Chapter Twenty-nine

‘Who is he and what have you told him?’

Carmen looked at the American and slowly began to smile.

‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘Who is he?’

‘A friend: an artist who wants to paint me.’

Now it was the American’s turn to smile.

‘Well, it’s not what I was expecting, I’ll give you that. Tell me about him.’

‘He saw me on the street and talked to me.’

‘Just like that? He talked to you and now he’s your friend and takes you to the hotel?’

‘I told you, he’s an artist. Things are different if you’re an artist. When he sees something beautiful he must say so.’

The smile became a grin.

‘And he said so to you?’

Carmen scowled at him. She wasn’t making up a story this time: she was telling the truth and all this pig could do was laugh at her.

‘Yes. He said I was beautiful.’

‘You know I never thought of that. Just walk up to some pretty girl and say, hello there, Miss, aren’t you a pretty thing, how about a drink? And there you are. She says, sure, Mister. Of course I suppose I’d have to say I was an artist. I don’t suppose it would work if I said I was a clerk or a book keeper.’

‘Laugh if you like but what I say is true.’ She paused for a moment looking at his grinning face. ‘And I am doing it for you, for your plan.’

That got the grin turned off as the American sat forward.

‘What have you told him?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Then what’s this got to do with our business?’

‘The priest isn’t interested in me any more. He locks his door at night. Today he won’t even come back to the house. He says he is on a fast but really it’s to avoid me. He’s tired of me and wants me gone.’ She had his full attention now, she could see that, so she waited a moment before going on and when she did it was her turn to smile again. ‘If he throws me out where am I supposed to go? Maybe I should come to the hotel and stay with you, eh? Or perhaps walk the streets?’

‘Shut up.’ Carmen didn’t mind. She had made him think. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Eduardo.’

‘Eduardo what?’

‘Ribera. He’s Spanish.’

‘And I don’t give a damn if he’s from the moon.’ He sat looking at her for a moment. ‘That’s a new dress, isn’t it? The hat and the parasol as well. If the priest locks his door and wants you gone who is all the finery for?’

‘For me. I was tired of my old dress so I spent the money you gave me on this.’

‘Before you met your new friend?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not to look nice for your new friend?’

There was a knock at the office door and before the American could speak it opened and the chief of police came in. He looked at Carmen.

‘You. Get out. Wait downstairs.’

Carmen didn’t move, instead she turned at the American who looked at the chief then back at her.

‘You heard him: this is his office, not mine. Get out and wait downstairs.’

Carmen stood up then walked out of the room with her head in the air. It wasn’t much but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. The chief closed the door behind her and crossed to the desk.

‘Do you know who it is, the man you told me to question?’

‘I will when you tell me.’

‘Eduardo Ribera.’

‘So? I already knew his name; it means nothing. Enlighten me.’

The Chief took off his cap, threw it on the desk, and sat in the chair Carmen had so recently vacated.

‘He is an artist, Spanish.’

‘I knew that too; Carmen told me.’

‘Good, and did she also tell you he is a friend of Felix Hidalgo and Juan Luna?’

‘No, and if she had the names wouldn’t have meant any more than his. Who are they?’

‘Only two of our most famous men. Filipino heroes.’

‘What sort of heroes? Fighters, rebels, patriots? If they’re so famous how come I haven’t heard of them? It’s the sort of thing I’m supposed to know a bit about.’

The chief of police was an easy-going, comfortable man who liked a quiet life and ever since this American had turned up his life had been anything but easy-going or comfortable but he had been able to retain some semblance of calm and control. It took a great deal to make him angry, but being forced to interrogate a respectable visitor for no apparent reason had pushed him to the edge of his tolerance and discovering that the stranger was an important artist and close friend of two men he admired almost above all others had taken him beyond it. He was angry now and he didn’t care about calmness or control. He had something to say and he would say it.

