Chapter Twenty-eight

Father Enrique lay in bed in the darkness. His thoughts were of Carmen, but he was relieved that they did not arouse him. She was now a problem of moral theology: of whether she should remain in his house or be sent away. Jesus would have forgiven her sin, but would Jesus have kept her under his roof? That was what Father Enrique couldn’t decide – but he had been lucid enough to lock his door. His tired brain began drifting round in circles. Sleep began to seep through him, for a second he was a little boy in church in a white shirt with a red sash kneeling looking at the altar. He was happy. His mother was kneeling next to him, looking down at him, but she had tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. He noticed that she was wearing a white communion dress with a lace veil which she now pulled over her face. He had somehow made her cry on this day of all days. He wanted to tell her he loved Jesus and would be holy and become a good priest. She turned to him and lifted her veil. It was Carmen smiling at him, and there in church, in front of the altar, she began to take off her communion dress.

He opened his eyes with a start, sweating. His penis was firm. He threw back the sheet, got up, put on his dressing gown, knelt by the bed, and joined his hands. Only the grace of Jesus could help him now in his time of temptation. He forced his mind to hold that thought: that that was all she was, a temptation, something sent by the Devil to ensnare him. He waited for the voice of Jesus but all that came was silence. He leaned his tired head against his hands and thought about Jesus’ example with fallen women. The one with a bad reputation who had washed his feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. The Samaritan woman at the well who lived with a man who was not her husband. Jesus had not condemned them, though others did. Jesus had forgiven them. Could he forgive Carmen? Without realising it his head drooped forward against the bed, and he slept.

Downstairs Maria was in the kitchen, listening carefully. Father Enrique had locked his door, she knew: she had crept up and tested it before pretending to go to her room. She was fairly sure that he was over his infatuation now and wanted Carmen gone but the slut was clever and making it difficult for him, and Maria was fairly sure she knew why. Carmen had come into the house to worm her way into Father Enrique’s bed and once she was sure she had him, off she hopped back to her village. She’d spread the idea that her village needed a priest, but Maria didn’t think it was baptisms and weddings the slut wanted. So what was it about? The general’s plan to get his men back out of gaol? She’d already given that some thought. How could the general know there would be police travelling with them? He couldn’t unless the chief of police himself had been in on it, had helped in the kidnap. That she dismissed. The chief of police wasn’t the sort of man to risk his position and his life by helping the general and if the chief of police was working for him why had she been asked to be the general’s eyes and ears in San Juan? And the American: where did he come from and why? One thing was certain, he wasn’t a reporter. Could he have had something to do with the taking of the police? No, that was impossible. No American would help the rebels, never. But he might have had something to do with the murder of the paho seller and her son. Somebody must have known a message had been passed. Could Carmen have known, overheard something, seen something? She was in the house at the time, she’d seen the pahos … and there her mind stopped. Carmen had seen her throw away the fresh pahos and knew how much she hated waste. Could she somehow have seen the meeting in the church? If she was working for the American she could have passed on what she’d seen. It wasn’t certain, not at all, but it was a possibility.

She paused in her deliberations as she heard a sound upstairs: the gentle footfall of bare feet. She smiled; that was what she had been sitting waiting for. The feet stopped for a moment. That was Carmen finding the door locked. Then she heard the feet again, not so softly this time. Finally a door closed noisily.

Ha, the bitch knew she wasn’t wanted in his bed any more. Good. But if Carmen was allowed to stay she would have to watch her carefully. Tiredness began to return. She could get nowhere with any more thinking, so she might as well go to bed. She stood up and began noisily to go upstairs.

The next morning Father Enrique told Maria he would not come back after Mass for any breakfast, nor would he return for lunch. He was going to fast that day, to go without any food at all. He had, he said, become too comfortable in his ways. There were many poor in the parish who couldn’t eat and more still who didn’t have enough to eat. Yet he was not only well fed, he considered himself overfed. It was, he emphasised, no criticism of Maria. She was an excellent housekeeper. But he was a priest, the priest of the parish. If some of his people went hungry then sometimes he must go hungry. However, none of this applied to Maria or to Carmen. They were to eat as normal.

Carmen was not up when he left to say the early Mass and when she did come down she took only coffee for breakfast and then sat about in a dressing gown doing nothing. She wandered about the house, went out into the garden, and finally came into the kitchen to get herself another cup of coffee. Maria was sitting at the table doing some sewing.

‘Father is on a fast today so there will be no meals. I will go to a friend’s house to eat and I don’t want his fast worse if he finds he has to come back by the smell of food someone else has eaten floating about the house. If you want to eat go out and buy yourself something with some of all that money you seem to have come by.’ Carmen said nothing. Maria pretended to yawn. ‘I’m tired this morning. I slept badly last night. Someone was walking about and making a noise with the doors. I hope Father Enrique wasn’t disturbed by it.’

Carmen scowled at her but still said nothing so Maria bent her head back to her sewing and Carmen took her coffee outside into the garden. After about ten minutes Maria came out with her shopping basket.

‘I’m going to the market. Father Enrique might be on a fast but there’s still shopping that has to be done but remember, no cooking today so make up your mind what you’re going to do about your meals.’

She didn’t wait for a reply and set off. Carmen went back into the kitchen, sat down, and looked at her empty coffee cup. She had two weeks to get through before she could go back to the village and it wasn’t going to be easy. Enrique locked his door and the bitch made fun of her. She couldn’t go on like that: soon she would say something to one or perhaps both of them. Only a saint or an idiot could live in such a house and she was no saint, but neither was she an idiot. There had to be some other way of staying in San Juan without having to suffer this foul house, but where else could she go? Who did she know? Then a thought struck her. There was one person she knew and he might be just the person she needed. She got up quickly, went to her room, put on her new dress and hat, picked up her parasol, and looked down at her feet. Her shoes were still shabby; should she buy some new ones? No, they would have to do. She went downstairs, through the kitchen and garden, out into the street and set off.

