Priorities

As his black-cassocked secretary vacated the study, silently closing the heavy mahogany door in his wake, the Bishop sighed. He opened a drawer on the right side of his desk and placed the unique ceramic figurine into its dark and secure confines. A wrinkled, liver-spotted hand rubbed the fleshy jowls in ponderance. His eyes slowly closed, and he sighed again.

"What now?" He muttered quietly to himself. "Still chasing the same old dog up the same old street, I have no doubt."

A double knock at the study door heralded the entrance of his spiritual thorn.
"Come," he called, clearing the brown, wrinkled face of its scowl.

The secretary-priest, Father Locsin, swung open the door and announced "Sister Marian, Excellency."

A middle-aged nun entered the study and strode purposely across the expanse of the Persian carpet, presenting herself before the Bishop's rosewood desk. The secretary-priest retreated, leaving the room's occupants to an air of austere privacy.

"Excellency, thank you for receiving me without a prior appointment, but the matter is of some urgency," Sister Marian spoke as she seated herself in one of the spindle-backed chairs set before the desk.

"Nonsense Sister, I am always happy to accommodate an old friend. Please, let me hear of your current problem."

The Bishop's face was now a countenance of benign glow and smiles. The religious diplomat, versed well in this art by the observance of past masters. An art tempered in no less a forge than that of the Court of the Holy See itself - an ecclesiastic alloy from the crucible of the Vatican's foundry.

"The problem, Excellency," Sister Marian spoke, "is still the same. We haven't received our quarterly allotment for the maintenance of the Santo Nino shelter. While the building is in need of urgent repair, we are unable to purchase medicines for the clinic, nor provide adequate meals for our children."

"The market people of Tondo sponsor our cause as much as they can afford, with vegetables and fruits," she continued, "but there is never enough rice for the staple diet. Half our charges are wearing cast-off clothes that amount to little more than rags. Now several of them are avoiding their school classes due the taunts they receive concerning their dress."

"Sister Marian," the Bishop interjected, "these children are fortunate to have shelter over their heads at all. Manila is a city of seven million people, half of whom are living below the poverty level of income. The Church cannot be expected to feed them all. Our country is locked in a struggle against economic calamity. The government provides no funds to subsidise our orphanage programs, all finances for this are drawn from foreign-aid resources and the limited donations presented to the Church. And now Holy Mother Church Herself has to draw her purse-string tighter to survive."

The Bishop paused and leaned back in his chair before continuing. "Why, the Philippines is only one Third World country amongst many that the Church endeavours to assist in the matter of orphans. There are others, in Africa for example, that face direr problems than our own. Droughts in Ethiopia lay tens of thousands dead each passing year."

Sister Marian leaned forward in her seat, placing bony fingers upon the desk's edge. "The starving masses of Africa are not my primary concern, Excellency. To feed the one hundred and forty children in my charge is. I feel that our funding is not being utilized to its best advantage."

The Bishop's right eye twitched involuntarily.

"What do you mean 'funds are not being utilized to the best advantage'? Please explain yourself, Sister."

"The museum, of course," Sister Marian replied, leaning back into her chair. "And the excavations here, at Intramuros. I concern myself with the present, Excellency, not the past. Spanish and Chinese ghosts can go hungry for attention and moulder in the ground forever. Defenceless, living children cannot."

I knew what the theme of this meeting would be, Bishop Pantaleon mused to himself. No wonder the Manila clergy judges her fearless - small of stature, perhaps, but never frail of heart.

"And you presume to speculate that the excavations of the Chinese ‘Sangley’ settlement, and the establishment of the museum are consuming monies meant for your facility in Tondo?" the Bishop demanded, in a rising tone of voice.

"I take note of, and exception at, the fact that since your museum project was initiated on the success of the Intramuros dig, then the allotted funding for the Santo Nino shelter has steadily decreased to a trickle - and a long overdue trickle at that," the formidable Sister replied.

"Sister Marian, let me explain some very basic facts to you," the Bishop began, his hands gesticulating for added emphasis. "Volunteer archaeology students from the University of Santo Tomas work the Intramuros diggings, without pay nor increment of reward beside the honour of being involved. The funds to pay for the museum was allotted by the Cardinal from the yearly maintenance budget set aside for the Cathedral and annex. And it is only an extension of the annex, not a major architectural undertaking."

The latter statement struck Sister Marian as a form of verbal defence, thus she attacked accordingly.

"Then pray explain where the financing originates that pays for the hire of water pumps and their fuel - the pumps that keep the excavations free from flooding. Why, those pumps are running all day and night, they must cost a fortune to maintain - and the heavy piling that shores the excavation's walls, that too must be a tremendous cost to purchase."

A certain flushing could now be detected in the Asian-brown cheeks of the Bishop, as his blood-pressure steadily rose. Yet he held himself in practiced style and replied quite cordially "The pumps and piling sheets are the loaned gifts of a wealthy sponsor, a patrician of such archaeological endeavours - a local construction contractor, to be exact."

