The Breath of Night (20 page)

17 September 1979

My dear Mother and Father,

First, a word in my defence. I didn’t ignore your phlebitis, Mother; I wrote to you as soon as I heard the news from Agnes. It’s not the only one of my letters to have gone astray, although that implies that it’s accidental. I’ve done some sleuthing and found that postmen steam off the stamps to sell in Manila. It’s hard to blame them when they’re so badly paid, but I wish they’d stick to government circulars. So I hope that you’ll withdraw the charge that I care more for strangers than I do for my own family (I prefer not to use the word ‘natives’ except in the strict ethnographic sense). How can it be ‘Out of sight out of mind’ when your silver wedding photograph stands in pride of place next to the crucifix by my bed?

As for your second charge, however much you may
disapprove
, please, please avoid any further allusion to my political activities. You’ve no idea of the trouble it might cause. Faced with an increasingly restive population, the authorities are cracking down on the least hint of dissent. Having silenced the official opposition, it’s now focusing its efforts on the Church. The radical message of the gospel turns even the most
reactionary
priest into a symbol of resistance. Whereas once my cloth would have granted me immunity, it now puts me in the firing line. Last month I was arrested and questioned about my links with the insurgents. It’s easy to make light of it now, but it’s remarkable how quickly your confidence dissolves when you’re blindfolded, bundled in the back of a scorching hot van, and driven at breakneck speed to an unknown destination.

I steeled myself by pretending that I was the hero of a
thriller who, for the purposes of the plot, would have to escape unscathed, but as I sat alone and handcuffed in a stale-smelling room, straining to pick up the voices in the corridors (several with distinct American accents) I felt more and more like an innocent bystander whose wanton murder spurs the hero to revenge. Finally, two officers cross-examined me. Refusing to remove the blindfold, they asked me about my association with the NPA and the CNL (Christians for National Liberation). It was clear from both their scattershot questioning and
indifference
to my replies that their intention was to intimidate rather than to convict me. They released me after a few hours, unharmed apart from some bruises on the neck and wrists, which fade into insignificance beside the horrific injuries
sustained
by thousands of innocent Filipinos. As you’d expect, the result has been to strengthen my resolve. Nevertheless, I’m anxious not to give them fresh ammunition. Next time they might not show such restraint.

Fortunately, I’d fully recovered by the time of Isabel’s arrival. She had enough to take in after seven years, without seeing me hurt. In other respects, of course, she was the one who’d changed. When I left England, she was a gawky teenager; now she’s a confident young woman. No, she’s a kind, intelligent,
beautiful
, vivacious and confident young woman, a credit to Greg and Alice, and above all to herself. To my relief, I found that some things about her had stayed the same. She still has the hearty laugh with the glissando that puts me in mind of sliding down banisters and the mellow tones that bring back memories not just of her younger self but of her aunts. When I closed my eyes, I might have been listening to Agnes or Cora. Whatever the
Leverington
influence elsewhere, her voice is pure Tremayne.

Nowhere was her confidence more marked than when we went to Manila. I was amazed by the ease with which she negotiated a city that is a labyrinth even to the locals. She does, however, have an unfortunate tendency, acquired no doubt from her boyfriend, to suppose that anyone with a brown skin is out
to cheat her. For all her elegance and charm, I can’t help missing the wide-eyed enthusiasm that led her to dedicate her life first to animals, then to children and finally to the planet. After three years of reading art history, it’s inevitable that both her
perspective
and her priorities have changed. When I asked about her plans, now that she’d finished at St Andrews, she became uncharacteristically coy, mumbling something about museum work and Alice having a friend who was head of ceramics at the V&A. I realised that I’d put my foot in it and that her answer – indeed her entire future – depended on Hugh.

