Never an Empire (30 page)

‘Bless you, Father.'

The young woman didn't have to leave the small room, the women who had waited at the doorway had been listening and waiting and now those at the front came in and knelt down. Those who couldn't get in knelt in the other room.

Father Enrique knelt once more and in a strong, clear voice, with his hands together, led the prayer.

‘The first Sorrowful Mystery, the Agony in the Garden.'

When the rosary was over he and the women stood up. The young woman, still weeping, came and took his hand and kissed it.

‘Thank you, Father. God bless you.'

As he walked to the door other women took his hand and kissed it. He let them do it and remembered the last time it had happened. It was their way of showing respect and gratitude. He didn't deserve it, he had done no more than his duty, but this was their village and he also must show respect and gratitude, respect for their ways and gratitude that they had allowed him to serve.

Outside the hut the head man was waiting.

‘I told them not to bother you, Father.'

‘It doesn't matter.'

The head man stood, obviously he had something to say and didn't want to say it in front of the women who had followed Father Enrique out of the hut. ‘Well.'

‘I need to speak to you, Father.'

‘Then speak. These people know why I'm here, don't they? You told them I was here on the general's business?'

‘Yes, Father, I told them, but only so they would leave you alone.'

‘And who said I wanted to be alone?' Father Enrique could see the anger in the head man's eyes at this rebuke. Why did he speak to him like that? Why could he not be more patient, tolerant? ‘I'm sorry. I am tired and it has not been by my own choice that I am here.'

He sighed. ‘Please say what you have to.'

‘If the lieutenant comes he will come to his mother's house. That is what happened in the past when his wife came. Will you wait there? If the lieutenant got my message he could be here any time from midday onwards.'

‘Then tell his mother to let me know when he arrives. I will be under the tree where I slept.'

‘Very well, Father, it will be as you say.'

The head man turned and walked away.

Why do I behave like that to him, thought Father Enrique. Is it because he is proud and pompous and reminds me that I was just the same when I first came here? How can I kneel by the bedside of a dead mother and pretend to be a good priest when as soon as I get out of the hut I behave like that? What use can my prayers be?

Then, thinking of prayers and praying, he remembered that in his saddle bag was his breviary: the book of daily prayers and readings for clergy and religious to be recited three times a day without fail. Once he had been punctilious about this routine but lately, as he had in so many other things, he had changed. There had been days recently when none of the prayers had been said, the book not even opened. What a dereliction of his priestly duty. He walked off in the same direction as the head man and went to where his horse had been hobbled. The saddle and saddle bags lay nearby. Father Enrique took out the heavy, black breviary, opened it at the correct day, began to walk slowly and say the words. He didn't hurry this morning prayer or say them mechanically as he had so often done when he was busy, he walked slowly, read slowly, mouthed the words with care then turned and walked back. There was no hurry, the whole day, empty of purpose until the lieutenant came, stretched before him. For the first time in a long time, a very long time indeed, he let not only the words but their meaning enter his mind and, he hoped, his soul. He still wanted to be a priest, a worthy priest, but that could never happen until this incubus that had crept into his bed and possessed him was exorcised. That could never happen until he was free of all of it, including the American.

Chapter Thirty-eight

Father Enrique was sitting under his tree. His midday meal was over: pahos again, but he had tried to sound grateful and appreciative. He was thinking about how long he would stay. He had told the head man no more than two days but he knew he could not stick to that. The American was expecting some sort of message from the lieutenant and he would have to have it: that was the only way this thing might end. If it took the lieutenant three days or even more to come he would have to wait. But if it took that long then people in San Juan would probably start to worry. He had told no one where he was going but it wouldn't be too hard for someone to decide he had come to this village again. Tongues would wag and questions would be asked. News of what was going on might even get to the bishop. On top of that the sacristan wouldn't like to be left for so long on his own. He might easily go to the chief of police. Then there was Maria. What would she be doing? His thoughts, having turned to Maria, stayed there. She was a good woman, a strong woman, as his mother had been and, like her, had complete dedication to what she believed in. For his mother that had been her family and the Catholic faith, for Maria it was freedom for the Philippines. Why could he not be strong like them, have their commitment? Maria was prepared to die for what she believed in. Could he become a martyr if called upon to face death for his faith? All his life he had been sure that he could: that his faith was more important to him than life itself because a martyr's death opened the door to a new life, eternal life. Now he wasn't so sure. It was in part because Maria was so willing to die that he had agreed to come. He was frightened of the American, he admitted it, and he was frightened of dying. But his life was dedicated to God not to the Philippines or any other country. When he became a priest the Catholic Church became his country. The American could have them both hanged, that he didn't doubt, and he didn't want to die nor could he let Maria die if it was in his power to save her. She had something to live for so he wanted her to live.

He sat half dozing in the heat which the shade of the tree did very little to diminish, he let his thoughts wander on. Yes, Maria had the Philippines to live for, to fight for, he wasn't so sure about himself. He wanted to be a good priest, but could he be strong enough? Could he find the same belief and dedication that she had found? His dozing mind went round and round the same questions, answered with the same doubts, caught out at the same hopes, then began again.

The day was no hotter than usual but sitting in idleness with nothing but his revolving thoughts seemed to increase the heat. He felt thirsty and his thirst turned his mind to the bottle of bourbon. He could do with a drink now. In fact he wished he had put the second bottle of bourbon the American had left in his saddle bag as well as the breviary.

His thoughts veered sideways.

Why had he brought his breviary? Over the past few weeks he had hardly used it. But he was glad that he had, it had been a great comfort to him since he arrived, his only source of comfort, even though bringing it had been from no more than habit. Or perhaps it was something more, a small sign from God to show him that he still might …

His thoughts were interrupted by someone coming and standing in front of him. He looked up. It was Carmen's mother. He scrambled to his feet.

