THE LETTER

He recognised the handwriting on the envelope. 'Dr Salvador Carriscant, San Jeronimo hospital. Confidential.' He smiled: it had only been a week since their last meeting. He ripped open the seal and. the familiar deckle edge of her writing paper was revealed. He unfolded the note and frowned. It read: 'On the Luneta, this evening' and was unsigned. He looked at his watch, suddenly unsettled: midday. What was she planning?

It rained in the afternoon but by the evening the skies had cleared so the Luneta was crowded. The carriages circled, the white-clad crowds lingered and chatted around the bandstand as the sky turned tangerine across the bay. Carriscant stepped out of his carriage and walked along the edge of the road by the sea wall. There was a gratifyingly stiff breeze coming off the sea this evening and, during certain gusts, he had to place his hand on the crown of his panama hat to hold it in place. He sat on the wall to wait and looked out over the silver water towards Corrigedor, swinging his head round until he could see the scattered lights of Cavite down the coast. He concentrated on the view, trying to enjoy the tranquillity and the rare moment of cool and comfort but a small tremor of foreboding was growing in him and he felt the worry-burn of indigestion flare behind his breastbone. What did she want? And why this method of seeing each other? He forced himself to be optimistic: perhaps she was bringing him good news? Nurse Aslinger was leaving, finally. Or maybe Sieverance had been killed by insurrectos in Mindanao. He felt ashamed by that last thought, it was cruel, uncharitable. It was hardly Sieverance's fault that he was married to Delphine; he had not set out to thwart Salvador Carriscant, exactly. However, it was galling to be confronted by Sieverance's luck. Sieverance's luck: that had brought him this woman that had provided him with a life with Delphine… No, he did not wish him dead. As well wish Annaliese dead, he thought. Wish them both dead… And then he began to feel disgusted with himself, at the direction his mind was turning. These were desperate thoughts. There must be other ways.

Then he saw her, with another woman, in a landau. She wore navy blue trimmed with yellow, and a small shoulder cape and her hair high in the Gibson Girl style. He watched them both descend and make for the bandstand. He pushed himself off the wall and followed them, skirting round the bandstand, full of loud crepitations as the band changed sheet music, to emerge-casually, coincidentally -in front of them.

'Mrs Sieverance, how do you do?'

'Dr Carriscant. What a pleasure. May I present you to my friend, Mrs Oliver. Dr Carriscant, the most famous surgeon in Manila.'

'That sounds suspiciously like faint praise, Mrs Sieverance. Like being the healthiest man in a leper colony.'

Laughter.

'You're teasing me, Doctor,' she said. 'You know what I mean.'

More conversation was indulged in: the strength of the afternoon's rain and the freshness it brought in its wake; the outrageous price of tinned goods in Escolta; the impossibility of providing a decent buffet in the tropics without ice to serve the cold cuts on.

Then Delphine said to Mrs Oliver, 'Oh, Shirley, you see that boy selling sweetmeats. Could you get me the coconut cakes, the little square ones? What about you, Dr Carriscant?'

'No thank you, I'm not partial.'

Shirley Oliver excused herself and they were alone.

'You look wonderful,' Carriscant said.

'There's a problem,' she said quickly, her face all of a sudden showing signs of strain. 'My menses. I've missed the last two. It's over eight weeks.'

'Oh my God… ' He felt his indigestion replaced by nausea.

'I wouldn't be alarmed, but… ' There was a catch in her voice and he could see from her eyes how upset she was. 'I'm so regular, normally. You could set your clock-' She could not continue. She turned away to compose herself, she sniffed.

'My God,' Carriscant said again: he felt stupid, thick-headed like a peasant. 'We must be sure.' Mrs Oliver was approaching with her booty. 'The nipa barn. Tomorrow afternoon.'

'I'll try – Shirley, well done! Sure we can't tempt you, Dr Carriscant?'

Carriscant waited in the nipa barn from 3 until 6 the following afternoon but she never came. As he sat in the musty gloom of the barn, hearing the rain showers pass overhead, various plans and schemes, some bizarre, some preposterous, skittered across his mind like the kinemato-graph images he had seen projected in the theatre in Quiapo. Imperfect, jerky, histrionic – but telling him something all the same. He supposed it might be a mistake-the only way to be absolutely sure was to hear the beating of the foetal heart, but it was too early for that – however there was no doubting the conviction in her own voice: she was absolutely certain. He made some quick calculations. If she had missed two… It was nearly nine weeks since that first time in his office. His mouth was suddenly dry, tasted rank. He realised that the delicious unreal limbo he and Delphine had been inhabiting for the last two months was now over, for ever. This was the watershed, this was the spur to action as well. But what to do? It was clear that something drastic had to occur – some confrontation, some confession – but where would that lead? And as he thought and speculated the one clear purpose that came to dominate his thoughts was that he must not lose her. Whatever they did should ensure that they remained together. That realisation relaxed him somewhat, that seemed to narrow the options. No attempt to smooth things over, to reconcile the respective spouses, could be attempted, and any public breach would make life in Manila quite impossible. As he sifted through the alternatives one simple course of action selected itself as the only practical method of both resolving this and allowing them to live together – escape.

Shortly after 6 he let himself out of the barn and in the fading yellowing light he saw Pantaleon crossing the meadow with a tool bag, about to begin his night's work. Good old Panta, he thought, sentimentally, dear Pantaleon. A true friend.

Pantaleon glanced apprehensively towards the barn door. 'I'm so sorry, Salvador, I hope I'm not-'

'No, no. She's not here.'

'Are you all right?'

'Yes. No. Well, a bit tired. I've been thinking. Bit of a strain.'

'I'm not surprised,' Pantaleon said. 'I've been noticing how distracted you are. You've got to resolve this. It can't go on.'

'You're right. But don't worry, Panta, it'll be resolved.'

The harbourmaster's office was behind the customs house on the Calle Urbistondo. Carriscant stood patiently in front of a counter while a young Chinese clerk laboriously checked list after list of names in a scuffed ledger.

'You say "Nilson"?'

'No. Axel. Captain Nicanor Axel. His ship is called the General Blanco.'

'Ah, yes. He leave three days ago. Hong Kong.'

'How long does it take to go and come from Hong Kong?'

'That depend how long you stay there.'

Jesus Christ. 'Captain Axel makes this trip regularly. How long does he normally take? Surely you can check the figures.'

Eventually (Carriscant took the ledger from the exasperating boy himself) he calculated that if the General Blanco had left Manila three days ago it would very likely be back within the week. That was the information he was after. So, if he could see Axel within the next few days he could set things in motion. He stepped down the stairway from the harbourmaster's office, his head full of dates and conflicting future plans. He had no real sense of what he wanted to do: once again it was a question of having something in place, a stratagem he could propose to Delphine. He had no doubt that she would come with him, if only he could work it out satisfactorily. No doubt in her at all. He strode out of shadow into eye-dazzling early morning sunlight and progressed round to the front of the customs house where there was a rank of carromatos. Axel was the right fellow for a job like this. He would find out exactly what the man – 'Carriscant! Dr Carriscant!'