The Breath of Night Read Online Free Page A

dolls – set in niches along the walls and above the altars. Yet, for all their roughness, they display the hallmarks of deep devotion. On the day I arrived, a young boy took my hand unprompted and led me to the high altar which, with its three tiers of glass-enclosed
santos,
resembled nothing so much as a toyshop window. He pointed to the central figure, a glazed-looking Christ, unremarkable except for long woven dreadlocks reaching down to his waist. ‘Jesus Christ, He is so beautiful,’ he said with tear-filled eyes, adding imperiously: ‘Now you will kiss Jesus Christ.’ Moved by his words, I put my lips to the squarely carved feet with as much reverence as I once had to the bronze toe of St Peter in Rome.
    The boy, whom I have yet to meet again unless he were one of the horde of children who accompanied their parents to my first mass, is not alone in his piety. At odd moments throughout the day and at the end of every service, the faithful step up to one of the side altars and press their lips or their handkerchiefs to the
santos
. The mass, by the way, is in English which, I suspect, is as incomprehensible to much of the congregation as the Latin was in Gaverton a decade ago. Confessions, however, are in Tagalog. The Dominicans did their best to tailor their vocabulary to our needs (I doubt there are many language courses that teach elementary students the phrases for disrespecting one’s elders, illegal foraging and lustful thoughts). Even so, I’m not always sure precisely what I’m absolving. Yesterday a young man left the church with a massive grin after a long and faltering confession during which, I must admit, I was utterly lost. Then again, there may be something opportune in my confusion. Since God’s mercy is, as we know, infinite, it seems almost reductive to fashion the penance to the sin.
    ‘Soft!’ I hear your favourite epithet, Father, echoing across the drawing room. ‘The boy’s gone soft in the head!’ Or maybe Mother is reading the letter aloud to you at breakfast, causingyou to choke on your porridge, and your prediction that one of your children will be the death of you will finally be fulfilled.
    Forgive me! I’d tear up the page and start again if I weren’t so near the bottom. The fact is that I’m missing everyone so much. By trying to keep a clear picture of you in my mind, I’ve let myself be carried away. But please don’t think that I’m depressed. If anything, I’ve been having too much pleasure, not least because I arrived on 13 May, two days before the feast of San Isidro, the most important date in the town’s calendar.
    ‘See the welcome we’ve laid on for you,’ the Mayor said, when he greeted me outside the church. For a moment I mistook the twinkle for the truth. What arrogance! It was a saint they were celebrating, not a humble priest. The square and several of the side streets were festooned with bunting. It looked as if the whole town were wrapped in a cake frill. The church itself was crammed with fruit and flowers and vegetables, including a jackfruit the size of a beer barrel, which quite obscured the font. The
santos
had all been given their annual change of wardrobe at the hands of the
hermanas
, the daughters of the local landowners . I may be wrong, but I detected a hint of genteel rivalry over the distribution; unsurprisingly, Our Lord, Our Lady and San Isidro are prized above the lesser saints. One young woman made up for being assigned the comparatively lowly Santa Barbara by decking her out like Marie Antoinette at Versailles. Next year, apparently, it will be my job to make the allocation – which is a treat in store.
    This year my duties were confined to saying mass. That was nerve-racking enough since it was my first chance to meet the hundreds of parishioners who had streamed in from the outlying
barrios
. The church was packed, with several of the young men sitting on one another’s shoulders. What’s more, I’d had no time to write a