The Breath of Night (19 page)

‘It’s lucky your ancestors didn’t live near to the sewers,’ Max said, ‘or you might have been Cloacas.’

‘You are bad man,’ Dennis said, looking at him with loathing. ‘You are wishing to make all things into joke! But soon you will be laughing with your tears.’ Philip felt a rush of sympathy for Dennis, caught in the chasm between cultures, with nothing to cling to but the faint hope of revenge. Here was someone who sought to whiten his skin, while singing about the oppression of the brown man: who cherished his village faith while
compromising
it nightly in the capital. Whatever the contradictions of his own life, they paled in comparison to Dennis’s.

‘Oh, don’t be such a drama queen!’ Max said. ‘Let’s go and see some cocks.’

‘What?’ Philip asked, more suspicious than ever of Max’s surprise. Before he had a chance to protest, the air was filled with a raucous crowing. He swung round to face a circular
concrete
building, like a cross between a small sports stadium and
a sixties church. A red flag fluttered on the roof and mawkish music blasted out of tinny loudspeakers. An old man on crutches scuttled crablike towards the gate.

‘This is the surprise?’ he asked Max.

‘The same.’

‘Cocks as in cock fight?’

‘You look disappointed. Why? Did you think I meant “country matters”?’ Max sniggered.

‘Do you plan on going inside?’

‘Of course. We haven’t come all this way to admire the
architecture
.’

‘What’s the point?’ Philip asked.

‘Is good. Is
sabong
. Is Filipino national sport,’ Dennis interposed.

‘You see,’ Max said. ‘If we turn back, we’ll be insulting the entire Filipino nation. Besides, if you’re squeamish now, what will you be like on Friday when we go to Pampanga for the crucifixions?’

‘That’s quite different.’

‘Why? Or do you have lower standards for men than cocks?’

‘I shan’t rise to that.’

‘An interesting turn of phrase.’

‘If we’re going, let’s go.’

They walked towards the gate, past street traders hawking fish balls and noodles, peanuts, cigarettes, water and slices of pineapple, from improvised stalls on tricycles. Dennis bought some grilled chicken feet, or
Adidas
, which Philip found doubly distasteful given their surroundings, and followed them into the arena. They took their seats, breathing in the heavy scent of sweat, tobacco and pork, while the packed crowd shouted and signalled its reactions to the ongoing fight. A cacophony of cheers and catcalls marked its climax. A jubilant man,
presumably
the owner, leapt into the ring and raised the victorious bird to his lips, kissing its beak, while a contemptuous attendant dragged its defeated rival through the dirt.

‘As a rule, the winning owner gets to eat the loser,’ Max said.

‘Is not good,’ Dennis said. ‘Chicken is too tough. You must cook it for many hours, until no more fire.’

Excitement gripped the arena as, after a garbled
announcement
, a fresh bout began. Two owners carried their roosters into the ring. One was brown with white chest feathers; the other grey with a black tail. The men strutted around the ring as if they themselves were the contestants, before unsheathing the blades on the birds’ ankles and withdrawing to opposite corners. The referee thrust the two birds together, goading them to peck at one another’s throats and tails, tasting the blood that would incite them further. Feathers flew, as they fell to the ground and lunged at each other in fury. All around them the crowd was similarly inflamed, jumping up and down in its seats,
applauding
and jeering.

‘I don’t see anyone taking bets.’

‘Over there!’ Max said, pointing to a group of white-shirted men with their arms outstretched. ‘They’re called
kristos
.’

Taking no chances, Philip sat on his hands, since a quick
scrutiny
of the
kristos
suggested that they would look less charitably on any accidental gesture than the gentlemanly auctioneers he knew at home. The roosters, meanwhile, appeared reluctant to give the crowd the blood for which it was baying. As the
stupefied
brown bird retreated to a tumult of invective, its frenzied owner rushed forward, yelling at it to fight, until he was held back by an attendant. Philip watched in horror as the referee picked up the two exhausted birds, pressing their beaks together, until the grey one, striking out in panic, fatally stabbed its
opponent
’s chest. The brown bird collapsed, the referee counting it out like a floored boxer, before the attendant dragged it from the ring, leaving its owner to slink away, a chorus of derision in his ears, as though the lifeless cock were, literally, a slur on his virility.

