Never an Empire (28 page)

‘There's somebody at the door, Father. Are you all right? Do you know what to say? I must answer it. At this hour it can only be the police. Are you all right?

Father Enrique nodded blankly. It was a lie: he was far from all right, but what did one more lie, great or small, matter among so many lies?

But Maria proved wrong. It wasn't the police. It was the American and he was alone. Father Enrique sat looking at him: both the man's pockets were heavy with something. They pulled the jacket down.

‘Good evening, Father. Sorry for calling so late but I've had a busy day and I needed to speak to you.'

It was Maria who answered him.

‘Couldn't it wait until tomorrow? Father Enrique is tired, he doesn't want to see anyone. He has also had a busy day.'

‘Yes, Maria, I think you both have.' He turned back to Father Enrique. ‘Sorry, Father, but I'm afraid it won't wait. Would you mind if we spoke alone,' he looked to Maria, ‘and this time I really do mean alone. No one behind kitchen doors.'

‘What do you mean? Do you think I listen at doorways?'

‘Maria, I don't think you listen at doorways, I know you do, and if you don't go to your room and stay there I'll bring in one of the policemen who are standing outside, front and back, and have you thrown into gaol. It's your choice.' As Maria stood silently the American turned once more to Father Enrique. ‘Father, would you please take your housekeeper to her room?'

Father Enrique sat silently and didn't move so Maria walked to the living room door, opened it, and waited. When she spoke it was very gently.

‘Come, Father.'

Father Enrique stood and went to her and they both disappeared. When he came down a policeman with a rifle was standing at the foot of the stairs. He moved to one side to let Father Enrique pass but said nothing. In the living room the American was sitting at the table and on it were two bottles of bourbon whiskey.

Father Enrique tried to rally his senses. He didn't want to talk to this man, didn't want him in his house. He was afraid of him.

‘Has this suddenly become a social call?'

‘Sure, Father, a social call. Let's keep things friendly if we can, eh? Could you get us a couple of glasses?'

‘I can get you a glass. I don't wish to drink now.'

‘Join me tonight, Father; you don't know it yet but it's a special occasion.'

‘What special occasion?'

‘Get the glasses and I'll tell you.'

Father Enrique went to a cupboard, fetched the glasses, and came back to the table. In many ways he was still confused and lost but not so confused to be able to see that this American, by coming into the house, ordering Maria to her room, and posting an armed guard at the stairs, was making a point. He was in charge and whatever he chose to do he could do and it would have the full force and support of the local police.

The American took the bottle and poured out a small one which he pushed to Father Enrique and a more substantial one for himself. He put the bottle to one side and sat back but didn't touch his glass.

‘What, no toast?'

‘No, no toast. It's not that sort of occasion, and anyway it hasn't arrived yet.'

‘What hasn't arrived?'

‘Your reprieve.'

‘My what?'

‘Haven't you heard, Father, has no one told you? You and your housekeeper have been charged, tried, and found guilty of murder. Tonight I take you both to gaol to await execution by hanging,' he picked up his glass and took a small sip, ‘unless of course your reprieve comes through. That's what this bottle is for, the waiting. I've got a feeling you're going to need it. But don't worry if we finish this one while we wait: I brought another to celebrate if the good news comes.' He laughed. ‘That's what it's all about isn't it?'

‘All what's about?'

‘You, being a priest, your religion. It's all about the Good News. Well tonight, Father, it's me that's bringing the good news not you, but first we have to talk. I'm hoping it won't take the whole bottle because, just between you and me, this isn't my first bottle today. But like I say it's there if we need it and another waiting, so take a drink, Father.'

‘I told you, I don't want it.'

‘But you drink brandy?'

‘Occasionally, very occasionally.'

‘But never bourbon?'

‘No, never.'

Suddenly there was an edge of menace in the American's voice.

‘Well tonight's when you try something new. There's two ways this can go: either we talk and work something out or you and your housekeeper hang for murder. There's no third option.' He smiled and the tone changed. ‘So take a drink, Father, be sociable while you still can.'

Chapter Thirty-six

The bottle was half empty. Father Enrique had finally finished his first small drink and had poured himself another, equally small; this he held while the American talked on.

