The Breath of Night by Michael Arditti

involved in land management as if I’d stayed on the estate. I suspect, however, that conditions here are more like those in the time of your great-great grandfather than anything to be found at Whitlock today. The farmers have a sense of indebtedness that goes way beyond indenture. They feel an almost mystical bond to the
haciendos
who, more often than not, are either their or their children’s godfathers. I wince every time that I see don Florante Pineda or don Bernardo Arriola standing at the font. The relationship is far too Sicilian for my liking. The godfathers pay the expenses of the baptisms just as they later do of the funerals of children (so many of the funerals I conduct are of children) who die as a direct result of policies that they themselves have put in place.
    Their loyal tenants, however, see it differently. All their criticisms and complaints are levelled at the managers, for whom I’ve gained increasing sympathy. They’re the ones on the spot, while the
haciendos
are carousing in Manila and their wives areon shopping sprees in Hong Kong. Take the Romualdez family, the third of our large landowners and the ones with whom I’m least acquainted, since they’re so seldom here. I can’t tell you how often I’ve heard people say: ‘If only don Enrico knew how the
encargado
treats us.’ Well, last week he had a chance to find out, when he paid a rare visit to the estate. Although I was still recuperating, I drove out to watch his semi-regal progress in a carriage drawn by two carabaos and garlanded with sampaguitas , the sweet-scented national flower. He sat next to his wife, doña Teresa, a plain woman wearing her trademark black, and opposite his children, Regina, as brightly dressed as her mother was sombre, and Joey, who exuded an air of scornful indolence, which he had no doubt practised at Harvard. The entire
hacienda
had turned out to line the route. Joey winced at every jolt of the carriage; Regina simpered beneath her sunshade; doña Teresa waved modestly; and don Enrico threw sweets to the children, who darted dangerously close to the wheels. At the compound gate he announced, to tumultuous applause, that there would be free beer for everyone. Four of his lackeys carried out a dozen crates and the crowd toasted their beneficent landlord. Within an hour, all their grievances had been forgotten. No wonder cynics claim that San Miguel should be the country’s patron saint.
    Two days later I received a visit from doña Teresa who, having heard of my fever, gave me a statuette of Our Lady she’d bought on a recent pilgrimage to Medjugorje. While Consolacion, whose esteem for doña Teresa’s piety seems to stem entirely from her wardrobe, served iced tea and caramelised plantain, I took the opportunity to ask a favour for one of my parishioners, Leonora Veloso. Leonora is a seamstress, a spinster in her forties, much like Mrs Henshaw’s niece – was it Jean or Joan? – anyway, the one whom Cora accused of sewing secret codes into her skirts. Her brother was killed on a building site in Baguio and his wife died shortly afterwards of a haemorrhage (I’ve heard rumours of a botched abortion, but Father Teodoro must have discountedthem since he buried her in hallowed ground). The couple’s four children were orphaned and Leonora took them in, even though she can barely support herself. On the one hand, she embodies the practical compassion that the Church enjoins on us all; on the other, as she freely admits, she’s acting out of duty rather than love. The children are fed and clothed, but they’re also berated and beaten. Consolacion, who is my eyes and ears in the parish, told me that, while I was ill, the neighbours regularly heard their screams. I’m afraid that one day Leonora will snap and then… you can fill in the rest. So I asked doña Teresa if she might be able to find a job for Girlie (my predecessor was inclined to be lax at the font), the eldest niece, who’s twelve years