Her artist friend had said he wanted to paint her. Well, why not let him? And while he was painting her she could live in his house. Why not?

In pursuit of this she headed to the same street where yesterday the meeting with the artist had occurred. On her walk she re-lived the meeting and his conversation during their meal; that delicious meal in San Juan’s best hotel. He was bored with San Juan. He had only come and taken a house because he had found nothing to interest him in Manila. In Spain he had met and become great friends with two Filipino artists: Juan Luna and Felix Hidalgo, and had determined that one day he would visit the Philippines to see what it was that had inspired their art, but so far his visit had been a severe disappointment. Then, at some reception or other, someone told him that the church in San Juan was exceptional, almost unique. In desperation he had come but found it unexceptional, rather boring, and definitely not worth his time and effort. Seeing as he had taken the time and trouble to come he had stayed on for nearly a month now, looking for something, anything, which might stimulate him to take up his brushes and his paint. He had been, he said, almost on the point of despair and considering going back to Paris where there were subjects worthy of his attention.

Then he had seen her.

Only she of all he had seen, he said, had roused his artistic spirit.

It had been wonderful to sit and eat and drink wine while he talked. He was a man of the world, had lived in Madrid and Paris. He was educated, sophisticated, and of all that he had seen in San Juan only she was worth his attention. Well, if he wanted to paint her he could, so long as she could live in his house. She didn’t have to sleep with him, although instinctively she felt he would be a man who knew how to make love to a woman properly. She made a decision. Yes, if he took her into his house and he wanted her it might be allowed. After all, what was the difference between giving herself to an artist instead of a priest? Both would serve the same purpose: to give her a reason to be in San Juan. And she was sure of one thing: life with her artist friend would be a much more enjoyable experience than life in the priest’s house. Carmen’s thoughts fully occupied her through the town and into the street where she hoped she might once again meet her new friend.

She slowly walked the length of the street, turned, and began to walk back and was not more than half way along when he came from behind and fell into step. She stopped, looked at him and affected surprise.

‘Oh dear, you startled me.’

He raised his hat and smiled.

‘No, my dear, I don’t think I did, but it is charming of you to say so, almost as if you meant it.’ He held out his arm. ‘Would you care to join me for a glass of wine? I usually take one or two about this time at the hotel where we dined. It is a dull place and not at all what I am used to but in a wilderness such as this I have found it tolerable. The days are so long and there is so little to do, so little of interest, or should I say that there was so little of interest for now, I think, I may have found something to which I can give my undivided attention.’

Carmen slipped her arm through his. He patted her hand and they began to walk together.

While Carmen and her friend were sitting in the hotel drinking a bottle of chilled white wine, upstairs in the same hotel the American was also drinking. He was finishing his second glass of bourbon and reflecting, as he did more and more these days, on past exploits, services he had rendered his country, or, more accurately one particular service. Once more his mind went over one night, one awful night. He leaned forward, picked up the bottle, and poured another glass. Only the bourbon helped now and even its ability to numb his memory was slipping. He took a sip, lay back in his chair and waited for the whiskey to do its work. There was a knock at the door and he looked at it annoyed.

‘Come in.’ The chief of police came in. ‘Oh, it’s you. Sit down. Have a drink.’

The chief of police was a sociable, easy-going man, but he refused the American’s offer as he sat down and put his cap on the table beside the bottle of whiskey. Hard liquor before lunch, taken alone in a hotel room, wasn’t his idea of social drinking. It was the sort of drinking that destroyed people, although so far the American seemed to be able to function despite it. The chief of police wasn’t sure how this man might take the news he brought and he was unsure how to begin.

‘One of my men has given me a report.’

‘So, you’ve had a report.’

‘I thought you’d want to hear it straight away.’

‘Go on then.’

‘You told me to watch the priest’s house so I put a relay of men on it.’

‘Maria, the housekeeper. She’s the one I told you to watch. She’s the one who tried to send the message.’

‘Yes, but I used my judgement. I told my men to watch all of them: the priest, the housekeeper, and the woman.’

The American took another drink.

‘They’re your men. I don’t care how you use them so long as I know what that housekeeper gets up to.’

The American wasn’t truculent, not yet, but the chief proceeded with caution.

‘The young woman, Carmen, left the house about an hour ago.’

‘Great. Where did she go?’

‘Not far from here. A street that runs off this square. She walked up and down as if she was waiting for someone. After a short while a man joined her.’

‘What man?’

‘Middle-aged and well dressed but not local. They talked briefly then walked off together arm in arm. My man says it looked like a prearranged meeting. He followed them. They went to a hotel, this hotel. My man wasn’t sure what to do so he came across the square to me. I came straight here. They’re downstairs now, talking. I saw them as I came in.’

‘Damn.’

The American almost slammed the glass he was holding on the table spilling as he did so a not inconsiderable part of his drink. The chief, who thought his news would be received badly, cautiously asked a question.

‘Trouble?’

‘Probably. Do you or your man have any idea who the fellow she’s with is?’

‘No, but he’s not from San Juan.’

The American sat in thought.

This was what he had worried about: Carmen talking. Who the hell was the man?

‘All right, first thing, I want to know who the man is. I’ll go across to your office and I’ll write a note for one of your men to take to Carmen. It will tell her to come and see me at once. When she’s left you take care of him: question him. I want to know everything about him from where he was born to the size of his vest, understand?’ The chief nodded. ‘Good.’