"Perhaps I should approach such a munificent benefactor myself, to sponsor our orphanage," Sister Marian chided.

"Sister, your speculations regarding the museum and the diggings, 'and' their sources of financing, are without substance, I can assure you. However, if Santo Nino's is in such dire financial straits I will have my secretary make out your allotment cheque before you leave."
The Bishop lifted the handset from the desk-top telephone and instructed his secretary to prepare the overdue quarterly allotment cheque for the Sister's shelter.

As Bishop Pantaleon spoke into the pastel-green instrument, Sister Marian gazed at the walls of the study: the walls apparent to her peripheral vision. Tapestries and paintings adorned them in planned display. A Rodriguez oil hung above the French windows leading out to the gardens of the Bishop's residence. The oil was of the Last Supper, and early seventeenth century. Alike the other art objects hung within the study to gather dust, this paintings would command a premium price on the commercial art market.

"There, that is settled," the Bishop spoke, replacing the handset in it's cradle. "Your cheque is being prepared at this moment, Sister."

"Actually, I had hoped that you might be favourable to increasing the amount for this quarter: due the repairs our building is in need of, and to buy new clothes for our children," Sister Marian stated plainly.

The Bishop's right eye twitched twice in rapid succession, and he inhaled deeply. Leaning back in his chair he pyramided his fat fingers before his face, the tips of both index fingers pressed against the end of his bulbous nose. He pondered deeply for some seconds before sitting upright once more.

"Sister, I feel I have done all I can for the time being. Perhaps next quarter we can allot a little more for Santo Nino's, but for now......" the words tailed off, and his hands separated into spread palms - a gesture of 'no more'.

"Perhaps I expect too much Bishop, but when I look upon the opulence of this city and see the self-indulgence and ostentatious waste of the social elite, while unwanted children roam the streets and go hungry, then anger rises in me. I realize that my anger is a sin, but I am human and suffer from the idioms of human nature in certain matters."

The fact her eyes fell on the Bishop's portly stomach as she spoke did not escape his attention. However, he chose to ignore the implied taunt of over-indulgence as directed toward his own person.

'Let her be gone to her wharf rats in Tondo, and leave me to my peace,' he mused silently. Yet Sister Marian had not yet vented all her sugar-coated venom.
"Perhaps I should seek the help of a higher authority? What would you advise, Excellency?" she inquired.

"You wish to consult the Cardinal with this matter?" he asked. The right eye now beat a slow tattoo, and he massaged the lower lid with his fingertips to curb its annoyance.

"Oh no, not the Cardinal, Excellency. He too is pressed with matters outside his religious duties, trying to merge Church and State, than to bother himself with the problems of Catholic orphans," Sister Marian informed him with an obvious tone of reproach.

"Damn your impudence and insolence woman!" the Bishop bellowed, the tide of frustrated anger now given verbal vent. "You not only cast aspersions on my integrity in the matter of your allotment, you now blatantly accuse the Cardinal himself of foregoing his religious duties to meddle in matters of government. Why can you not stay put in Tondo's slums and be grateful for that which God provides?"

"For sure you step abroad of your vows of obedience, Sister. Perhaps the best discipline for you is to have you transferred to the convent of Saint Bernadette in Baguio, and there let you reflect on these groundless accusations which seem to possess your thinking."

Sister Marian raised her slender form from the chair and stood defiantly before Bishop Pantaleon's desk. The thin brown face was accentuated in a simple handsomeness by the prominent cheek bones and oriental cast of her eyes. Eyes that stared through Bishop Pantaleon, to focus upon something distant and fine - something far beyond his intellectual grasp.

"Yes, that would suit your purposes well, would it not Bishop. The popular media might make feast of such an occurrence when the underlying nuances are known to them," Sister Marian stated with deliberation.

Bishop Pantaleon checked his raging admonishment and inwardly cursed his loss of self-control. "Sister, forgive me....my...my outburst," he stammered. "I am afflicted with high blood pressure, and it can cause a sad lack of control at times." He sat in the armchair heavily and took a small bottle of white pills from a desk drawer. Pouring water into a glass from a crystal decanter on his desk, he swallowed the medication and breathed deeply.

"No, please forgive my tone and manner, Excellency, it was inexcusable of me to upset you so. But my statement concerning a 'higher authority' was meant as prayer to our Lord. I should have suppressed my personal opinions of the Cardinal. You were correct in your admonishment," Sister Marian answered, with a calculated and direct firmness underlying her words.

Bishop Pantaleon observed her composed stature, wondering if further ambiguity lay in her statement, whether it again contained scantily-veiled sarcasm. He detected none, and composed his own mind to match the example she had set.

"Well Sister, perhaps we can meet again in the near future, and hopefully have gentler words for each other," he spoke, rising from his chair and walking around the desk. The matter was now closed, the interview over.

