The Breath of Night (32 page)

7 July 1983

My dear Mother,

I write straight after reading your letter. What on earth was Greg thinking? Let me put your mind at rest: I have NOT joined a gang of Communist assassins – although, to give them their due, the NPA, whom I take to be the assassins in question, are a highly professional revolutionary force. I’m touched by your concern, but please, please, I beg you not to commit such
tittle-tattle
to paper. I remember warning you about the vulnerability of the mail when I first came out here. The warning is even more urgent now that tensions are running so high.

That said, what’s so terrible about Communists? Have you ever met one outside the pages of
The Times
? I have, and I can assure you they’re not all cold-blooded commissars shooting plucky grand duchesses or brainwashed students brandishing little red books. They’re decent, high-minded people who think deeply about the world and set about improving it with a zeal that would put the average priest to shame. And, before you tell me that priests should concern themselves with the next world rather than this one, may I respectfully point out that Our Lord Himself instructed his followers to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, protect the vulnerable and, here’s the clincher, sell everything they had for the benefit of the poor? What’s more, there are striking parallels between Christ’s and Marx’s social teaching. ‘In so far as you did this to one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did it to me’ finds echoes in ‘From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs’. And think of the first apostles who ‘owned everything in common’. That’s where you find the authentic note of the early Church,
the true spirit of Christianity, not in papal tiaras and bishops’ thrones.

I should explain what I mean by ‘tensions’. Obviously, Father’s funeral was neither the time nor the place to discuss parochial problems but, in the twelve years I’ve lived here, I can’t
remember
a period of so much friction. If you ask whether I think that the
haciendos
have plotted with the civil and military
authorities
to launch a concerted attack on people’s rights, my answer would have to be ‘No’. If, however, you ask whether they’ve decided to stand shoulder to shoulder to snuff out any flicker of resistance, my answer would be ‘Yes. Absolutely. Beyond a shadow of a doubt.’

Events have unfolded with a sinister synchronicity. Every
barrio
has been affected, but by far the hardest hit has been the Arriola estate. Its particular difficulties stem from the logging concession granted by President Marcos to don Bernardo’s cousin back in the seventies, and the legal challenge mounted by a group of farmers to the supply road, which would have cut across their fields. The interminable case has finally exhausted don Bernardo’s patience. In an effort to put pressure on the farmers, he’s resorted to ever more draconian methods. First, he demanded that his
encargado
impose heavy penalties on the gleaning and foraging that provide families with a vital source of food. Then he arbitrarily revoked the traditional right of estate workers to plant their crops between his coconut palms. When they carried on regardless, he summoned the local army chief, insisting that he apply the full force of the law. Either from common decency or, as Benito would have it, an inadequate pay off, the officer refused. Quesada, the Constabulary Commander, showed no such scruples, ordering his men to shoot any ‘land invader’ on sight.

A week later, I stood at the altar in front of eight plain wooden coffins. The church doors were open to include the vast overspill congregation in the square, but I suspect that even those who secured a place inside caught only a fraction of my words above
the shrieks and moans. None of the
haciendos
or their stooges deigned to attend although, to her credit, doña Teresa
Romualdez
paid her respects, standing meekly at the back, her
trademark
black taking on new poignancy. I neither know nor care whether the government spy, who drives down from Baguio every Sunday and sits ostentatiously taking notes during my sermons, showed his face, but if he did, he’d have been amply rewarded. Gone were the days when I exhorted the victims to turn the other cheek; now I reminded them of Christ’s claim that ‘I have come to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were blazing already!’. Moreover, I declared that we had no need to wait for Christ to return to establish His kingdom (which would merely be another form of dependency) but had it in our own hands to establish Heaven on earth.

As I led the cortège out of church, I found myself face to face with Quesada, who slowly, mockingly, doffed his cap,
releasing
the shoulder-length hair that he wore in defiance of official regulations and to set himself apart from his men. Flashing me a grin like a knuckleduster, he fingered the gun on his belt before raising his hand to his chest, to what at first looked like a
pectoral
cross, but on inspection proved to be an
anting anting
in the shape of a scimitar. Whatever its provenance, it failed to impart the necessary protection since that brief glance was the last I saw of him. Two days later he was killed, along with three soldiers in a textbook NPA ambush. While publicly and privately
lamenting
the loss of life, I couldn’t put my hand on heart and condemn the killers. All my training has disposed me to follow Christ who, even in the turmoil of His arrest, restored the high priest’s servant’s ear. Lately, however, I’ve found alternative inspiration in the Old Testament leaders who took up arms on behalf of their downtrodden people.

As you can imagine, Quesada’s death left the constabulary hell-bent on revenge. No matter that he’d treated his own men almost as brutally as he had the populace, beating them with his belt, his rifle butt and his bare fists when they failed to carry
out his increasingly erratic orders (and this was a man who’d cherished ambitions to be a priest!), the honour of the company was at stake. As they combed the parish for the perpetrators, our only hope, as so often in the past, lay in the bitter rivalry between the various authorities, with the police and the regular army joining forces to prevent the constabulary from indulging in an orgy of reprisals.

I found myself in a quandary when the Constabulary Regional Commander asked me to celebrate Quesada’s requiem. I’d assumed that his body would be returned to his family on Mindoro, but no one from the island came forward. To add to the confusion, when I asked to meet his widow, he turned out to have three (is there such a word as trigamist?), each of whom had been unaware of the others’ existence. After much soul-searching, I informed the Commander that I would fulfil my obligation to give him a funeral blessing but I was under no such obligation to celebrate his requiem. The officer was
outraged,
as were the
haciendos
in whose name Quesada had been acting, along with the Mayor and Police Chief, who had no love for Quesada but a vested interest in maintaining the status quo. They appealed to the Bishop, who summoned me for a meeting. Much to my surprise, he accepted my argument that by burying Quesada in the full solemnity of the Church, we’d be tacitly endorsing his tactics. He refused to yield to the mounting
pressure,
and the simple service went ahead in the presence of the military top brass, the provincial elite and the three widows, who jockeyed for position beside the coffin. Quesada’s baleful
influence
lingered to the end when, during the three volley salute on the church steps, a rifle backfired, taking out the gunner’s eye.

The Bishop was bitterly attacked for backing me, with our enemies even playing the race card but, far from swaying him, their cheap jibes appear to have strengthened his resolve. He asked, in return, that I should lie low for a while and added that if I were to do anything in the future that might compromise him, I should tell him only under the seal of the confessional.
I thought that very fair, and have been happy to enjoy a time of reflection and recuperation, my own version of R & R. So here I am in my study, listening to Haydn’s
Creation
, one of the records you sent me via Isabel all those years ago and which I have at last had a chance to play. Yes, the twentieth century has finally caught up with us, only eighty-three years late,
bringing
electricity (who knows, in another eighty-three we might have the telephone!). It’s wonderful to be able to play the music of my choice – or rather, your choice, thank you – instead of depending on whatever comes crackling over the airwaves. My one regret is that Consolacion, who in another life would have been a regular concert-goer, refuses every invitation to join me, preferring to sit deferentially on a hard chair in the hall.

On which note – and a very melodious one – I shall sign off, but not before sending you every blessing for the move to the Lodge. I remember how reluctant you were to leave it at the end of the war; I pray that you and Cora will find an equally happy home there now.

Your loving son,

Julian