During the break, women patrolled the stands with trays of refreshments. Philip bought a tub of noodles for Dennis and cans of Sprite for himself and Max. For once the synthetic
sweetness was a welcome antidote to the sharp, ammonic tang in the air. The relief was transitory, since further bouts followed in swift and sickening succession. Striving to understand their appeal, he could only suppose that the short, squalid struggle was in some way cathartic for people with equally brief, brutal lives. There was certainly none of the grace and skill on display in the national sport of their former colonial masters. Whatever literary inspiration the country might yield him, it would not result in another
Death in the Afternoon
.

The start of a new bout put paid to his hopes of making a
discreet
exit. Two more birds were brought into the ring, the
differences
more pronounced than ever: one almost wholly white; the other, nearly twice its size, black with red markings on its tail.

‘You must put money, much money, on this white chicken,’ Dennis said, either showing his customary faith in pale
colouring
or else instinctively identifying with the underdog. ‘This man who brings him is a friend of me. He is telling me this is stolen.’

‘Is that good?’ Philip asked, but Dennis was busy
semaphoring
his bet, leaving Max to reply.

‘Apparently, it’s lucky. The entire culture’s based on these superstitions.’

‘It’s beyond me.’

‘Don’t knock it! If it weren’t for superstition, you’d be out of a job.’

Grimacing, Philip turned back to the ring where the white bird was being trounced. ‘
Putang Ina
!’ Dennis exclaimed. ‘This is bad chicken. His owner, he is giving him drugs like junkie. He is sewing hot chillies up his
puwit
to make him fight.’

‘A principle which might be usefully applied elsewhere,’ Max said.

Philip had no need to ask for the meaning of
puwit
, since Dennis’s hiss made it all too clear. He focused his attention on the ring where the black cock, his hackles up, swaggered round his dazed rival, lashing out in all directions and slicing his chest
with his blade. A thunderous cheer rose up from the crowd, followed by a low moan from Dennis, looking as broken and bruised as the dead cock.

He was roused by one of the
kristos
who, with a prodigious memory for the quick-fire transactions, came to collect his debts. ‘Poor Dennis,’ Philip said to Max, as they watched him extract the banknotes from inside his shorts with the painful precision of someone removing a splinter.

‘Is not fair. This match is fixed,’ Dennis said. ‘This owner, he is bringing man to train chickens. From Texas!’ he added, as if it were the ultimate treachery.

With Dennis bewailing the injustice of life in general and America in particular, they left the arena. Suspecting that Dennis would seek to cut his losses by reaching an
accommodation
with Max, Philip strode ahead. Entering the street, he was hailed by a trio of sweaty, stocky young men.

‘Hey mate!’ shouted one, with the image of a muscle-bound torso straining across his barrel chest. ‘Good to see another white face!’

‘Hello,’ Philip replied warily.

‘You English? Put it there!’ Philip, relaxing now that the
connection
was merely national, shook hands with all three of them.

‘Been watching the fights, then?’ asked another, with a cork hat, peeling nose and Union Jack tattoo on a pasty leg.

‘Unfortunately, yes. If you’re thinking of buying a ticket, don’t bother! You’d have as much fun at a factory farm.’

‘It’s the experience, innit?’ said the third, whose high
forehead
and clip-on sunglasses gave him a bookish air that was belied by his open beer can and
I’m a Lesbian
T-shirt. ‘It’s their culture. Gorra respect their culture, donchya?’ He held out the can, which Philip politely refused.

‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ Philip said, moving away as Max and Dennis approached.

‘Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friends, Philip?’ Max asked in his most pointedly epicene tones. Reluctantly, Philip
presented Max and Dennis, after which the three tourists
supplied
their own names: Warren, Jez and Trevor.

‘And what are you doing in this den of vice and iniquity?’ Max asked with a jaunty smile. ‘That’s to say Manila.’

‘We’re on holiday, aren’t we?’

‘Are you? That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

Trevor looked at him with suspicion. ‘Yeah. We’re on an adventure tour. We’ve been all over. Angeles City. Olongapo. Subic Bay. The company guarantee your money back if you spend more than one night in the two weeks on your tod. You can’t say fairer than that now, can you?’

‘You most definitely can’t,’ Max replied.

‘I help you,’ Dennis said. ‘I know all bars. Hot girls, sexy girls.’