Sister Marian rose also, and thanked the Bishop for his time and indulgence. Turning to face the study door she was quick to notice the glass-fronted cabinet set against the inner wall of the study. Walking over to it she visually examined the contents.
"These are beautiful pieces, Excellency. Are they from the excavations here at Intramuros?" she inquired.

The Bishop's attitude waxed warmly, and enthusiasm tempered his eager reply. "Why yes, these pieces all come from the dig, from the secondary levels. They will have places of honour once the museum is completed. All are Tang dynasty, worked by craftsmen either here or in mainland China: two centuries before the Spanish colonization."

The sister gazed intently at the ceramics the display case contained on its tiered shelves. A green and white sanchi dish, an underglaze red vase, Imperial bowls in and jars in yellows and famille rose, swan-necked vases with a myriad of blues locked in their glaze – along with figurines of the most intricate workings and colours.

"They are all in such perfect condition. No cracks anywhere," she spoke, surprised.

"Ah, that is due the consistency of the clay they were buried in. They have survived intact since the fourteenth century, and not a blemish or defect upon any. Of course, we have unearthed damaged and shattered pieces too, but these are housed in the annex store, until the museum is completed," the Bishop explained.

Sister Marian's curiosity was sated, then waned. Bishop Pantaleon courteously opened the study door and accompanied the sister to his secretary's office. There she took receipt of the orphanage's overdue allotment cheque, and bid both the male clerics a good-day. The Bishop's eyes followed her progress as she walked down the marble-tiled hallway to the front of the Cathedral administration building. The heels of her worn shoes clicking and checking on the floor's surface, a sound that diminished into an empty silence as she exited the vaulted hall.

Bishop Pantaleon returned to the now-secure solitude of his study, and poured himself a generous glass of fine Madeira. Sitting at his desk he sipped the sweet wine before placing the cut crystal glass on his desk blotter and removing a porcelain figurine from its sanctuary within the dark recess of a desk drawer.

He turned it in his hands with a passion that belied his vow of celibacy. As if it was the warm flesh of a woman responding to his lusting touch. Yes, this piece alone would be his - to be shared with no other eyes. His and his alone. The museum, and the collection retrieved from the Intramuros diggings, would be his pride – and perhaps his source of fame in the world of Chinese ceramics. But the figurine of Hu Chao, a piece endowed with some strange mystic tenure over him, would be his secret pride - and his secret love.

He reached for the Madeira, and thoughts of Sister Marian disturbed his mental process. Damn and damn again that woman, he mouthed silently. How dare she utter such accusations? That I, her Bishop, had diverted monies meant for her orphanage to finance the Intramuros dig. Not that the facts were untrue in their entirety, but for her to express such an audacious opinion showed lack of respect and self-discipline.
My God, how I could have dealt with her seditious remarks but three centuries ago, he mused. The Inquisition had swift cures for such displays of insubordination. And to label the Cardinal himself as a political meddler!

Damn, she deserved a roasting at the stake. He giggled a little at this thought. But as he reclined in his chair and reflected again on their so-recent conversation, he knew in his heart that she was right. She was right, and he was wrong. He was diverting budgeted funds to finance the Intramuros project, and to bolster the paltry amount the Cardinal had allotted for the museum's construction. This was to be his land-mark in life. His memorial, his museum, and his artefacts displayed therein.

No sister of charity would deprive him of this fired ambition by her badgering for more money. Damn her, and damn her brats too. Thieves, all of them, anyway. What difference would her useless-eater orphans make to the statistics of the poverty-stricken homeless of Manila? None whatever. The Bishop insulated himself in that thought.

"Damn the Madeira too, it takes hold of my brain," he said quietly to the delicate figurine of Hu Chao. The touch of the cool porcelain excited him. Or was it the nakedness of the nymph-like body it was moulded to represent? This was perhaps the closest proximity to the essence of mental orgasm he would ever reach. Hu Chao, now his forever. Companion, and spiritual lover, the Tao Goddess of Love.

Yet the nun distracted still the quiet process of his thoughts. When I threatened her with disciplinary action, she scoffed. Not openly, but she nevertheless scoffed. To threaten 'me' with some kind of exposure in the news media. Is nothing sacred within the ecclesiastical code of Mother Church anymore?

He shook his head in ponderance. Why a woman of her education took religious vows and entered the order is beyond me. Her file shows she won scholarship to the La Salle College, and to the University of the Philippines. Then she worked her way around the world to experience travel and cultures. If she hadn't taken holy vows, she would have achieved greatness in some academic field of endeavour, in some other walk of life, some exacting profession – political or commerce.
Not as a nun, not overseeing an orphanage filled with thieving brats. But no, she returns to the Philippines, takes holy orders, and eventually winds up on my doorstep with the sole intention of raising my blood pressure with her ambiguous and sarcastic statements and insinuations until I succumb to apoplexy or a heart attack.

