Never an Empire (19 page)

Father Enrique answered slowly.

‘Yes, I suppose so. Bandits. But it's still terrible, terrible.'

Maria stood up.

‘I'll re-heat your meal, Father. You must eat.'

‘Yes, thank you.'

Carmen waited until the kitchen door closed behind Maria and then spoke tentatively.

‘I have a new dress. Do you like it?'

Father Enrique gave it a cursory glance.

‘Yes. It's a nice dress.' He looked away again, took a sip of brandy, then slowly shook his head. ‘Terrible, terrible.'

Carmen turned and went into the kitchen where Maria was busy trying to revive Father Enrique's dinner.

‘Tomorrow or the next day I must go back and see my daughter to make sure she's being properly cared for.'

Maria didn't look up from her pots.

‘Suddenly you're a good mother.'

‘I am a good mother. I care about my daughter. All I do is for –'

‘Go whenever you like; I won't miss you.'

‘Very well, I'll go tomorrow at first light. I'll let you tell Enrique.'

‘I'll tell him. He'll probably be pleased with the rest and a good night's sleep.'

The words she wanted to speak came into Carmen's mouth but remained unsaid. One day she would get even with this cow. But not today.

Chapter Twenty-two

The following day, after his visit to the sewing school and two houses, Father Enrique was surprised to see the sandy-haired reporter walking towards him in the street. He wore the same light suit and bow tie and there was a big smile on his face. The American stopped in front of him with his hand stretched out.

‘Well, well. Nice to see you again, Father.'

Father Enrique reluctantly shook the man's hand.

‘I didn't think I would see you here again. Has San Juan provided you with another fairy story to fire your imagination?'

It wasn't meant to be welcoming but the American ignored it, carried on smiling, and took hold of Father Enrique's upper arm.

‘I'm not here looking for any story; that's all finished, done and sent off. I'm here to see you. Come to the hotel and I'll buy you a drink.'

Father Enrique felt the gentle pressure on his arm. He pulled himself free.

‘I'm afraid I have business to attend to. Parish business.'

‘Visiting a few wealthy wives and drinking coffee? That can wait, surely?'

‘No it can't and … how did you know what I do?'

‘I know all about you, Father. You'd be surprised how hard I work when I'm on a story. I only use a small fraction of what I dig up. All the rest gets carefully stored away.'

‘Stored away? Where?'

The American tapped his head.

‘Up here.' He laughed. ‘Don't worry, no one else gets to look at it. It's all safe with me. Now, how about that drink?'

‘No.'

‘Father, I'd like this to be a little private talk just between ourselves but if I have to I can make it official.'

‘Official? How can a reporter make something official?'

‘I'm not just a reporter. While I'm here I do odd jobs for the governor general's office. He's short-handed and takes all the help he can get when there's anything needs looking at outside Manila or one of the big towns.'

‘And something needs looking at here in San Juan.'

‘That's right.'

‘You know, the more I find out about you the less I want to have anything to do with you. Last time we met you were a reporter, nothing more. Now you're a temporary official with the governor general's office. Before you turned up nothing much ever happened in San Juan. But now something seems to happen all the time.'

‘It does seem that way. Don't you want to know what it's all about?'

‘No. I told you before and I tell you again: I want nothing to do with you.'

‘Not even if it involves the young woman called Carmen whom your housekeeper is passing off as her cousin's daughter?'

Father Enrique tried to keep the surprise and anxiety out of his voice.

‘What about her?'

‘Yes, I thought if I mentioned Carmen your attitude might change. A very pretty young woman, Carmen. Don't you think so, Father?'

‘I suppose so. I hadn't noticed.'

‘No? Then you must be the only man in San Juan who hasn't.'

What do you mean?'

The American's hand went back to Father Enrique's arm.

‘Let's go to the hotel and get that drink and I'll tell you.'

This time when he felt the gentle urging Father Enrique began to walk and, side by side but without talking, they headed off to the American's hotel.

They sat in one of the comfortable ground-floor public rooms. The American had a bourbon and Father Enrique a coffee.

