Never an Empire Read online

  ‘Good morning, Father. Your housekeeper said it would be OK to wait for you.’

  The man was in his mid-thirties, with short, sandy hair, a well-tanned face, and a stocky build. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and had a blue bow tie: both of which gave him a vaguely professorial look. His light, linen suit was clean and well cut but rather crumpled. On the table where he had been sitting was a smart, brand new Panama hat.

  Father Enrique felt nervous. An American visitor was not something he wanted or welcomed. He ignored the outstretched hand.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  The stranger dropped his hand, not at all disturbed by the refusal of the handshake or the coldness of the tone.

  ‘I’ve been sent here to follow up on a rumour that two policemen have been kidnapped by the rebels.’

  ‘Sent from where?’

  ‘Manila.’

  ‘From the authorities, the civil governor’s Office?’

  This brought a smile to the man’s face.

  ‘No, Father, I’m not with the government, unless you’re one of those people who count the Fourth Estate as part of it. My boss certainly does.’

  ‘Fourth Estate?’

  ‘The press. I’m a reporter with the New York Journal and my boss is William Randolph Hearst. I guess you’ve heard of him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? I thought the whole world knew his name. He thinks they do.’

  ‘The name means nothing to me.’

  ‘But you’ve heard of the Journal, the New York Journal?’ Father Enrique shook his head. ‘Well, I think I’ll keep that to myself. Mr Hearst is a man who likes to think he’s always right and he doesn’t take kindly to being told any different.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can be of no help to you. I know nothing of any kidnapping, of policemen or anyone else.’

  It was a small and necessary untruth, not a lie, more a form of self-defence and therefore no sin.

  ‘That’s all right, Father, I expected that to be your first response. Flat denial. It can be a strong position and it usually works. Unfortunately I’ve already spoken to the chief of police so I know it was you who brought him the news of the kidnapping. He also told me you carried his reply to their demands so I’m afraid any sort of denial, flat or otherwise, will be no good to you this time.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No, Father, I don’t think you do. If we can sit down and talk I think I can explain everything and set your mind at rest. I promise you you’re in no danger from me; in fact I think I can probably be quite helpful.’

  ‘Very well, if I must.’

  The two men sat down at the table.

  ‘I see it’s set for a meal. Don’t let me keep you from your food. We can talk while you eat.’

  Maria, who had obviously been listening, opened the kitchen door.

  ‘Shall I bring in your breakfast, Father?’

  ‘No.’

  The door closed. The visitor looked at it then turned to Father Enrique.

  ‘I don’t mind her listening if you don’t, Father, on whichever side of the door she does it.’

  ‘It is of no consequence.’

  ‘I guess she knows all about it then?’

  ‘You said you could set my mind at rest. Why not do that and forget my housekeeper?’

  ‘Fair enough. I’m a reporter and I’ve been covering the situation here in the Philippines for the Journal for about a month now. The Journal was fully behind the war with Spain; in some ways I guess you could say it was the Journal that actually got the whole shebang started.’

  ‘A newspaper started a war?’

  ‘Not a newspaper. The biggest circulation newspaper in the world.’

  Father Enrique was annoyed that he had shown any interest. It had encouraged this man and he did not want to encourage him.

  ‘But still only a newspaper.’

  ‘Father, if I’m going to be of any help to you then you have to understand something. America aims to be the greatest power in the world and it’s not going to let anybody or anything stand in the way of getting there.’

  ‘You are in the Philippines and even if you have only been here one month you should have noticed that no one here needs any lessons on America’s ambitions. We have plenty of first-hand experience.’

  ‘Yes, I guess you have, so you know how things work. One way or another America will take what it wants and it wants plenty; that means that whoever runs America will be the most powerful people on earth.’

  ‘And the owner of your newspaper, Mr Randolph Hearst, will be one of those people?’

  ‘He already is.’

  ‘Strange. I understood that it was the president and Congress who governed the United States. Or perhaps he intends to give up his newspaper and become president?’

  It wasn’t meant to be amusing but it still drew a laugh.

  ‘No, Mr Hearst’s tried that way and found it doesn’t suit his talents or resources. He’s taking another route. See, Father, when I talk about power I’m not talking about politicians or generals. I’m talking about voters. The days of kingdoms and empires are over; we’re at the beginning of a new century, the twentieth century, and it will be the century of democracy, not kings or emperors. Europe will have to learn how to live with that, not only live with it but become part of it. Europe will have to go the way of America like it or not. People want change and they mean to have it. Before this century’s out democracy will be everywhere and even the humblest road sweeper will have the vote: maybe even women.’

  Now it was Father Enrique’s turn to laugh.

  ‘Women allowed to vote? That’s madness.’

  But neither his laughter nor his words stopped the man; rather it seemed to encourage him.

