Free The Breath of Night by Michael Arditti Page B

nylon shorts and flip-flops, but something casual. The move hasn’t been universally welcomed. Some of the
haciendos
prefer their priests in skirts (not least symbolically), but they’re in a minority. I suspect it may be one that includes you (I remember how Father harrumphed when nuns first exposed their shins), nevertheless I’d be most grateful if you’d send me half a dozen shirts (white, short-sleeved, 15½ collar) and grey or beige cotton shorts (32 waist – don’t worry, I’ve only lost a couple of inches). It may comfort you to know that, even with Consolacion’s dedicated ministrations, the cassock was getting very stained – and notjust from sweat. One of their more arcane superstitions is that, if a baby urinates on someone who’s holding him, they’ll bond for life. I’ve lost count of the number of mothers who’ve handed me their leaky children. I’m thinking of putting up a sign, along with ‘Please don’t play ball games in the churchyard’, ‘Please don’t pee on the priest.’
    As if infant incontinence weren’t enough, we now have a dog. I’ve no idea what breed he is. There’s a hint of Golden Retriever and another of German Shepherd, but the rest is anyone’s guess. I bought him in Baguio where he was one of sixty puppies cooped up like battery chickens and destined, I fear, for a similar fate. And no, I wasn’t being the dewy-eyed Englishman; I can’t spare the time for animal rights when there’s so much to do for humans. I’d just been given the all clear by the doc and was taking my first steps outside the convent when I heard a furious barking. I wouldn’t be my sister’s brother if I’d passed by on the other side. Moreover, I wanted to celebrate my good news. I’d have liked to buy the whole pack, but I’m running a parish not a kennel. So I chose one at random. Not that Grump has shown his appreciation. Two chewed sandals, one upturned rice jar and countless soiled floors later, and I suspect that Consolacion would be happy to casserole him herself. We had the ‘either he goes or I go’ conversation the day I brought him home, although neither of us took it seriously. I promised that I’d be the one to clear up his mess but, the moment I pick up a cloth, she prises it from my hands (I’m not sure whether she considers it beneath my dignity or enjoys the sense of martyrdom). She vehemently refuses to buy dog food, which is understandable from someone who had to feed her children on scraps. Instead she gives him leftovers, including bat bones, which splinter just as easily as chicken’s, but when I pointed out the danger she laughed. Either dogs here have developed cast-iron stomachs, or else canine life, like its human counterpart, is cheap.
    In other news, the big story is that President Marcos has imposed Martial Law which, although it sounds frightening, ismuch like Mr Heath’s State of Emergency, only with guns. Of course there are dangers in awarding the government additional powers, but the overwhelming consensus among people of all sorts is that it’s a crucial step towards healing the nation’s ills. Indeed, I’m told that behind the scenes it was a prerequisite for obtaining further foreign aid. City dwellers will benefit from the crackdown on weapons, drugs and pornography (my visit to Hendrik in Cabanatuan was an eye-opener), while in the country we’ve been promised radical land reform. As you’ll have gathered from my previous letters, farmers here have a raw deal. They do all the work and then the landlords take half the profits – more if you count the high interest they charge on loans for hospital fees, building repairs and even emergency grain. If the proposed changes go ahead, and it’s a big if since legislation here is often shelved, tenants will enjoy a far greater measure of independence, paying a fair rent and reaping the rewards of their labour.
    It’s an irony you may or may not relish, Father, but I’ve become as intimately