The Breath of Night (31 page)

‘No, this is not possible! I must not be going to this house.’

‘Why on earth not? Max says it’s a very smart affair. I’m sure the chauffeurs will be well looked after.’

‘No, you are not understanding. I must not be going there. I must be going to club.’

‘Since when? Your dance or show or whatever you call it doesn’t start until eleven.’

‘No, I have to be early. Now we are going to Cauayan, I have to fill in for missing time. You must understand; I must not go to this house!’

‘All right, there’s no need to shout! If you can’t, you can’t. I’ll text you tomorrow’s schedule as soon as I know it.’

After lunch and a vigorous swim in the hotel pool, Philip returned to his room, where he planned to spend the afternoon transcribing the notes of his interview with Benito, but found himself distracted by possible plot lines for his novel. Whatever the truth of the prisoner’s allegations, the theme of reactionary priests ordering the murder of a radical colleague struck him as both rich in fictional potential and a telling image for the Church’s stranglehold on the country. He was so absorbed in his imaginings that he barely left sufficient time to shower and dress before taking a cab to pick up Max who, needless to say, was not ready. Rather than wait in the airless cab, he went up to the flat where, instructed to make himself at home, he flicked through the record collection, a love of vinyl being one of Max’s more endearing archaisms. Among the predictable array of female
singers was one that astounded him:
Imelda Papin Featuring Songs with Mrs Imelda Romualdez Marcos.

‘Is this for real?’ he asked, thrusting the sleeve at Max, who at last emerged from his room, wearing a pink
barong Tagalog
and smelling strongly of lemons.

‘Of course. It’s an album of her husband’s favourite songs, recorded while he was dying in hospital. Surely you of all people must appreciate the deluded romantic gesture?’

‘Did it kill him off?’ Philip asked, ignoring the jibe.

‘You have no heart!’ Max snatched the disc and put it tenderly back in its place. ‘We can’t stand here gossiping all day. We’ll be late!’

He ushered Philip out of the building and into the cab, where the driver greeted them with remarkable equanimity.

‘Forbes Park, please,’ Philip said, edging away from Max, whose citrus tang was making him nauseous.

‘Millionaires Row,’ Max added smugly.

The exclusive district lived up to its name. In contrast to the teeming streets elsewhere in the city, there were no traffic jams on the elegant avenues and not a single vagrant or vendor on the grass verges. High walls and sharp railings preserved the residents’ privacy, offering tantalising glimpses of chimneys, roofs and gables beneath the lush canopies of leaves. Only Ray’s and Mikee’s house was open to view, although the four security guards at the gate stood armed against intruders. Philip handed his invitation to one of them who, to Max’s irritation, waved them through without a second glance.

‘Don’t I deserve a full body search? Who knows where I might be hiding a grenade?’

Deaf to his grumbles, Philip gazed down the torchlit drive to the elegant white building with its semicircular porch, Doric columns and stucco festoons across the façade. They walked through the Chinese garden, past the miniature pagoda,
ornamental
pond and willow tree, to the porch, where they were greeted, first by a waiter with flutes of champagne, then by their ever-ebullient host.

‘Philip,’ Ray said. ‘I am honoured to welcome you to my humble home. Max.’ He acknowledged his old friend in passing.

‘It’s very kind of you to invite me,’ Philip said. ‘I’d no idea that it would be so sumptuous.’

‘The house or the guests?’ Max asked tetchily.

‘Both,’ Philip said, surveying the huge open-plan room in which stark white sofas, stools and armchairs were set against elegant
displays
of antique jade, porcelain and lacquered wood. Dominating the room was a sweeping glass staircase with a steel balustrade. He wondered if the transparent design had been deliberately chosen to compensate for the secrets elsewhere in the owners’ lives.

‘I do not know who half of these people are,’ Ray said, staring happily around the packed room.

‘Are we celebrating anything particular?’ Philip asked.

‘My son, Brent, who is announcing his plan to run for
Congress
. You will see him soon. First, there is someone of much more importance for you to meet.’

‘You don’t mean…?’ Max said.

‘She is here!’ Ray gestured to a small pink figure with her back to them, standing beside a white baby grand on which a pianist was playing a medley of familiar yet unidentifiable tunes.

‘But how did you manage it? She goes about so little now.’

