Never an Empire (15 page)

There was a knock at the door.

‘May I speak to you, Father?'

It was Maria.

‘Yes. I will come down in a minute.'

Now what could Maria want? She knew he disliked being disturbed when he had settled in his room. This was his time, his only time to himself. He finished the third glass, put the cork back in the bottle, and went downstairs. Maria was standing by the table, waiting.

‘Well, Maria, what is so important?'

‘What have you decided about the American?'

Father Enrique was shocked not only by the question but by the manner of her asking. It was as if their roles had suddenly been reversed, as if she was the mistress of the house and he the servant. He was so taken by surprise that he answered at once.

‘Nothing.'

‘You haven't decided?'

‘Yes.'

This paradoxical reply seemed to annoy her. She spoke almost sharply.

‘What have you decided to tell him?'

Finally Father Enrique came to his senses. He was being cross-examined by his housekeeper in his own house during what was supposed to be his special, private time. It was intolerable.

‘What do you mean by this sort of behaviour, Maria? What I decide to do or not do about the visitor today is nothing to do with you.'

‘Oh no? Nothing, you think?'

‘What's the matter with you? What's brought on this, this …'

‘The American has brought it on and if you were even half awake to what is happening I wouldn't have to spell it out as if you were a child.'

‘Spell what out?'

‘The American is trouble, trouble for you, me, the village, and General Sakay.'

‘He's a reporter.'

That brought a scornful laugh.

‘And I'm the Virgin Mary.'

Father Enrique was deeply shocked. This wasn't the Maria he knew so well, this was someone else, someone quite different.

‘How dare you? How dare you use such blasphemy in my house?'

‘Because I'm not a fool. He's an American which by itself is bad enough, but he starts asking questions about what happened with the two policemen. How did he know about that? I don't think the chief of police is likely to have told his superiors in Manila that he lost two men and had to let four rebels go to get them back. But the American knows all about it even though it's only just happened.'

The news came as both a shock and a relief and for the moment even distracted him from the new Maria confronting him.

‘It's done? Already? The exchange has been made?'

‘Yes.'

‘So quickly? I thought it would take longer. The chief of police seemed worried that there wouldn't be enough time.'

‘Was he? It's funny how smoothly it all went, almost as if it had all been planned by both sides even before you decided to visit the village.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Nothing. I'm just saying it all seems to have gone well.'

‘But you mean something else as well.'

‘All I'm saying is that it was as if someone knew you were going to make that visit even before you did.'

‘But that's ridiculous. How could anyone know I would make such a visit? It didn't enter my head until you suggested it.'

‘I know, I asked myself the same question. And now I'm asking myself how this American could have known about it.'

‘He's a reporter. Isn't that what we should expect from a reporter, to look out for such stories?'

‘Blessed Jesus, don't you see what's in front of your very eyes? He even told you himself. He couldn't have made it clearer.'

‘Told me what?'

‘That the policemen aren't news to any American newspaper. What sort of a reporter travels to this out-of-the-way place to find out what might happen to two wretched, rural policemen, to find out whether they live or die? Do you think anyone in America cares what happens to them?'

‘But he explained that.'

‘Oh yes, he told you a long tale and you, I suppose, swallowed it. Can't you see? He's here for the Americans, for the governor. He's mixed up in this affair somehow and whatever it is it will mean trouble for the general, bad trouble.'

Father Enrique tried to think about it but somehow his mind seemed a little fuddled. Could Maria be right? She sounded as if she was convinced, but she was just a woman, a housekeeper, what could she know about such things? As for the American, he spoke like a reporter and what he said made sense. He made it clear he wasn't interested in the policemen, that they were just part of a bigger picture. It was the bigger picture that mattered. Who was in the right?

‘No, what you say is nonsense, Maria. He's a reporter, just that, he wants a story about what the Americans are doing here in the Philippines, something to show that they are making things better for the people. I can understand that. But even if he's doing something else, trying to make trouble like you say, it doesn't matter because I've decided to have nothing to do with him or his stories. I'll go to his hotel tomorrow morning and tell him so then he'll go away, you'll see.'

‘He will, will he? You tell him you won't co-operate and he'll melt away like ice in the sunshine, nice and quietly with no fuss or bother?'

‘What else can he do?'

‘Well, I think differently.'

But Father Enrique had had enough. He had made his decision. He would have nothing to do with the American and that included discussing him any further with his housekeeper.

‘And I'm not interested in what you think. I can't imagine what's got into you tonight but you better get over it. If I have another outburst like this I'll have to think about looking for a new housekeeper.'

They stood facing each other. For a moment Father Enrique thought she was going to go on with her mad behaviour but when she spoke her voice was apologetic and she bowed her head slightly. The old Maria was back.

‘Of course, Father, you are right. It's just that his sudden visit and talking about what happened in the village upset me. I was worried. I spoke without thinking. Please forgive me.'

‘Of course, Maria, we'll forget all about it but let this be a warning to you about listening in at doors. Nothing good comes of it.'

‘No, Father.'

She was all meekness now.

‘Very well.'

Father Enrique turned and left the room without looking back, which was just as well, because Maria had raised her eyes as he left and the look she gave his back spoke more eloquently than words ever could about how she felt. It was as if at that moment she wanted him dead and was quite prepared to do the deed herself. But it was only a look and a look by itself has never killed anyone yet, so Father Enrique closed the door behind him, returned to his room, took the cork out of the wine bottle and filled his glass again. He needed another drink. Maria had shaken him, he admitted it, but he had been firm, he had made his authority felt. It wouldn't happen again. He was sure of that. Quite sure.