  ‘Laugh all you like, Father, but it’s going to happen and whoever controls the voters will control the politicians and William Randolph Hearst has shown that he controls the American voter. He put the Journal four square behind a war with Spain and a war with Spain there was. Now he intends to show America and the world that he was right which means everything that came out of the war must be progress and improvement.’

  ‘As I said before, this is the Philippines. We know exactly what came out of the war.’

  ‘The Journal says that America fought Spain to oppose tyranny and to bring freedom to people who were suffering from oppression.’ He gave a small shrug to show that, however far from the truth his words may be, he was duty bound to say them. ‘That means there has to be freedom and democracy in those places America acquired which includes the Philippines. It’s my job to tell people back home that everything here is fine and dandy.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘A Yankee way of saying everything is going to be all right, that the people love us, everybody’s happy and things are going just fine.’

  ‘And General Sakay with his army in the mountains?’

  ‘There is no general, Father, and he has no army. There are a few bandits in the mountains, men who raid the villages of peaceful people, people who rightly look to our brave American boys to protect them and bring these bandits to justice.’

  Father Enrique decided he had had enough. One had to be polite to Americans, accommodate them as far as one could. But there were limits and his had been reached. Without giving offence, if possible, he wanted the man to leave. The very last thing he needed was the business of the kidnapped policemen coming back into his life and he resented having to listen to a lecture on American foreign policy.

  ‘I am a priest and I take no interest in politics. I concern myself with other things although I have always understood that it is our police rather than your soldiers who do the actual fighting.’

  ‘That’s right, Father, and that’s fine for the newspapers in this country but it won’t do for New York. New Yorkers want to read about how well our boys are doing, how they’re taking on the lawless men who want to undermine the great job the US administration has done so far. And that’s
where I come in. I come and find the stories the voters of New York and America want to read.’

  ‘And if those stories don’t exist?’

  ‘It’s my job to see that they do exist. And that’s where we come to you and the kidnapped policemen.’

  ‘I told you, I am not interested in politics. I am a priest …’

  ‘That’s right, that’s the story. You’re a holy priest who leaves the safety of his town and goes intrepidly into the jungle. He travels on foot with only his housekeeper and an elderly sacristan. Why? To bring spiritual succour and solace to a faraway village who haven’t seen a priest in who knows how long? The local police chief sends two of his best men to guide them and look after them. Led by these brave police he guides the little band and finally reaches the village. But what do you think this holy man finds when he gets there?’

  ‘I know what I found. I was there.’

  ‘He finds a band of twenty, no, let’s make it thirty, desperadoes. Ragged, ruthless bandits, armed to the teeth they have terrified the villagers into submission. But they are not able to frighten the man of God. He defies them and faces them down and demands that they leave the people in peace. Vicious and normally without mercy these men feel, in the presence of this priest, something they themselves have lost, a sense of honour and service, a sense of faith, a vision of goodness. Confronted by such a man, a living saint, none of them dare raise their weapons against him. But they need to save face in front of the village, to be defeated and driven away by one man might lead these villagers and others to stand up to them, so they take the two policemen and want to send a message to the chief of police demanding a ransom and the release of four murderers from their gang held in the town prison and awaiting execution. The priest agrees to take their message back with him and …’ The reporter stopped. ‘That’s as far as I’ve got up to now. And don’t tell me it’s rough because I know it is, but it won’t be when I have the full story and write it up properly.’

  ‘But it’s not true.’

  ‘Father, the way I’ll write it up it will become true and you’ll be a hero; who knows, one day you may even really get to be a saint,’ he gave a small laugh, ‘but only after you’re dead of course. That’s what the press can do, Father, it can make or break people and with you it’s going to be sunshine and roses all the way.’

  The reporter sat back in his chair smiling. The kitchen door opened.

  ‘Can I bring in your food now, Father? If I keep it hot any longer and it will spoil.’

  ‘No, Maria, it will just have to spoil.’

  ‘Let her bring it in, Father. Don’t mind me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  Maria left and the kitchen door closed.

  ‘What you have just said is nothing more than a pack of lies.’

  ‘Not lies, Father.’

  ‘No? Then what?’

  ‘The truth told in a way that will sell papers.’

  ‘It is not the truth. I know the truth.’

  ‘You know a kind of truth, a superficial truth. One that says no more than this happened and that happened, at such and such a time and in such and such a place.’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘Think of it like a picture, Father.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like a picture of the crucifixion, you must have seen plenty. They all tell the same story, Jesus dead on the cross on Calvary. But is that the truth?’

  Father Enrique felt a little unsure of himself as he answered.

  ‘Yes. Our Saviour died for mankind on a cross on Calvary.’

  ‘And the picture can tell no more no matter how gifted the artist, just that one incident. But that one incident, that man hanging on a cross, isn’t the whole story, is it? You’re a priest. Wouldn’t you say that the whole story is so much more that that one incident, and it’s the whole story that’s the real truth, not just the execution?’

  ‘I wouldn’t compare the nonsense you have told me to the story of Christ’s passion, death, and resurrection.’