‘Orlando Gozon. His wife belongs in the same health club as Mikee. He has an office next to hers in Congress. And he does business with Amel.’

‘It’s years since I last saw her,’ Max said. ‘The best years of my life. Not these, those.’

‘Are we talking about who I think we are?’ Philip asked.

‘How should I know? I’m not a mind-reader!’ Max replied, before turning back to Ray. ‘I can’t wait another moment. Take me over to her at once! But… but you might have to jog her memory.’ An anxious look crossed his face. ‘It’s been so long.’

‘Don’t worry. Who could ever forget you, Max?’

Philip followed Ray and Max through the room with a mixture of fascination and dread. With Margot Fonteyn dead,
there was only one woman who could produce this effect on Max. Repeating the phrase “blood on her hands”, “blood on her hands”, like a mantra, he willed himself not to be seduced by her charm or dazzled by her celebrity.

She was holding forth to a small group of admirers. Her refusal to interrupt her story gave Philip the chance to observe her at close range. Her familiar helmet of jet-black hair was in sharp contrast to the puffy cheeks on which her overemphatic make-up looked like a gesture of defiance. She wore an
ankle-length
pink silk dress with high pointed sleeves and a huge diamond cluster ring on her right hand, which drew attention to her chipped nails. Her shoes, which he left until last, were disappointingly plain: open-toed sandals with a plastic flower on each strap.

Having reached the denouement, she turned to the
newcomers
as if suddenly aware of their presence. Ray introduced Max who, with tears in his eyes, bowed to kiss her hand. Her glazed smile left Philip unsure whether she genuinely recognised him or was putting on a practised act. Her face grew animated only when he mentioned his visits to the presidential palace with Fonteyn.

‘I miss her every day. We were such good friends,’ Imelda said. ‘She was a very great lady.’

‘As are you, ma’am,’ Max said.

‘All my life I have had just one wish: to do what I can for my country,’ she replied, as if on tape. ‘That is why I am still fighting for my people when my friends are at home, playing with their grandchildren.’

Just when she seemed to be sinking into a stupor, Ray
introduced
Philip. She made no move to hold out her hand and he refused to ape Max by lifting it to his lips, so he gave her a guarded nod and was rewarded with a gaze straight out of Madame Tussaud’s.

‘Philip is a friend from England,’ Ray said. ‘He is writing about Father Julian, a priest – also from England – who is soon to become a saint.’

‘How are you liking my country?’ Imelda asked Philip, with an emphasis on the possessive.

‘I’m overwhelmed by it,’ he replied equivocally. ‘I’ve never been anywhere so full of contradictions. Take today: here I am at this magnificent party, when I spent the morning on the Payatas rubbish dump.’

Philip felt a ripple of unease running through the group, but he was determined to stand his ground.

‘This is the world that God gave us,’ Imelda said. ‘Just as we have mountains and valleys and sun and rain and land and sea, so we have rich and poor. This is something that Westerners rarely understand. In England and in America, you have many poor people but they are miserable. In the Philippines, you will see that they are always smiling.’

‘They live on garbage. They bring up their children on garbage. They’re constantly exposed to infection.’

‘You are quite ignorant,’ Imelda replied blithely. ‘It’s what makes them strong. As I said to the Holy Father when he came to visit me, we should think positive and see it as free
immunisation
. Now I need to sit down; I am an old lady. Orlando…’ She turned to one of her companions, who had been hovering anxiously throughout the exchange. ‘You promised me some of Mr Lim’s delicious pancakes.’

‘Please to come this way with me,’ Ray said. ‘I shall tell the waiters to bring you everything you desire.’

‘She’s not the only one who needs to sit down,’ Philip said, as Ray led Imelda and her coterie to one of the richly appointed tables at the far end of the room.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ Max said.

‘I should? I’m not the one who robbed my country blind and was complicit – at the very least – in the deaths of thousands of innocent people.’

‘Tell it to someone who gives a damn! Now we’d better get something to eat before we’re slung out on our ears,’ Max said. ‘The buffet’s outside.’