‘So that's what happened. It wasn't an unhappy childhood, don't think that, and I wasn't the only kid who had a drunk for a father. But it's funny, isn't it? I hated my old man because he drank and when he drank he got violent and Mom had to take it or he'd go for us kids. Yes, sir, I hated that bastard.' He leaned forward, took the bottle, and refreshed his glass. ‘And I swore to myself that I wouldn't be like him and look at me. Go ahead, Father, take a good look. I won't be offended.' As Father Enrique was already looking he wasn't quite sure what to do but after a brief pause the American seemed satisfied and carried on. ‘I get through two bottles a day regular, bad days three. I don't suppose I've gone to bed sober in, oh, God knows how many years. But I still function. How does that work, Father? You're a priest. Can you tell me how that works?'

‘I'm a priest, not a doctor.'

‘No, hell no. I don't mean how do I still do the job. I mean if I hated my old man so much because he was a drunk how come I drink so much?'

‘I can't tell you that either.'

The American sat back.

‘Or won't?' Father Enrique was about to answer but the American gave him no chance. ‘You're devious bastards, you Catholic priests, aren't you?' He waved a hand. ‘No, no, don't bother to deny it. But I don't mind, and do you know why I don't mind? Because I'm a devious bastard myself. It's like they say, it takes one to know one.' The American fell silent and Father Enrique waited. The silence began to stretch out uncomfortably. Father Enrique felt he had to do something so he took a sip from his glass. It worked. ‘That's right, Father, drink up.' The American also took a long drink. ‘OK, Father,' he paused, ‘do I have to keep calling you that? Don't you have some name I could use?'

‘Enrique.'

‘Enrique?'

‘Yes. Enrique Jesus Maria.'

The American looked at him puzzled for a moment.

‘Jesus.' The pronunciation was not Spanish, as had been Father Enrique's, but English. ‘Nobody calls their kid Jesus, for God's sake. It's a kind of blasphemy, isn't it?'

‘Not in Spain.'

‘I see. Not in Spain eh?'

‘No.'

The American smiled as if he had caught the priest out in some way.

‘But Maria, that's Mary isn't it?'

‘In English, yes.'

‘And your folks called you Mary?'

‘Yes.'

‘Jesus Mary? And you didn't hate the bastards for that?'

‘No. I was a happy child. My parents loved me and I loved them and my name was never a problem for me.'

‘Because you're Spanish?'

‘Yes, because I'm Spanish.'

The American suddenly sat forward and put his glass heavily on to the table. Father Enrique was mildly surprised it didn't shatter.

‘That's fine, Father…'

‘Enrique.'

‘Whatever. You were a happy kid and I wasn't. So what? My old man was a drunk and yours wasn't. Great. But that's all long ago. Now we're all grown up and here's how it stands. The Philippines are American now, not Spanish, and they're going to stay that way until Washington says otherwise.'

He waited with an aggressive look on his face as if he expected what he had just said to be contested.

‘If you say so.'

‘I do say so.' The American sat back and smiled. ‘The point is, Father, do you say so?'

Father Enrique became more and more unnerved by these sudden changes of mood and wasn't sure what to do. He got the distinct feeling that the man opposite, clearly drunk one minute then suddenly, as now, apparently sober, could easily become violent. He was frightened but could see no way of escape.

‘I am a priest, not a politician.'

‘And a murderer, Father, don't forget that.'

The remark was quietly given but nonetheless sufficiently full of menace. It was clearly intended as a threat. Father Enrique, while the American had settled down to drink and talk about himself, his childhood, had wondered when it would return. In a strange way he was glad that now it had. At least when on this subject the American seemed to be able to act as if he was completely sober and the threat of personal violence receded.

‘I have killed no one.'

‘No? Well, we won't split hairs. Carmen is dead and she was killed in this house. You know how I know that?'

‘No.'

‘Because the house is watched. Your housekeeper, Maria, is an agent for General Sakay. Ever since we found out, the house has been watched. Carmen came in and she never came out but now she's not here: disappeared. No one knows where she is. But you and I know, don't we, Father? She's in the crypt of the church in one of the tombs. Oh sure, you didn't kill her: stick the knife in or batter her head or however it was done. Maria did that. But you helped Maria get rid of the body so that makes it murder for you both. You'll both hang.' He paused. ‘Unless …'

Father Enrique knew he had to ask the question so he asked it.

