics; is Church. Is
Couples for Christ
.’

‘I rest my case,’ Max said.

They lapsed into silence, broken only by Dennis’s
high-pitched
humming, as they crept forward, gathering speed as
soon as they passed the park. Halfway down Roxas Boulevard, Dennis turned sharp left, negotiating a warren of narrow side streets until brought to a standstill by a row of traffic cones. ‘Now we will walk,’ he said to Philip, who trusted that
Diamond Rent a Car
’s insurance contained provision for parking in such
desolate
spots. They made their way past lean-to shacks, some built of corrugated iron, others of planks and plastic sheeting, with upper floors as flimsy as a house of cards. A cat’s cradle of wires and cables festooned the roofs. Remnants of obsolete posters turned every available wall into a collage. Three scraggy boys in shorts and flip-flops played skittles with empty San Miguel bottles. Two young girls sat on their heels, braiding each other’s hair. An older girl kept watch over a line of washing, scowling at every passer-by as at a potential thief.

Philip’s misgivings, prompted by Max’s refusal to reveal their destination, dwindled when they emerged from the fetid threat of the slum into a large square dominated by a white church with two wedding-cake towers, which made it the perfect setting for the ceremony currently taking place. Huge posters of a bride and groom, framed like the stars of a Bollywood movie, hung over the porch, which was draped in purple and white bunting.

‘Is this my surprise? An authentic Filipino wedding?’

‘Do I look like Patience Strong?’

His anxieties returned, Philip surveyed the forecourt where a small group of guests had gathered. ‘I feel sorry for the women, all dolled up in this sweltering heat. It’s easier for the guys. They just have to wear those
Tagalog
thingies. Hell! What to do you call the traditional Filipino shirts?’

‘
Barong Tagalogs
,’ Max said.

‘Is not Filipino; is Spanish,’ Dennis said. ‘They are making it lawful we must wear these because they are frightened of us. They are wanting to see we are not hiding our swords.’

‘Really? I read it was because the pineapple and banana fibres were cool in the heat.’

‘You read this in books; I know this in heart!’

‘Yes, of course. I don’t mean to belittle –’

‘You think we must say thank you to the Spanish?’ Dennis said, widening the scope of his grievances. ‘Thank you! Is so very kind of you for coming to this place and stealing our lives and our money and our names.’

‘Your names?’

‘Just like they are taking away our clothes so we cannot fight them, so they are taking away our names so we cannot know who we are. They are giving us all foreign names, like I am Dennis.’ His anguish made Philip ashamed that he had let himself be influenced by the name’s comic-book associations. ‘Then they are giving us family names from where we live. So I am Santos because my ancestors are living near to graveyard and dead people are supposed to be like saints. But, if you are living near to church, your name must be Iglesias. If you are living near to governor’s palace, your name must be Reyes. If you are living near to gardens, your name must be Flores.’