I may be reading too much into it, Mother, but when you wrote how fond Greg and Alice were of him you said nothing of what you thought of him yourself. Should I be similarly
circumspect
? Surely not to you? He’s a highly personable man, polite to a fault (addressing me with the deference due to an ancient cardinal), but at the same time suspiciously detached. Instead of expressing his feelings, he seems to file them away for future reference. Whereas Isabel is utterly besotted with him, he treats her with wry detachment. Indeed, his one sign of passion during their whole trip came when his agent in Manila brought him a late Neolithic burial jar dug up – and, as far as I could tell, removed illegally – from a cave in Palawan. Is it just me or does either of you find it odd that a thirty-two-year-old should be an obsessive collector of antiquities? I took great care not to voice my reservations; you’d have been proud of me – no, really you would. I was determined not to cast a single shadow on Isabel’s happiness. ‘You do like him, Uncle, you promise?’ she asked me several times a day. Perhaps it was that ‘Uncle’, so much more intimate than the familiar ‘Father’; perhaps it was the joy of seeing her again after so long; or perhaps it was simply joy in her joy; but I couldn’t help but answer ‘yes’.

Isabel filled me in on the family news. I was relieved to hear that for all his disappointment at not being given a Cabinet post, Greg was happy with the Employment portfolio. Besides, as I reminded her, it wasn’t so long ago he was certain that he’d be
passed over on account of his support for Mr Heath. I knew that he was worrying unduly. Mrs Thatcher doesn’t seem the sort to bear grudges. Since moving here, my politics have veered to the left, but I’m still excited by the prospect of our first woman prime minister. I was immensely heartened by her quoting St Francis outside Number Ten. Can you imagine any of her
predecessors
having done the same?

I hope that Isabel and Hugh appreciated how hard
Consolacion
worked to make their stay a success. In the week before their arrival, no parishioner was allowed to cross the
threshold
and at times I wondered if I too might be banished to the yard. Grump’s scavenging trips were severely curtailed, which I’m sure was what lay behind his hostility to Hugh, since he’s usually such an excellent judge of character. I tried to reassure Consolacion by showing her the letter in which Isabel wrote that they were looking forward to ‘roughing it’, but she wasn’t
convinced
. Her greatest fear was that Isabel would return to
Whitlock
and report that she wasn’t taking good enough care of me. In the event, Isabel insisted that she’d never seen me look so well. One bonus of her trip is that she’ll be able to relieve any nagging doubts you may have about my health.

I’m not sure that Hugh was quite as keen to rough it as Isabel. Despite – or perhaps because of – his previous forays into the country, he brought along a suitcase full of water purification tablets, pills of every description, Lipton’s tea and loo paper. With no spare bedrooms, Isabel slept – ‘like a log’ – on the
sitting
-room sofa, while Hugh cricked his neck on a camp bed in the study. Had they come as recently as last year, the
haciendos
would have fallen over themselves to put them up, but our
relations
have so soured (I won’t go into details, which I’m sure by now you can supply for yourselves) that they didn’t even make the offer. Protocol compelled them to acknowledge the presence of two such well-connected foreigners, so the Pinedas invited us to lunch (which, to everyone’s relief, a service in an outlying
barrio
kept me from attending) and the Arriolas to an evening
barbecue where I spent much of the time talking to don
Bernardo
’s mother, who’s stone-deaf.

A less lavish but far more congenial affair was the birthday party thrown for me by some of the BCCs. Thirty-nine! I’ve warned them that I’m booking myself into a monastery next year. It was such a treat to have Isabel here, especially since it was the one occasion on which she defied Hugh, who went off to inspect his mines alone. She was particularly excited to meet the four Ibaloi tribesmen who’d trekked down from the mountains. Has she told you about the magnificent crucifix they carved for me? It was intended for the
convento
but I’ve put it in the church. It seems right that the people should kneel before a rough-hewn Christ in their own image rather than a polished one with an imported face. Meanwhile, I worked my way through the huge pile of parcels Isabel had brought from home. Thank you so much for the record player. I’m thrilled to bits by it, not to mention the inspired selection of LPs. It may be a while before I have a chance to play them since there’s still no electricity in the
poblacion
, but we’ve been promised that it’s on its way. The wait will only whet my appetite.

The rest of the family did me proud, even Uncle Lawrence with his crested hip flask, although I suspect that he’s been reading too much Graham Greene. To my surprise, since he’s never been a natural present giver, Greg excelled himself with the briefcase. Agnes’s shirts are just what I wanted, or rather they will be once Consolacion has taken them in.