  ‘No? Well I would. Something happened at that village and you made it happen by going there in the first place. Now more will happen and it’s all part of the same story which in turn is part of some bigger story. Don’t you see, Father, it’s the bigger story that’s the real truth? I only get to write a few articles, create a few pictures. All I can do is give my readers a small selection of the many incidents I come across, and I have to be like those artists, I have to use my talent with words to make my articles as compelling as I can. The painters used colour, light, people, backgrounds. They all used them differently but they were all telling the same story. That’s what I have to do. I may need to change the background, add a bit of colour and light, put in or take out one or two characters, but that doesn’t change the reality. I’m still telling a true story and in my version of the stories I’ve got to give them some idea of the bigger picture, what it’s all about and why. That’s what I call the real truth, Father, not some out of the way incident in a village in the middle of nowhere. Who would give a damn back in New York if two policemen got kidnapped and maybe killed? Nobody. Policemen get killed in New York, believe me. Would you want to read about it?’

  He paused. It was a good question.

  ‘No, I would not read about anything that went on in New York.’

  ‘Exactly. A story about two policemen kidnapped or murdered wouldn’t stand a hope of getting printed because no one back home would care. I have to make them care. That’s my job, Father, to make people care about the truth, the real truth, the bigger picture, and to do that I need your help and cooperation. Am I going to get it, Father?’

  Another good question. Or was it a threat?

  ‘And if you don’t?’

  ‘Nothing. I go away and maybe those policemen live or die. I don’t care. All I want is my picture, Father, one that will do the job I need it to do. If I don’t get what I need from you, willingly, I’ll go and look elsewhere.’ He paused again then grinned. ‘Did you expect me to say something else? Maybe threaten you with something?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  The reporter stood up and picked up his hat.

  ‘No. No threats. All I ask is that you think about it. I can wait until tomorrow but then I’ll have to get going and look elsewhere.’ He turned and spoke a little more loudly to the door. ‘If it isn’t spoiled you can bring the meal in now.’ Then he turned back to Father Enrique. ‘Thanks for listening. Let me know what you decide. I’m staying at the hotel across the square from the police station.’ The kitchen door opened and Maria appeared holding a tray.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Father Enrique left the problem of the American to look after itself for the rest of the day but in the evening he took a bottle of wine from the kitchen, took it up to his room, poured himself a glass, and gave some thought to what the American had said.

  He was unconvinced by his arguments. They were clever but that was all, and hollow no matter how well they sounded. The American was a reporter and wanted a good story and he would twist whatever he was told this way and that so it no longer bore any relationship to the truth. He was far more interested in a glamorous lie. As for any idea of his being presented to the world as some sort of saintly hero, it was laughable, not only that, it was dangerous. If the Bishop came to hear of it any chance of being recalled to Manila would fly out of the window forever and the best he could hope for was to remain as parish priest in San Juan for the rest of his ministry.

  Then there was Carmen.

  If the reporter was encouraged to look into the matter, to find out what really happened, his relationship with Carmen might well surface and the American, he was sure, wouldn’t hesitate to use it if it served his purpose. No, helping the reporter was altogether too dangerous.

  He rarely took alcohol in any form except at Mass and when he did it was only with meals on special occasions: his birthday, the anniversary of his mother’s death.
Now he poured himself a second glass. It seemed to help, clarify his mind and fortify his resolution. He would go to the American tomorrow at his hotel and make his position clear and final. He was a humble parish priest. He had done no more than his duty by going to the village to bring them the sacraments which they had lacked for so long. The two policemen and the rebels were nothing to do with him. He had been forced to carry a message by the lieutenant and forced to carry a reply by the chief of police, that was all. No one at the village would tell a different story. As far as they were concerned the less anyone, especially a Yankee, knew about their contacts with Sakay’s forces the better. He finished his second glass feeling better and poured himself another. No, he would refuse to help and the American would go away and look for something better to write about.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘May I speak to you, Father?’

  It was Maria.

  ‘Yes. I will come down in a minute.’

  Now what could Maria want? She knew he disliked being disturbed when he had settled in his room. This was his time, his only time to himself. He finished the third glass, put the cork back in the bottle, and went downstairs. Maria was standing by the table, waiting.

  ‘Well, Maria, what is so important?’

  ‘What have you decided about the American?’

  Father Enrique was shocked not only by the question but by the manner of her asking. It was as if their roles had suddenly been reversed, as if she was the mistress of the house and he the servant. He was so taken by surprise that he answered at once.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You haven’t decided?’

  ‘Yes.’

  This paradoxical reply seemed to annoy her. She spoke almost sharply.

  ‘What have you decided to tell him?’

  Finally Father Enrique came to his senses. He was being cross-examined by his housekeeper in his own house during what was supposed to be his special, private time. It was intolerable.

  ‘What do you mean by this sort of behaviour, Maria? What I decide to do or not do about the visitor today is nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Oh no? Nothing, you think?’