‘Well, you have brought me here. What is it you want?'

‘To talk. To sit and talk like old friends. I don't know anyone over here.' The American raised his glass in a salute and took a drink. From the way he spoke and from his manner Father Enrique began to suspect that the drink in his hand wasn't the first of the day nor probably the second. ‘Come to think of it I don't know many people back home, not as friends anyway.' He sat quietly for a moment as if reflecting on what he had said. Then he looked up and smiled. ‘I guess you could call me a loner.'

‘You wished to talk to me because you are lonely?'

‘Hell no. I didn't mean that, I was just sort of explaining something.'

‘That you have no friends?'

‘That I don't need people. In my line of work you move around from place to place. You get used to being on your own.'

‘So you have no friends?'

‘OK, I have no friends, but it's my choice not to have any.'

‘And what? You wish to make me your friend?'

The American laughed out loud then took another sip and put his glass on the table.

‘You know you're good, Father Enrique. Last time we met I had you down as just another country boy.'

‘Country boy?'

‘A yokel, someone not too smart in the ways of the big city.'

‘Then you were not wrong. I'm sure I'm not at all smart, as you put it, in the ways of your big cities.'

‘Well you're giving a fine impression of being just that right now.'

‘In what way?'

‘I bring you here, you didn't want to come but I applied a bit of pressure and here you are. So far so good. But then what? Do I get to ask my questions? I do not. You take charge and run rings round me. Am I lonely? Do I have no friends? Do I want you to be my friend? You're not impolite, no, you're too polite. You don't make it hard for me, you make it impossible. How can I play the heavy official from the governor general's office if we kick off talking about how I'm a lonely guy without any friends? I can't. I can't pressure you and if I can't pressure you then you don't cooperate and I get nowhere. Now where I come from we call that smooth work, brother, real smooth.' And he reached forward, finished his whiskey, and sat back smiling. They were the only people in the room but standing in a corner was a waiter. The American gestured to him with his empty glass. The waiter nodded and left.

Father Enrique felt pleased with himself. It was indeed as the American had said: he had taken control, not allowed himself to be bullied, pressured as the American called it. Smooth work? Well, perhaps it was. The waiter reappeared with a glass on a tray, put it down, and picked up the empty glass. The American looked at Father Enrique's coffee cup.

‘That's pretty much gone cold. Why not give up on it and have a drink?'

Father Enrique was about to refuse when he realised that he did feel like a drink, but not whiskey: something he was used to.

‘A brandy.'

The waiter nodded.

‘Yes, Father.'

The waiter left the American took a sip.

‘Does he know you?'

‘Everyone knows me. I am the only priest in San Juan.'

‘You know him?'

‘No.'

‘It must be nice to be known, to have everyone treat you with respect.'

‘That is just because I am their priest. It doesn't make me special as a man.'

The American leaned forward.

‘I'm glad you said that, Father, because it's not as a priest I want to talk to you. I want to talk to you as a man.'

The waiter came in again. The American sat back until the brandy was on the table and the waiter out of earshot in his corner. Father Enrique looked at the brandy. He wasn't sure any longer that asking for it had been such a good idea.

The American leaned forward picked up his glass and held it out.

‘Cheers.'

Father Enrique paused only momentarily; he had asked for the drink so now he would have to drink it. He picked up his glass.

‘Salud.'

The American took a deep drink.

‘I know all about Carmen.'

Father Enrique was in the middle of taking a small, careful sip when the American spoke and he gulped rather than swallowed, the brandy burned in his throat and he coughed. The American sat back and waited until the coughing fit was over.

‘OK now, Father?'

‘I'm sorry. I'm not used to spirits.' He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. ‘What do you know about Carmen?'

‘That she's a spy for General Sakay, sent here to be a go-between.'

It was not what Father Enrique had expected.

‘A spy?'

‘Yes, an agent.'

‘But she can't be.'

‘Why not?'

Father Enrique searched for a reason.

‘But what on earth would she spy on here?'