They walked through the patio doors into the back garden where a huge L-shaped table extended around two sides of a swimming pool. Philip gazed in awe at the display: the
sparkling
silver tureens and candlesticks; the gleaming porcelain platters; the fantail-shaped sprays of flowers; and above all, the lavishly arranged food. He strolled up from the shallow end, past melons, avocados, quiches and terrines, to dishes of cold salmon, chicken and pork, and a dauntingly large haunch of beef. Halfway along, he stopped to watch a group of chefs
sweatily
grilling steaks and frying the celebrated pancakes, before continuing to the deep end, where the brightly coloured salad bowls and wheels of cheese gave way to a fantasia of puddings: caramel baskets filled with crème chantilly; three-tiered
chocolate
towers; berry tarts piled as high as Easter bonnets.

Max walked up to him, mouth full and spirits restored. ‘You must try some of this.’ He held out a plate of reddish-brown meat.

‘What is it?’

‘Think of it as the best pussy you’ll ever eat.’

‘Can’t you give it a rest for one evening?’

‘It’s true,’ Max said with a smirk. ‘
Buto sa baboy
. Otherwise known as roast sow’s vagina.’

His last shred of appetite destroyed, Philip was contemplating how to slip away when Ray came over to them.

‘The lady is happy. She has encountered some old friends from the Malacañang days. She has promised to have a few words of advice in Brent’s ear. But no more politics! I shall have enough of this when the campaign is starting.’ He turned to Philip. ‘Tell me, did the boy Dennis drive you here?’

‘No, we took a cab. Why? Do you want him?’ Philip asked, surprised that Ray should permit the two sides of his life to converge.

‘I have lent him something which I would like back. Are you sure he is not with you?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I’m sorry; I am not doubting you. It is most inconvenient. Still, it will wait. Now, I must introduce you to my wife. She is eager to meet you again. Please do not move from this spot!’

‘Not one inch,’ Philip said, forcing a smile at the prospect of facing Mikee. Ray scurried away. ‘He seems quite cut up about Dennis. Do you think he lent him money?’

‘Not likely!’ Max said. ‘He’s as tight as a tranny’s fanny.’

‘Thank you for that.’ Philip frowned. ‘Well, Dennis can look after himself. I’m sure he’s ripped off bigger men than Ray and lived to tell the tale.’

‘I wouldn’t bank on it! Don’t be misled by all the swish. You’ve heard of the butterfly that flapped its wings in Brazil and set off a tornado in Texas?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Its name is Ray.’

Philip viewed his host with newfound apprehension when he returned with Mikee, resplendent in a glittering silver cheongsam with yellow and orange tongues round the hem, as if it were on fire.

‘I am sorry to be neglecting you,’ Mikee said, ‘but I have so many important guests.’

‘I understand,’ Max said, lifting her right hand and kissing it, leaving a film of grease. ‘It’s the social event of the season.’

‘I’ll second that,’ Philip said, uncertain whether to kiss Mikee’s hand or shake it. ‘I’ve never seen such a gargantuan feast. You’ve done us proud.’

Mikee stared at him coldly. ‘I must assure you that I have done nothing at all. But I thank you on behalf of my chef.’ She smiled at Max and walked off, closely followed by Ray.

‘How to win friends and influence people!’ Max said with satisfaction.

‘Why? What have I done now?’

‘There’s nothing worse than complimenting a hostess on her food. It’s like saying she’s so poor that she had to cook it herself.’

‘Dos and Don’ts in the Philippines
has a lot to answer for! No matter how hard I try, I’ll never get the hang of things.’

‘Don’t worry, your ordeal will soon be over. A week from tomorrow you’ll be on your way home.’

‘You’ve booked the flight?’

‘Oh yes. Ever so humble.’ Max tugged an invisible forelock.

‘Thank you,’ Philip said, feeling strangely light-headed. ‘No doubt it’s another faux pas, but I’m calling a cab.’ He took out his mobile. ‘Are you coming back with me or will you hitch a ride with somebody else?’

‘And forgo one moment of your scintillating company? Although I trust you’ll allow the condemned man a final drink.’

No sooner had Max moved away than Philip was accosted by Amel. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘am I interrupting?’

‘Not at all. I’m texting the taxi firm to pick us up.’

‘What about your driver?’

‘He’s busy at his second job.’

‘No, I rang the manager at Mr Universe and he told me he hasn’t turned up yet.’

‘You know Dennis? And the club?’ Philip felt the world grow both smaller and more menacing.

‘I need to speak to him urgently.’

‘About anything special?’