Damn her, and damn all nuns. And damn all women too. But not you, my beautiful Hu Chao, never you. He cradled the figurine in his spread hands and slipped into the dubious embrace of day-time sleep. A stifled conscience allowing the mind to rest, against the natural order of social morality.

As Sister Marian exited the Cathedral administration building and walked nimbly down the wide expanse of sandstone steps a slim shadow drew up to parallel her own.
"He give you the money for repairs, Sister? For the kid's clothes and shoes? You see him, the Bishop?" all this poured forth from the fourteen year-old mouth of Benito Roa, in rapid staccato fashion.

"Yes Benny," Sister Marian replied, "I saw the Bishop. No, Benny, he did not give me extra money for the repairs, nor the children's clothes."

"That Bishop, he's greedy bad-ass," Benny pronounced, only to receive an admonishing back-hand against his ear. A reproachful smack from knuckles that held no true censure in their brief contact.

"Where do you derive such vulgar expressions from, Benny Roa?" Sister Marian inquired absently, shaking her wimple-covered head.

Benny smiled and quickened his pace to keep abreast of the sister's. Small brown hands reached into the voluminous pockets of his nylon jacket, and he magically produced two ripe yellow mangoes.

"You like lunch, Sister?" he asked, holding the mangoes in front of her. "We can go sit in front of the Cathedral and eat them."

Sister Marian smiled, her arm closed around his narrow shoulders, and they walked together to the gardens fronting the Cathedral. There they found a vacant bench, and ate their respective mangoes below the shading canopy of an aged acacia.
"The mango is delicious Benny. Where did you get them," Sister Marian inquired of her companion.

"Oh, I help at the wet market this morning to unload the trucks. Mister Guzman, he gave me three. I eat one for breakfast, save one for lunch, and save one for you. That's three, eh?" Benny stated, mango juice staining the creases of his mouth an orange-yellow.

"Yes, that's three," Sister Marian confirmed. "Thank you for remembering me, Benny."

Benny smiled wildly, and sank his incomplete teeth into the succulent flesh of the fruit. He enjoyed making Sister Marian happy. She was the only adult who had ever cared for him, or about him. And Joel, his twelve year-old brother. She cared about all the kids that came to Santo Nino's. And he knew she prayed for all the kids in the world, he'd heard her in the small chapel at the orphanage on several occasions.

It bothered Benny why Sister Marian cared so much for the Tondo orphans, but had no children of her own. Of course, he knew nuns never married, and they never fucked around either. So they couldn't have children - right? But they didn't have to be nuns, did they? They could be women, you know, normal women, and then they could get married, and fuck, and have as many children as they wanted - right?

Maybe Sister Marian was too old to have children now he pondered. Whether she was too old to fuck he didn't know, and that thought sometimes intrigued him. He had lain on his mat at night and fantasised her naked, and his copulating with her willing, urging body - masturbating to this image until his hand and belly were sticky with the warm semen ejaculated in those final climatic seconds of self-manipulation. Then wiped himself on his cover sheet, and felt shame as he rose before dawn to launder the offended sheet of his sin. Felt shame that he was weak - shame that the object of his fantasy was a nun. Shame that it was Sister Marian, whom he respected and loved as his surrogate mother. Shame that he would never admit such thoughts or actions, even in the confessional's dark anonymity.

But if he never told another living soul, not even his brother Joel, then perhaps God would forgive him such sinful thoughts - as He would perhaps forgive him for lying to Sister Marian concerning the origin of the mangoes. As He would also perhaps forgive him for stealing them from the Bishop's kitchen while he awaited Sister Marian's exit from the Cathedral administration building.

Oh yes, Benny knew the Cathedral buildings well, and the Bishop's residence too. He worked in the residence gardens on Sundays, after the morning service. The chief cook always made sure Benny ate an ample lunch, she thought him too skinny by far for a boy of his age.

True, he was skinny. But he liked to consider himself lean. Lean and mean, as the movie hard-men were apt to be described. Juan Bechaves, another orphan of Santo Nino's referred to Benny often as being as skinny as a landfill site dog: all dick and ribs. Everyone in their dormitory laughed at Juan's joke, so Benny laughed too. No harm in simple words, especially from simple-minded Juan.

Luckily Joel wasn't as skinny as himself. But he used to be, when they first took to the streets. Then Joel was skinny, and Benny skinnier still. Super lean, and super mean to boot. Yes, after their father was killed by the Bahala Na Gang in a local hoodlum’s shoot-out, and their mother slipped further into her cocoon of alcohol and drugs, before depositing them both in the care of a reluctant aunt, and departing for Subic Bay, the American naval base.

"Gone to sell her pussy to Yanquis sailors," their miserly aunt would tell them each time Benny or Joel inquired her whereabouts.

Eventually Benny left, taking Joel along with him. They survived by what Benny's deft fingers stole, until Joel got sick in the chest with the bronchitis, and Benny sought the help of the sisters of the Santo Nino Shelter. They cured Joel, housed them both, and had cared for them ever since.