‘Yes, I know it seems that way, that there's nothing here to interest the General. But we have our information, that Sakay has an agent established here in San Juan and if he's gone to all the trouble to put an agent here it means there must be something to interest him. That's the job I've been given. To find out what this Carmen woman is up to.'

Father Enrique was both relieved and bewildered. Relieved that his relationship with Carmen was still unknown and bewildered by how she could have been mistaken for an agent of General Sakay. He was also somewhat nervous. He could hardly tell this American that his information was wildly inaccurate, that Carmen had returned to San Juan to live in his house and share his bed, all at his request. But without that explanation what else could he do but seem to accept the American's interpretation of her presence, that she was a spy.

‘Are you sure?'

‘Certain.'

‘And what do you want me to do?'

‘She lives in your house. I want you to report to me on her movements, who she meets, where she goes, any messages she sends or receives. She's a very pretty young woman. I doubt she'll be here for long before she finds some romantic attachment. When she does I will want to know who the man is. Whoever it turns out to be, no matter how surprising or unlikely, that man will almost certainly be part of the plot.'

‘Plot?'

‘Whatever Sakay is up to in San Juan.'

‘I see.'

The American leaned forward with a serious look on his face.

‘I hope you do, Father, because if Carmen's friends in the mountains find out you're helping us in this then I wouldn't give a wooden nickel for your life, priest or no priest.'

‘But I haven't said I would help.'

‘Sorry, Father, but that's not an option now. I've told you what's going on, that Sakay is planning something here in San Juan, so now you know. Either you help us or …'

‘Or?'

‘Or you obstruct our investigation by refusing your cooperation which would mean I must assume that you have chosen Sakay's side. If you do that, after what I have told you then I have no choice but to invoke the Banditry Act and have you arrested, tried, and most likely hanged. Dammit, Father, it doesn't seem much to ask. The woman has moved into your house, she lives under your roof. How much more do you want? You couldn't be more involved if she was sleeping in your bed,' and before Father Enrique could gasp out the hurried denial that sprang to his lips the American held up a hand and continued, ‘not that anyone's suggesting such a thing, Father. Oh no. It was just a manner of speech. But you see what I mean, don't you?'

‘Yes. I see what you mean.'

And he did, all too clearly.

Chapter Twenty-three

The chief of police was uncomfortable. Things were getting out of hand but he didn't see what he could do about it. The American had come from Manila with a letter signed by the governor general himself and the wording left no room for doubt:
Give my representative all possible assistance.

No, no room for any doubt at all. The business of arranging for the kidnapping of two men had been bad enough but, thank God, it had all gone smoothly. This latest thing, however, was different. Killing a woman and her son, if he was her son, for no apparent reason. It was madness.

The chief was at home, sitting in the dining room by himself. With friends around the table, conversation and laughter, it was a somewhere he enjoyed. But the heavy, dark furniture and furnishing, fashionable and expensive, became oppressive when he had to sit alone and think of things he'd rather know nothing about. The meal was over and he was alone. He reached forward and refilled his wine glass and as he did so his wife returned and stood beside him.

‘Do you really want another glass? That's the second bottle.'

‘No, I don't want it, but I need it.'

She sat down.

She was a tall, thin, aristocratic woman whose frown alone was enough to quell the most obdurate of servants. Her carriage was always ramrod straight and her manner of dress severe, but despite appearances she could have a kindly disposition, especially where her husband was concerned. True, her upbringing had done its best to bury any such softness, for although she had been born in the Philippines her family were Spanish and, on her mother's side, of minor, rural nobility. As with colonial officials the world over, what would have been of little importance in the mother country became enlarged in importance when stationed among fellow expatriates abroad. As a child the social superiority of her family had been rigorously drilled into her and her mother, shocked to the core of her noble soul, had never again spoken to her when, at the age of seventeen, she had ran off and married her secret lover. Had the boy been Spanish or even of an acceptable family a reconciliation might, in time, have been possible, but he was a Filipino, a native. Worse still his family were in trade: shopkeepers who ran a small hardware store and had supplied the house with lamp oil. No, her mother had closed both her door and her heart to such a daughter.