At five days, Isabel and Hugh’s visit was all too short. I took them to Baguio and Mount Pulag, and north to the rice terraces of Banaue, but the mists were too thick to see them in their full glory, and Hugh complained loudly about the dirt-track/
deathtrap
roads. As planned, I drove back with them to Manila where Hugh kindly offered to put me up in their hotel but, despite the lure of fine linen and air conditioning, I preferred to remain independent at the Society’s house. That’s when I rang you, Father. I’m sorry that the crackling lines and time lag made the
conversation sound so stilted. Which is why I didn’t try again. Although, of course, I’d have loved to talk to Mother.

Hugh introduced me to one of his associates, Max, an
Englishman
of about my age, a strange mixture of scruffiness and sophistication, with a widow’s peak and a goatee, wearing a heavily stained linen suit and doused in a sugary scent that put me in mind of Granny Courtenay’s parma violets. He’s
fanatical
about ballet, having come here in some unspecified capacity with Margot Fonteyn and stayed on at the behest of Imelda Marcos to run a home-grown company. He won’t hear a word against his patron, whom he reveres for ‘being herself’ –
whatever
that means! His conversation veers between the vapid and the offensive. He appeared to think that I’d respect the candour with which he attacked the Church (being himself?). Mindful that I was Hugh’s guest, I challenged him only once, when he referred to the Holy Father in the feminine. I’m astonished that Hugh, who strikes me as a man’s man to the core, can stomach him. Isabel found him amusing, but then she studied art.

Max evidently opens doors for Hugh, the grandest of which are those to the Malacañang Palace. The Marcoses were holding a reception during our stay. Having already secured invitations for Hugh and Isabel, Max offered to obtain one for me. I can’t think why, unless he wanted to impress me with his influence. My first instinct was to refuse, but then I remembered your story of being taken to tea with Hitler in Munich in the thirties, Mother. As a boy, I used to rewrite history, devising a scenario in which you pulled out a knife and stabbed him, preventing war from breaking out, Father being sent to Singapore and – last, but not I fear, least – sweets being rationed. It was a thrilling fantasy and one which reverberated thirty-odd years later, as I put on a cassock (I’d decided to wear full canonicals) and wondered how easy it would be to conceal a knife.

The Hitler analogy is not as far-fetched as it sounds, since the Marcoses are known, at least in BCC circles, as the Molochs of the Malacañang. No one would deny, however, that they’re able to
put on a show. We entered the palace grounds through vast
castiron
gates embellished with imperial eagles (which, to be fair, date from the American governorship). Footmen, sweat
streaming
from their powdered wigs and seeping through their white cotton gloves, flanked the path leading to a low white building. Max, anxious that I should esteem the honour, whispered that this was one of the very first receptions since Imelda had had the palace remodelled. We entered the vestibule and were
conducted
into a small wood-panelled room, where we waited along with what seemed like half the diplomatic corps and the cream of Manila society. A major domo escorted us up a wide staircase lined with portraits of great European explorers, more suited to the former colonial administration than to the current effusion of national pride. From there we entered the main hall.

Despite the glittering chandeliers, the low ceiling and the capiz windowpanes gave the room a sombre feel. My eyes were drawn to two gilded thrones, which looked as though they were on loan from Versailles. ‘Are they part of the remodelling?’ I asked Max. ‘Don’t worry, Father,’ he said unctuously, ‘they’re purely symbolic.’ While nervous flunkeys served overfull glasses of champagne, I wandered through the room, finding the
artworks
more appealing than the guests. A flurry of activity
heralded
the arrival of our hosts, who made their way to the dais where the President welcomed us, while his wife gazed at him as though posing for a bas-relief on his tomb. Even as he was
speaking
, all eyes were fixed on her. That was hardly surprising, given the shimmering green and blue of her dress, which turned out to be made of actual peacock feathers. After the official toasts to the guest of honour, a Hong Kong banker who, according to the well-informed Max, is financing many of the Marcoses’ projects, the President left. Imelda then circulated among her guests with what, even I am compelled to admit, was effortless charm. As you know, I’m not a natural society portraitist and I’m sure that Isabel will already have painted you a vivid picture, but for what it’s worth here’s mine.