Yes, ever since, Benny reflected. And sent Joel to school too. That was where he was now: school. Where all kids should be. Benny no longer regarded himself as a kid, nor eligible for the dubious value of lessons that any school could impart to him in the forms of constructive knowledge useful in Tondo street-life. Benny worked. Worked at the market – sometimes; worked as a newspaper vendor, or selling cigarettes at the jammed road junctions around the port area. He always brought home money to the grateful hands of the sisters of Santo Nino's, so he must be working.

The good Lord Jesus forbid that Sister Marian ever discovered the only work Benny did that gave a profitable return was the labour of theft. That would break her heart, he knew. But Benny was street-smart, and good at his chosen vocation. Proficient at it and never once been caught. Chased, yes. Caught, no. Never violent crimes, always crimes by stealth. Picking tourist's pockets, snatching their cameras and handbags. That was his main line. Deft fingers and swift feet.

God, he longed for a cigarette now the mango was eaten, but dare not light up in Sister Marian's presence.

"Well Benny, that was truly delicious," she proclaimed, wiping her fingers on a simple cotton handkerchief.

"Why don't the Bishop give you the extra money that you ask for?" Benny inquired.

"Yes, why indeed?" Sister Marian replied. "You see Benny, the Church has many charities that it supports and provides for. Bishop Pantaleon is the instrument by which these allotments are administered. Thus, if the Bishop considers that one project warrants a larger allotment than the next, then one of the projects suffers. It seems that our shelter is not the highest priority on his list just now."

"Is he stealing the money for himself?" Benny asked suspiciously.

"Heavens no, he might be guilty of selfish pride and poor judgment, but not theft," the sister informed her adolescent companion.

"Then why can't he give you the money for the kid's clothes and the repairs?" Benny progressed.

"Listen with a careful ear Benny Roa, and I'll try to explain the crux of the matter for you. You see, Bishop Pantaleon is very interested in the archaeology of Intramuros. Do you understand 'archaeology?"

Benny nodded, his eyes intent on the sister's face, and her words readily absorbed by eager ears.

"His Excellency is an accomplished archaeologist, before his time in the Church, and since. Thus he has a passion for the pre-Spanish history of the city, and especially the Chinese period: when the Chinese merchants dominated the old city over the Moro Datus. A great many artefacts lies below the old walled city, and the Bishop wishes to see them excavated and preserved for posterity in a museum."

"Unfortunately this desire to excavate Intramuros has become a driving obsession to him. Now he is not satisfied to have the recovered artefacts displayed in the National Museum on Kalaw Street, but builds a museum here in Intramuros to house his precious treasures."

"Did they find lots of gold and jewels?" Benny enquired, intrigued by the very mention of 'treasures'.

"No Benny, not gold. But as precious as gold. Ceramics from a long-gone Chinese dynasty – the products of a forgotten art," Sister Marian enlightened her charge.

"What's 'ceramics?" he enquired further.

"Ceramics are what you might term as vases, bowls, and plates. But a type of pottery that is so beautiful in its manufacture and design, creations adorned with magnificent patterns and colours. That too is treasure, Benny. Collectors the world-wide seek such art, and pay vast sums of money for pieces as fine and rare."

"Like antique shops?" Benny asked.

"Why yes, they would deal in such objects of art. But only the most prestigious of antique dealers could afford to deal with masterpieces as have been unearthed here in the old city," the sister informed him.

"I'll bet the Excellency keeps them all locked up in a big steel safe," Benny speculated cautiously.

"Ah, the Bishop is too vain for that Benny. He has to display them in his study: his personal pride and achievement. In fact, I was studying a display case filled with them while I spoke with his Excellency. I cannot really deny him the right to feel pride at their discovery as they are truly beautiful pieces of art."

Sister Marian turned as the Cathedral tower clock struck the hour of twelve. "Come along Benny, it's time we deposited our cheque at the bank," she stated rising from the shaded bench. They duly dropped the mango stones and skins into an adjacent litter basket, and walked at a brisk pace, set by Sister Marian, toward the main thoroughfare.

After a night of fitful sleep, sleep broken by vague dreams, Benny Roa showered, breakfasted, and departed the orphanage for the area of Manila known as Ermita. It was there he visited an acquaintance of his who lived on the shadowy ill-defined edge of legality: Mr. Chou Lu Chen.

Now Chen was a fourth generation Chinese-Filipino, but still maintained an active and enthusiastic participation in his ancestors' heritage and culture. He was a practicing Taoist, an ardent follower of mainland China's political progress, and Taiwan's too; and wholeheartedly supported the Chinese New Year celebrations in the Chinese quarter of Santa Cruz. He was also renowned as a fence.

Benny entered Chen's antique shop, and winced as the chimes clanged discordantly at the touch of the door's upper edge. A white-whiskered face appeared over the top of the high ledger desk at the far end of the shop's narrow expanse.