‘Unless I do what?'

‘Nothing much. Just go and break the bad news of Carmen's death to her husband.'

Father Enrique had been told that this man was capable of terrible things and he believed it. He hadn't known what to expect but certainly not this.

‘Go to the mountains, to the army?'

‘No, to the village. They'll get a message that you want to see him.'

‘And if he comes tell him his wife has been murdered?'

‘No, not murdered. Let's say she died of natural causes, a fever. She suddenly developed a fever and died before anyone could do anything to help.'

‘In other words, lie?'

‘Is it a lie? This country has a fever: the rebels who want to keep the war going. But the war is over, the Spanish lost and we won. To keep fighting is like some sort of madness, some sort of fever. In a situation like that if you get involved you know the risks you take. The soldiers in the mountains know it, all soldiers know it. The lieutenant knew that, and Carmen knew too, so, in a way, her death was from natural causes: the war. The war General Sakay is fighting is a sort of sickness, it stops the country from making a healthy recovery from all the fighting and killing that's been going on for God knows how many years.'

Father Enrique was frankly stunned as he listened. Not more than a few moments ago he had been sitting opposite a drunken man whom had passed from the maudlin stage to one where he feared might turn violent. Now he was listening to a man not only coherent but persuasive. That it was all a lie didn't matter: it was a tour de force of willpower over alcohol. If he hadn't seen it he wouldn't have believed it possible.

‘Go to the village?'

‘Just that.'

Father Enrique didn't believe him, it wouldn't be just that, but he was still fascinated.

‘And in return?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Nothing?'

‘That's right, nothing. No search of the crypt, no finding of Carmen's body, no arrest of you or Maria. Nothing.'

‘And all I do is tell the Lieutenant that Carmen died of a fever?'

‘Yes. Tell him she died and you had her buried. It's the truth, isn't it?' There was a brief pause. ‘Did you say a prayer for her when you'd done it?'

Father Enrique answered: why not, this man knew what had happened.

‘Yes.'

The American put his head back and laughed.

‘By God, I knew you had.' The laughter stopped. ‘See, Father, I understand people, I can see their strengths and, more importantly, their weaknesses. I can tell what they'll do and where, if anywhere, they'll draw the line. That's the main part of what I do: watching people and predicting how they'll react. That's my job and I'm good at it.' He picked up his glass and looked at it. ‘Except for this.' He took a sip. ‘This is killing me, but it's taking its damn time.'

He took another sip and sat in silence, looking at the glass in his hand. Father Enrique at once became alarmed that another sudden mood swing was about to be enacted. He had to say something to keep the sane man opposite him.

‘What is your job?' The American looked up from his glass. ‘You're not a reporter, are you?'

Quietly he thanked God as the American answered.

‘No, I'm not a reporter.'

‘And the governor general? Do you do work for him when he's short handed?'

The smile remained.

‘No, more like the other way round. While I'm here I say how things go. I do it politely and let him feel that he's still the boss, but we both know who gives the orders and who takes them.'

Father Enrique desperately searched for the words that would keep the conversation going.

‘Do you work for someone in Washington?'

The American stopped smiling and paused.

‘Yes, Father, I work for someone in Washington. Do you want me to give you a name?' But before Father Enrique could answer he went on. ‘I will if you ask me,' He held up the glass. ‘That's what this does, see? I tell myself I can stay in control, that everything will be OK. I tell myself I can handle it. But the truth is one day it will get me and I'll say something. Like now. If you ask me for a name I'll give it and you know why?' Father Enrique shook his head. The man was talking, calmly and coherently, he didn't want him to stop. ‘Because it wouldn't matter. Once I gave you the name I could kill you.' The American put the glass down, unbuttoned his jacket, and pulled it to one side.' In the top of his trousers Father Enrique could see the butt of a pistol. Sweat formed on his forehead; he felt cold but knew he was sweating. ‘There's a policeman at the foot of the stairs, he's got a rifle, but would that matter? No. Because I answer to American justice and out here I can make up my own laws and no one can touch me. Do you want the name, Father? Just ask.' The two men sat for a moment looking at each other. Then the American pulled his jacket closed, finished the drink in his glass, stood up and buttoned his jacket. ‘I'm glad you didn't ask, Father, really glad.'