‘Has he come?'

‘There is someone in my hut who wants to see you.'

It seemed an odd answer.

‘The lieutenant?'

‘I was sent to bring you.'

Father Enrique remembered the young woman who had come to him, who had defied the head man by coming. Perhaps it was some other villager who didn't want to be seen approaching him.

‘Is it someone from the village?'

‘No.'

Father Enrique decided he didn't care why she was being so evasive. Either it was the lieutenant or it wasn't and he was doing nothing else. If someone needed him as a priest it would at least help to pass the time.

‘Very well, I'll come.'

Carmen's mother led the way and Father Enrique followed. At the doorway to the hut she stood to one side. Father Enrique went in and stood for a second to allow his eyes to adjust. Someone was standing over by the far wall but even before he got use to the dark interior he could see it wasn't the lieutenant. It was a woman. She came forward.

‘Have you spoken with him yet?'

‘Maria. What are you doing here?'

‘Have you spoken to the bitch's husband yet?'

‘No. I was hoping it was him I had been brought to meet.'

Carmen's mother came in.

‘Well, I brought him. Now will you tell me?'

Father Enrique turned.

‘Tell you what?'

‘She says she has important news for me and for my son but she wouldn't say what it was until she had spoken to you. She knew you were here and she sent me to get you.' She turned back to Maria. ‘Well, you've spoken to him, now speak to me.'

‘Your daughter-in-law is dead.'

‘Dead, how?'

‘I killed her.'

The woman looked at Maria for a moment.

‘I don't believe you. Why would you kill her?'

‘Because she and her husband are trying to betray the general.'

‘That's a lie. My son is loyal to the general. He does special work for him, he is trusted. It was my son who got the general's men back from the San Juan gaol, who saved them from hanging.'

‘Think what you like. I know your son is a traitor.'

‘Liar. How, how do you know?'

‘Because his wife told me. That's why I killed her.'

The woman was shaken by the answer and when she spoke there was clear doubt in her voice.

‘If she said that then she's a liar just like you.'

‘They are going to give the general to the Americans and then go away to America with the money from their treachery.' A nasty smile crept over Maria's face. ‘They were going to leave you here to rot in this filthy village.'

The woman gave a small cry.

‘Ah. It can't be true. My son would never leave me here alone.'

The women's voices had been rising and their words must have clearly carried well outside the hut. Now another sound joined their shouting. A child had begun to cry in the bedroom but only Father Enrique seemed to notice it.

‘The slut had him wound round her little finger. Do you think she would let him drag you along to their fine new life?'

The woman clamped her hands over her ears.

‘I won't listen, all you say is lies.' The words were almost a scream but it was clear the anger that filled them was because she couldn't prevent herself from believing what Maria had said. When she carried on it was with closed eyes and her words were for herself, not for anyone else. ‘My son loves me; I am his mother, he wouldn't do as you say, never.'

Maria laughed and Father Enrique winced at the sound. This was not the woman he knew, the woman so like his mother.

‘He would and he thinks he will. But I think differently.' She pointed at Father Enrique. ‘The slut is dead and this traitor priest has come here to take her place as messenger.' Father Enrique looked at the doorway. Somebody had come to see what was happening. What all the shouting and screaming were about. Maria was too busy to notice any newcomer. ‘But there will be no message sent to San Juan because there will be no messenger and when I've done that I will go to the general.'

Suddenly she stopped as the figure in the doorway stepped out of the daylight into the room. Maria's pause was no more than an instant, then she turned and moved quickly towards Father Enrique who saw that there was a knife in her hand. He stood, rooted to the spot, paralysed with fear. Maria was going to kill him as she had killed Carmen. His power to act or speak was suspended in him. Maria was going to kill him and he couldn't stop her. He wanted to do something, strike out, defend himself, but this was Maria.

The noise of the explosion filled the small room as Maria threw herself forward onto Father Enrique with such force that she almost knocked him down. He caught her in his arms and tried to hold her up but she was heavy and wouldn't help so he lowered her to the ground and when he took his arms from round her he felt a warm wetness on his hands. It was blood.

A voice came from the doorway.

‘Is she dead?'

He looked up. Standing there in his uniform with a pistol in his hand was the lieutenant. Father Enrique looked down into Maria's sightless eyes.

‘Yes.'

The lieutenant pushed his pistol back into its holster.

‘Who is she?'

‘My housekeeper. She must have followed me here.'

‘Is it true what she said?'

‘That I am a traitor?'

‘That my wife is dead, that she killed her?'

‘Yes. I wasn't there but …'

The lieutenant cut across his words.

‘Later. I heard the shouting when I arrived: people were coming, listening. I waved them away but they must have heard what was said. Now there's been a shot they will come back. The head man will come; we have to be ready.'

‘Ready for what?'

‘To say what happened.'

Carmen's mother came and took her son's arm.

‘She was mad, my son, told wicked lies about you, that you would leave me. You wouldn't leave me, my son, tell me you would never go away and leave me alone.'

The lieutenant brushed his mother's hand from his arm.

‘That's what we'll say. She was mad, she followed you here and started screaming and waving a knife. I arrived, heard the noise, and came in to see what was happening. When she saw me she attacked you and I shot her. It's almost the truth.'

Before Father Enrique could answer the lieutenant turned, left the hut, and stood outside. Beyond him Father Enrique could see the villagers gathered. As he looked they parted and through them came the head man. He walked up to the lieutenant. They spoke for a moment then both came to the hut.

The head man looked at Maria's body then at Father Enrique.