Chapter Seventeen

The American closed his room door behind Father Enrique.

‘Thank you for coming, Father. Would you like me to send down for some coffee?'

‘No thank you.'

‘Then shall we sit down?'

‘No. My visit will take very little time. I came to tell you that I do not wish to be involved in any way with you or your stories. That is my decision and it is final. Good day.'

Father Enrique stood looking at the American who seemed not at all put out by what had been said.

‘That's a pity because I've also come to a decision. The story will get written with or without your cooperation and that is also final.' Father Enrique was unsure what to do. He had expected this man to oppose him, to try and change his mind and perhaps, as an American, try to bully him, all of which he was ready for and could have dealt with. But he had not expected to be brushed to one side.

The American smiled and gestured to a chair.

‘Let's sit down, Father, and talk this over.'

‘There is nothing to discuss.'

‘Fine. Then I'll just go ahead and write what I want.'

‘And you will leave me out of it?'

‘Oh, no. You're the main character I told you that, the priest who is a saint hero. The story's no good without you. You're Spanish, see, and we're not at war with Spain any more. In fact we want to make sure that our relationship with your country is back on friendly terms as soon as possible which means the great American public will have to be somewhat re-educated.'

‘What are you talking about? You are making no sense.'

‘I'm making sense all right, believe me. Look, Father, sit down, let me get you a coffee, and we'll talk this through.'

‘No, I do not want any coffee. I have made my decision.'

‘And I have made mine.' The American waited but his visitor, though looking defiant, made no motion to leave the room. ‘At least sit down. We might as well be comfortable.'

Father Enrique paused just long enough to show that he acquiesced under protest then went and sat in one of the two easy chairs and looked round. Whether it was because he was a reporter and his newspaper paid or because he was American Father Enrique didn't know, but this room was the best in the hotel, one kept ready in the hope of some wealthy or important visitor. Of course the best room in the best hotel in San Juan Bautista wasn't saying much, Father Enrique had seen many such rooms in Manila where they were commonplace for even the most ordinary hotel.

The American waited until Father Enrique's inspection of the room was over then sat down himself.

The American sat back comfortably, Father Enrique sat stiffly upright.

‘Well, I'm here and I'm listening.'

‘I'm afraid I have a small confession to make, not like your Church's Confessions, nothing sinful, just a small omission. Everything I told you yesterday is true but there's another angle I didn't mention. My story, when it gets written and it will get written, needs a Spanish hero, one the US public can identify with and admire. We need to show America that Spain isn't the colonial monster that we had to fight to bring freedom and justice to the peoples of Cuba and the Philippines …'

‘You need to show Americans what exactly?'

‘That Spain can produce great and good men,' he paused, ‘like you.' Father Enrique was about to interrupt again but the American held up his hand and went on. ‘Before we went to war with Spain the
Journal
printed some pretty rough stories about the Spanish in Cuba. I don't say they were outright lies but I will admit they were perhaps more colour than fact and the picture we established in the American public's mind was not a nice one. Mr Hearst wanted his war and it was the
Journal
's job to get it for him so we did what we did, but now that's all over. The
Journal
stands for peace, prosperity, and progress for all peoples, especially those who have groaned under the evil yoke of Colonial or Imperial oppression.'

‘I see. Then perhaps you will explain why you refuse to give independence to the people here in the Philippines.'

The American gave a wry smile.

‘Point taken, but I still say …'

‘Or to Cuba? I have to say that to many people who are not American it seems you are more interested in creating your own empire rather than destroying others.'

‘No, Father, not that, never an empire. The United States will not and cannot oppress the people of other nations.'

‘If you say so but I am not interested in American foreign policy or any other country's foreign policy. If you remember you were going to tell me about why I am so necessary to your story.'

‘I was and I will. We won the war but we bear no grudges. We want to put Spain right in the eyes of America, show that Spain can be a partner with us in the march of progress so long as the right men are there to give the lead. We need a symbol of the new Spain, one that will resound with true American sentiment. You're going to be that symbol, Father, the Spanish saint hero who risked his life for the poor, oppressed people he's come half way across the world to serve. Of course we won't be able to stress the Catholic angle too much, that wouldn't go down so well, but the man, the individual, that's all pure gold. Everybody needs heroes, people to set a standard the rest of us can shoot at. What do you say, Father, for the good of your own country and your adopted country?' Father Enrique sat in silence. He couldn't believe what he had heard, that an educated man, even an American and a reporter, would ask him to swallow such obvious rubbish. ‘A bit overwhelmed, eh?'

Father Enrique stood up.

‘I will not stay here and be insulted.'

‘Who's insulting you?'

‘You are, by treating me like an imbecile child.'

The American also rose.

‘I don't get you.'

‘What you have told me is absurd. I was told more coherent and believable fairy stories at my mother's knee. I came here as you asked to give you my answer not to be made a fool of. Go ahead with your story. Write whatever you like. If anyone asks me I shall tell them that it is all lies, American lies.'

And Father Enrique turned, walked to the door opened it, and left.

The American sat down and looked at the open door for a moment then laughed quietly.

‘Well done, Father, just what I expected and just what I wanted. You've washed your hands of me and all that's been done, so now I can forget about you. Thank you, thank you very much.'

Chapter Eighteen

The Office of the American Governor General, Henry Clay Ide

Manila

‘I want no trouble stirred up. There's been enough bad judgement already and as long as I remain governor there'll be no more. Understand?'

Governor Ide's angry words were directed at the only other person present in the room, a man in his mid-thirties, sandy haired with a well-tanned face, who wore gold-rimmed spectacles and a blue bow tie.