Never an Empire (24 page)

‘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.'

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.