"Hey, Benny-Benny boy. What you bring me today?" the articulating head inquired.

"Hiya Mister Chen," Benny began, walking to the rear of the premises, and mindful not to dislodge any part of the dusty clutter that comprised the shop's display.
"Mister Chen, I've got a really good offer for you, make us both millionaires," Benny informed the weaving head of the apparently bodiless Oriental antique dealer.

Chen smiled and stood erect, revealing the neck and torso that one would expect to find connected to a head that sees, hears, and speaks. "I am millionaire already, Benny-boy - only you not millionaire yet. What you steal that gonna make you millionaire, ha?" Benny moved around to the side of the high desk, and leaned his buttocks against an inlaid narra chest. Chen regarded him from behind wire-framed spectacles.
"What you want Benny-boy, me finance you to break into National Treasury?" Chen asked then laughed heartily at his own humour.

"You know about the archee-logical excavations at Intramuros, Mister Chen?" Benny asked the still-giggling Sangley.

"Sure, know all about them. Tang dynasty ceramics. Big hoard." Chen replied, his tone one of confident knowledge.

"How you like to buy some of the pots and things from there? Very valuable, very rare," Benny countered.

"What you get, ha? You steal something from the diggings? What you steal Benny-boy?" Chen enquired, his posture now transformed into one of acute interest, his slouching body erect and intense.

"I know where I can lay these hands on plenty of that stuff. All number one condition. Vases, bowls, plates. How much you pay for that kind of thing Mister Chen?" Benny spoke cunningly, his eyes and piercing stare competing to match that of Chen, but succeeding only in making himself look slightly ridiculous.

Chen pondered for several moments, regarding Benny with intent. "All depends if the ceramics undamaged and genuine. Very hard to find the right collector to buy pieces of that dynasty and value. Take long time, maybe months." Chen considered Benny's face again. "You full of big-time shit Benny-boy, or you tell me truth?" Chen demanded.

"No shit, Mister Chen. This is the God's honest truth," Benny replied, crossing himself quickly as he realised his uttered blasphemy.

Chen stared at him intently for some moments, making an inner mental decision, and then spoke. "Okay Benny, you say you can get from the diggings, then I believe you. You never fuck with me before or never try to sell me any shit before. I believe you, okay. But you take damn good care you don't get caught. Let nobody know, only you and me, okay. No boasting talk. Just you and me know about this, okay?"

"Sure, I know collectors who cut their balls off for Tang dynasty ceramics. Americans, Japanese, Arabs. They buy genuine pieces, undamaged pieces, pay big price. Rich collectors, dollar millionaires - not fuckin' pesos. But you be damn fuckin' careful, and keep good secret with tight lips. Okay?" Chen completed his statement, stopped wagging his finger in Benny's face for emphasis, and leaned back against his desk.

Benny's face lit in a full smile, and he nodded his assent, then answered "Yea, that's okay with me Mister Chen."

"When you get from the diggings, ha?" Chen asked.

"Sunday night, and I'll bring here on Monday morning. Monday morning okay, Mister Chen?" Benny queried.

"Sure, Monday fine. Just you remember what Chen tell you Benny. No boasting talk. This big secret, maybe even dangerous secret. Secret for Benny and Chen only. Okay?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Benny recited.

"Ha, don't need any Christian bullshit oath. You promise only, and watch your tongue. Okay?" Chen admonished.

"No problem Mister Chen. I'll speak to no-one, only you." Benny assured the fence.

"How you want me to pay you - in Switzerland bank account?" Chen laughed heartily at his own humour. "Can't give you million pesos, ha. People know you steal something big if you got money like that, ha. What you tell them, that you win National Lottery?" and banged his desk at the mirth his own joke caused him, his head thrown back with fresh laughter.

Benny smiled widely and he laughed too. "I don't want you to pay me anything, Mister Chen," Benny informed him then he stepped forward and rested his elbows on Chen's desk top, and quietly explained his conspiratorial scheme in minute detail.

The residue of that week slipped quickly by, as time has an annoying habit of doing for us all. Once the Sunday morning mass at the Cathedral was over, the remainder of the day found Benny working in the Bishop's residence gardens. Pruning, raking, hoeing, and trimming. Then finally sweeping, as the Cathedral tower clock marked the fifth hour of the afternoon.

The head gardener instructed Benny to clean and store the cultivating tools in the stables then he promptly departed for home. Benny completed his assigned tasks, washed his soil-grimed hands and poked his head around the kitchen door to bid Mrs. Raygon, the Bishop's cook, thanks for his lunch and goodbye until the next Sunday.
Mrs. Raygon watched him stroll off down the garden with affection in her heart, and went back to preparing for the late evening dinner only when his slender form was hidden from view by the walls of the disused stables.

Benny walked to the rear gate, leading out of the gardens, and onto General Luna Street. There he looked carefully about him, then closed the gate noisily. He stood for a few moments, then walked stealthily back along the stable's perimeter and secreted himself within their dusty confines.