‘Because you are an American and therefore a philistine,’ the American was about to speak but the chief gave him no chance, ‘a barbarian and art means nothing to you. As it happens Luna was a hero of the revolution and was sent to prison because of it,’ the chief waved a hand, ‘but that was nothing exceptional. Many suffered in that way. What Luna and Hidalgo did was more than fighting for our freedom: they captured in their work our greatness and our suffering, they showed the world the heart of the Philippines. I wouldn’t expect you to understand as the heart of any American does not beat, it crinkles, because it is not made of flesh and blood but dollar bills.’ The American had, at first, been about to stamp on this chubby little man, but now he sat back and listened. The man had got the bit between his teeth and it might prove a wiser cause to hear him. ‘They have both been awarded gold medals for their work, they are admired in Madrid and Paris, and you sent me to interrogate a man who knew them, who was their friend and colleague. Because of your grubby little plan I had to treat him as if he were a common criminal.’ He hung his head in shame. ‘I was humiliated.’

Here the chief stopped and seemed to deflate from the memory of what he had been made to do by this odious American.

The real truth of the situation, however, was that he himself was a frustrated painter, not that he had ever had the chance to see whether the divine fire flowed through his veins. His life had been a commonplace one, but his soul had aspired to the creation of beauty. In his house he had a collection of poetry books on his shelves that could hardly have been equalled by any grand house in Manila. And he not only read them, he re-read them and learned many poems off by heart. No one else knew it, but it was this romantic streak, this love of poetry that had initially won him the affections of his wife and it had never dimmed. To him the great artists of painting and literature were demi-gods, to be revered.

Now a true artist had come to San Juan and had he given him the respect and admiration he deserved? No, he had been forced to play the policeman.

The chief’s eyes rose again and looked at the American who, on seeing them, was more than a little surprised for they were full of hate. This dramatic change in a man he thought of little or no consequence surprised him. This was someone to be ordered, directed and used as he might use a trained dog, and he had suddenly turned and bitten him. The American was angry but he was also cautious. First there had been this business with Carmen and the stranger, then there was what she’d said about the priest locking his door and wanting her out of his house, now the chief of police was acting up. Suddenly, out of nowhere, his plan which had been so near to success was in danger of coming apart. God, how he wanted a drink.

‘Finished? Got it off your chest?’

The words had poured out of the chief and he had meant them. He had got over his burst of anger but had remained sullen.

‘I take nothing back, nor do I apologise.’

‘Then don’t. You didn’t like what you had to do but it still had to be done. So, you’re sure this man is really an artist?’

‘Yes. He showed me his passport and a letter of introduction from Felix Hidalgo.’

‘This Hidalgo and the other one?’

He waited to be reminded of the name.

‘Juan Luna.’

‘They could vouch for him?’

‘Luna is dead. He died seven years ago. Hidalgo is in Spain.’

‘You seem very well informed.’

‘I am the chief of police but I also have a soul. Where art is concerned I am very well informed.’

The American tried a smile. He wanted this man friendly again so he made a little joke.

‘Unlike myself who, as you correctly pointed out, am a philistine.’ The chief shrugged. ‘That’s OK, you’re right, I wouldn’t know one end of a paintbrush from the other and the only portraits I could identify are the ones on dollar bills.’

The chief recognised the American’s attempts to calm the situation and responded in kind.

‘I spoke in anger.’

It wasn’t an apology but it was as close to one to make no difference, so the American decided to get back to business.

‘Send Carmen up, then go back to the hotel and if he’s still there do what you can to make your peace with him. Offer to buy him a meal, show him the sights, whatever it takes to unruffle his feathers.’

The chief picked up his cap and stood up.

‘I will do my best.’

‘That will be good enough for me.’

The chief left and closed the door behind him.

Hell, thought the American, I need a drink. But first there was Carmen to deal with. The chief was settled, now he had to make sure of her. He waited until the door opened and Carmen walked in. At once, from the way she stood in the doorway, he knew it was going to be hard work. Well, what the hell, it was only two more weeks then he could be rid of the bitch.

He smiled.

‘The chief of police called me a philistine. What is it you’d like to call me?’

Carmen had been brooding as she waited downstairs and had had plenty of time to decide exactly what she wanted to say.

She closed the door and began to speak.