‘Thanks for the offer mate,’ Jez said, ‘but it’s all laid on.
Different
girl every night. Two or three if you’re up for it.’

‘Are we up for it?’ Warren asked. ‘Does a squirrel love his nuts?’

‘Some of them are so young it shouldn’t be legal!’ Jez said.

‘But it is, mate,’ Trevor said quickly. ‘Everything above board.’

‘And a regular supply of Viagra for young Jez here,’ Warren added.

‘Hey, speak for yourself. Balls of steel, me!’ Jez said, with a pelvic thrust that spilt his beer.

‘What about you, mate?’ Warren asked. ‘What brings you out here?’

‘I’m with the World Health Organisation,’ Philip said with a glare that dared Max or Dennis to contradict him. ‘We’re
investigating
a lethal new drug-resistant strain of syphilis.’

‘You’re having a laugh!’ Warren said.

‘I wish I were. It’s spreading like wildfire through the bars and massage parlours of Thailand and the Philippines.’

‘You’re kidding me!’ Trevor said.

‘We’re trying to keep it under wraps to prevent panic and reprisals. I’m only telling you because it sounds as though you and your friends may be at risk.’

‘Not me, mate,’ Jez said. ‘Cover my stump before I hump!’

‘If only it were that easy, but this new strain is a hundred times more contagious than HIV. Skin-to-skin contact is all it takes. But we’re holding you up. Besides, we have to get back to the field – that is, the bars, the field of study. Enjoy the
sabong
!’

Leaving the three men stupefied, Philip led Max and Dennis towards the car.

‘Well, young Philip,’ Max said, ‘you’ve quite taken my breath away. Where did all that come from?’

‘They deserved it,’ Philip said defensively.

‘They certainly did. Men that ugly shouldn’t be allowed to have sex, even with women.’

Back at the hotel, Philip found a message from Maribel,
cancelling
their date for the evening. Frustration welled up in him as he punched her number into his phone, to be replaced by guilt when she explained that her supervisor had rearranged her shift to punish her for arriving late on Thursday; which had been entirely due to his keeping her back for a flurry of last-minute kisses. He had taken her protests for the ploy that they would have been in England; he should have known that, however flexible time might be elsewhere in Manila, at the call centre it followed the clock. The supervisor had warned her that with the scores of applicants for every seat, no one was
indispensible
. Philip, trusting that a casual reference to the Bishop would resolve the problem, had promised to contact the supervisor himself, which drew such an effusion of gratitude from Maribel that he felt ashamed.

Just to think of Maribel – to picture her face, her smile, her skin at once porcelain and pliant, her small but sufficient breasts with their nipples like afterthoughts – brought on a surge of emotion so strong that he feared he might drown in it. She was the one fixed point in an ever-shifting city. He delighted in her bashful glance, her tinkling laugh, her over-precise turn of phrase. He felt himself shine in the glow of her admiration. Yet how much did he know of what went on inside her head? She gave every
sign of enjoying their embraces. But how much was it passion and how much compliance? Was she as eager as he was to take their relationship a stage further? In which case, might she have misread his hesitation as indifference? He was still unclear if she were a virgin. The fact that they had never spoken of it – that he could not envisage their speaking of it – was evidence of the gulf between them. He was older than she was, richer than she was, and white. He was the one with power, which meant that, as an honourable man, he had no right to force the issue.

On the other hand, just how honourable was he? Did he truly care about Maribel or was his prime concern to make a good impression – on himself as much as everyone else? Was he afraid of leading her on or of feeling ashamed when he left her stranded? If the former, why had he insisted that she meet him after the Palm Sunday service, instead of going for a clean break? His stay in Manila was temporary and, unless she expected nothing more from him than a few decent meals and the
opportunity
to practise her English, he was bound to hurt her. He had no wish to play Pinkerton to her Madame Butterfly.

His loneliness grew unbearable. It was Saturday night, and he was stuck in a hotel room with only the TV for company. Conscious that he was crossing a line, he picked up the remote control and switched on the adult channel. For weeks, he had tempted himself with the trailers. Now, despite a firm belief that pornography was nothing but prostitution by proxy, he set about ordering a film. The only way to dissociate himself from Warren, Jez and Trevor was to ensure that the title he chose was
American
rather than Asian. So, in the vain hope that humour might mitigate the offence, he settled on
Hannah Does Her Sisters
.