The tower's clock marked half of the afternoon's sixth hour with a single resounding 'dong', and Benny stirred in his thoughts to notice that the dusk was well advanced.

At five to the hour of seven, the kitchen lights were extinguished, and Mrs. Raygon left the residence to attend the evening service at the Cathedral. As the tower clock's bell struck for the seventh time and a quiet was restored to the dark evening air, Benny heard the service commencing in the adjoining Cathedral. The Bishop's pious voice called out to his gathered congregation, amplified by the medium of loudspeakers. It was then that Benny made his move.

Walking silently along the garden path, his left hand carrying the dark nylon hold-all he had secreted in the stables before the early mass that morning, he made his way quietly to the deep shadows of the buttresses adjacent to the Bishop's study.

Drawing a balisong folding knife from his denim jeans, he slipped the blade between the central joint of the French windows. Seconds later both the spring lock and catch of the windows were released with an ease that would have impressed most professional burglars.

Closing the glazed doors behind him, Benny’s eyes scanned around for some minutes, becoming acclimatized to the room's shadows, and the empty house's inherent noises, before illuminating a narrow path across the patterned Persian carpet with his penlight.

Proceeding to the fore of the study, he kneeled before the display cabinet housing to the Tang dynasty ceramics. His excited breaths steamed portions of the cabinet's glass as he pondered which pieces to select. Quite arbitrarily he chose to take one piece from each shelf, and perhaps avoid the early detection of their removal.

Opening the hold-all he removed four worn hand towels and spread them on the carpet. The cabinet doors creaked ominously as he swung them wide, but noises of the dark did nothing to deter him from his purpose.

First he withdrew a red underglaze vase, then a bright celadon urn, then a blue and white vase, and lastly a large Imperial yellow urn. All were scrupulously wrapped in the towels, and placed delicately inside the nylon holdall. Then Benny rearranged the spacing of the remaining pieces on their respective shelves to return an orderly appearance to the display.

Having no ready access to the foundation stone of the burglar's profession: gloves, he wiped each surface of the cabinet with infinite care, using his red and white polka-dot handkerchief. The bankers of Manila should beware of Benny Roa's youthful mastery of the fine art of burglary, lest the maturity of years found him emptying their sacred vaults undetected.

Closing the cabinet doors with a polka-dot sheathed hand Benny picked up the bag and assiduously retreated across the study's shadowed expanse. He paused at the polished desk, his eyes fixing on the inset drawers. Perhaps a cash box lay inside, he thought. Placing the bag to one side, he opened each drawer in turn. Papers, papers, papers and nothing more. But the final drawer he tried was locked.

The balisong's blade swiftly slipped the lock's brass tongue, and the drawer slid open. He shone the penlight's narrow beam into the seemingly empty interior. At the back of the drawer's depths lay a wrapped cloth, and once unwound, it revealed the shapely contours of a figurine of a naked woman. A Chinese woman, by the cast of her eyes -arms poised with elegance behind her head with its crown of glossy black hair.

Benny turned the figurine in his hands, slowly becoming mesmerised by its inherent beauty: falling under the unclothed lady's seductive spell. Then the Cathedral tower clock struck once: to mark the quarter of the seventh hour and within that short millisecond of time several obvious things took place.

Benny's heartbeat increased to a rate of one hundred and twenty a minute. His paused lungs drew in a full volume of musty air. His eyes cast open wide, and his head turned enough degrees to the right to cause pain in the neck muscles. In fact every muscle in his lean body reacted as though subjected to an electric shock. The figurine didn't so much slip from Benny's hands and fall directly to the floor, it was virtually propelled from his grasp by his acute reaction to the clock's striking the quarter.
Thus the lower portion of Hu Chao's anatomy struck the edge of the desk first, shattering shapely legs. The remainder of her beautiful torso hit the lip of the opened drawer, and spread across the carpet in a myriad of anonymous shards.

A panicked Benny pushed the drawer closed with the toe of his right trainer-clad foot, grabbed the hold-all, and vacated the study in rapid fashion. He regained sufficient sense and courage in those fleeting moments to pause and close the French windows after his exit. Out of the rear gate, along the deserted General Luna Street, boarded a passing jeepney, and away towards Tondo: the Santo Nino shelter and the safe confines of his dormitory.
It drew close to nine-thirty that evening when Bishop Pantaleon finally laid knife and fork to rest upon a stained yet empty dinner plate. He took a final swallow of the full-bodied claret, and bid his house-keeper a good-night.

Walking from the dining room toward the broad staircase he paused. Perhaps a small glass of port before I sleep, he mused, turning to the door of his adjacent study.
Clicking on the light switch as he entered the room, the Bishop trod over to the rattan cabinet set below a multi-hued Bourbon tapestry, and liberated a decanter of choice Spanish port from the varnished interior. Pouring a liberal measure into a glass, he sipped the sweet liquid as would a true connoisseur then walked over to his desk.

The right eye was the first of his optical appendages to look onto the shattered remains of his beloved Hu Chao, and it instantly began the rapid rhythm of an involuntary tattoo. His hand made to place the port glass on the desk, but the trembling that was encompassing his whole body affected his fingers, and the glass toppled, spreading it's sweet, sticky contents over the desk's polished surface in a dark, expanding pool.

Bishop Pantaleon fell to his knees and fumbled in his cassock for the lower drawer's key. Inserting it clumsily into the lock, he realised then that the mechanism was drawn back already, and hastily pulled the drawer open.

The blood pounded in his temples as his eyes locked on the dark void that now comprised the drawer's contents. A sudden pain ran from the left side of his chest, along the left shoulder, and down his left arm. He fell forward. gasping. His right hand supported the upper body, preventing total contact with the carpeted surface of the study's floor. Then excruciating pain exploded behind his eyes in a flash of searing, hideous white light.
His brain ceased to function as a blood vessel burst in the right cerebral hemisphere. Thus, bereft of instructions from the skull's spongy grey organ, the heart and lungs came to a rapid halt in their natural functions.
Bishop Pantaleon's right arm flexed, and his mortal body crumpled in an unceremonious heap atop the shattered remains of the once-voluptuous Hu Chao.

The Bishop's body was discovered the following morning by an aghast Mrs. Amaro, the residence's house-keeper. She promptly summoned the whole household with her petrified screams, and alarmed a goodly number of passers-by too.

The police, during their brief attendance, along with the summoned doctor, concluded the Bishop has succumbed to a sudden death by natural causes, which was consistent with their findings – the spilled drink and the broken pottery figurine. Nothing was observed to be missing from the residence, nor was evidence of foul play apparent, thus their primary verdict was based on the obvious, visible facts.

The pathologist's autopsy report prompted the coroner to file a verdict of death by natural causes. Apoplexy – nothing unusual in a man of the Bishop's years and poor physical condition.

Mr. Chou Lin Chen was overjoyed with the four pieces of Tang dynasty ceramics that Benny Roa delivered to him clandestinely that following Monday morning. Fine examples, genuine, authentic, and without blemish. Chen might have operated upon the thin, conspicuous line of legality for most of his business life, but in his dealings with Benny Roa he was scrupulous to an outstanding degree. Chen was happy, and Benny was satisfied; and thus happy too.

The Santo Nino Shelter for Orphans struggled along in its usual hand to mouth fashion for some weeks following the Bishop's demise from the world of mortal men. But, as always, Sister Marian made ends meet, no matter the fragility of the joint that bonded those ends together.

Yes, a month at least must have passed that fateful Friday evening until Sister Marian made her announcement before all the assembled sisters and wards at their nightly dinner gathering.

'I have news of the most splendid kind, children,' she informed them, face beaming as she stood at the head of the sister's table. "Today an attorney came to visit me. He presented documents for me to sign that will enable the orphanage to draw from a trust that has been established for the Santo Nino Shelter. The benevolent person who has donated this trust wishes to remain anonymous, but it will provide for us for all time. For many, many years," she simplified.

"The trust amounts to millions of pesos, and will maintain itself and grow through the accrued interest it earns while in the bank's deposit. I feel we should all be thankful and say a prayer for our unknown sponsor. He is truly worthy of our gratitude, and of God's love."

The prayer was duly spoken, by sisters and children alike. Although the majority of younger wards had no comprehension of what Sister Marian's announcement really meant. But they prayed just as hard as their older contemporaries – and all with looks of devout seriousness on their faces too. Apart from one, who smiled a little in the great warmth that secret knowledge sometimes provides. Benny Roa's face creased widely in a grin, behind the mask of his clasped hands.

Benny learned well from that Sunday evening's escapade, and never again did he burgle a house during his long and fruitful life. Benny eventually left the shelter, and went into business for himself. By his twenty-second birthday he was a millionaire. A peso millionaire, but nevertheless a millionaire. As the years passed, Joel completed his college studies and joined brother Benny in his prospering business. Joel had majored in economics, and helped keep the millions flowing in.

The brothers Roa were always welcome guests at the Santo Nino's dinner table, and regular contributors to the orphan-oriented projects that Sister Marian undertook. She was proud of the brothers, Benny especially. She had once held her doubts concerning his truthfulness and honesty, but the passage of time had proved her doubts unfounded and wrong. Benny, a successful Manila businessman - a credit to the Shelter and its programme.

Of course, neither Benny nor Joel ever enlightened Sister Marian to the true nature of their business. Why disturb the innocent bliss that ignorance provided? Crime, as we are all aware, has many facets to its entirety - and Benny became a practiced master in most of these, and grew wealthy from the spoils.

And where is the poetic justice of this world, you would ask? Poetic justice is the stuff of children’s story books and nursery rhymes. Reality is harsh, and the Manila of then is as the Manila of this day. A place where the fittest alone survive.