MacArthur's Ghost Page 6

  “Hello.”

  “Want a beer?” asked Camper. He smelled of sweat and beer, this Sunday morning.

  “I don’t drink before dark.”

  “Beer’s not drinking,” Camper said, beheading a San Miguel. “Better take it, George,” advised Harding.

  “Thanks.”

  A ripple of laughter sounded from another room. Griffin turned and found he was looking into Harding’s bedroom. It wouldn’t have passed inspection, what with the mussed-up bed and yesterday’s clothing tossed over the back of a chair, a collection of bottles and pills on the night table and, if that were not enough, two cute Filipinas sitting in front of the television set, tuned into a disco dance show. Was that what happened in the MacArthur Suite: a pair of nubile little hookers to welcome home the hero? Had the girls watched TV while the old-timers rutted on top of them? It was hard for Griffin to picture. Hard for Charley Camper, too.

  “Those are my daughters,” he said.

  “Your wife’s—”

  “From here.”

  “Charley Camper never left,” Harding said. “One continuous tour from 1940 until now. You should do his story, not mine. He lives in Olongapo, raises kids and chickens . . .”

  “Both of which need feeding,” Camper said. He stuck a finger in his mouth and whistled, a piercing alarm that wrenched his daughters right away from the television set. “You gonna come see me, Colonel?”

  “Count on it, Charley.”

  “We’ll throw a couple of dead chickens on the barbecue, drink some beer. You come too, Griffin. You ought to see Subic Bay.”

  Camper nodded to his daughters, who kissed Harding goodbye and shyly shook hands with Griffin. A moment ago he guessed they were prostitutes. That was impossible now. They were Charley’s daughters.

  Harding stepped out on the balcony and, waving good-bye, watched the Campers clamber into a pickup truck loaded with sacks of feed and crates of chickens and a half dozen Filipinos. They looked like a tribe of Okies who had missed California and kept heading west. Security guards and doormen gasped as the truck belched a cloud of smoke, emitted a wolf-whistle howl that must have rattled glasses in the Champagne Room, and lurched out of the curving driveway of the Manila Hotel.

  “I still haven’t decided about this book thing,” Harding said.

  “Is there any way I can put your mind at ease?” Griffin asked, wondering what it would be: tape recordings versus written notes? Authorship credits? Control of the manuscript? A share of the advance? A piece of the royalties? What was going to be the crunch?

  “There’s no way you can put my mind at ease,” Harding said. “But you can answer a question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Are you proud to be an American?”

  “Am I what?”

  “You heard me, Griffin. Are you proud to be an American, yes or no?”

  “Is this a loyalty oath?”

  “Don’t go getting your back up. Just a simple question . . .”

  “It is not a simple question.”

  “Well, okay, take your time.” Harding got out of his chair and walked across the room. People knew he’d returned to Manila, all right. There were flowers along the walls and baskets of tropical fruit, and whiskey bottles with ribbons and calling cards around their necks.

  “Listen, Colonel. I like America. I get into arguments all the time with people who knock it. But you want simple answers like yes or no and I don’t suppose that satisfies you.”

  Even as he spoke, Griffin recoiled at his own stubbornness. Couldn’t he make allowance for the years that separated them? Harding was the Victory-at-Sea generation. Why not hum a few bars?

  “Okay,” Harding said, turning to shake hands.

  “Okay? I thought . . . I didn’t give the right answer, did I?”

  “There is no right answer,” Harding said. “Not in my book. Only wrong answers. Two of them.”

  “Which are?”

  “Yes and no,” Harding replied. He stood there, smiling at Griffin, and Griffin smiled back, wondering what kind of strange campaign they were starting on.

  “It’s not what you expect,” Harding said. “It’s not your standard story.”

  “That’s all right, Colonel,” Griffin said. “I’ve had it with standard stories.”

  “And it’s not like the movie either. I can tell you that right now.”

  The Filipino servant came to say that Mr. Richter was waiting down in the lobby.

  “It’s a memorial service out at the cemetery,” Harding explained. “Eddie said no speeches. Still you never know. You want to come, just in case?”

  “Sure.”

  Harding went into his bedroom to shower and dress. While the servant removed the empty bottles Charley Camper had left behind, Griffin wandered into the foyer. Even in the time he’d been visiting, the place had filled with still more gifts welcoming Harding back to Manila: fruit, flowers, whiskey, dress shirts, baskets, wood carvings, velvet paintings of martial scenes. It felt like a trade fair, a hospital sickroom. And a funeral. “Amazing, isn’t it?” said Harding as he emerged from the bedroom. He plucked a card off a basket of fruit: “Manila Branch, Defenders of Bataan and Corregidor.” Another card, on a yard-high carving that showed a G.I. and guerrilla shaking hands. “Baguio American Legion,” Harding read.

  He reached inside a white box that had some shreds of wrapping paper and ribbon still taped to its sides. Out came a picture, obviously a wartime group portrait, dozens of guerrillas, one row kneeling, one row standing, the men who had come out of the jungle forty years ago.

  “Can you find me?” Harding asked.

  Griffin scanned the ranks. Ancient faces, daring you to guess what became of them.

  “Women . . .”

  “Yes. Some.”

  “This isn’t easy. . . . I thought you’d stick right out. Here?”

  This was Harding, at the height of his power and fame. He belonged in a picture like this, a black-and-white. He was from the time before wars were in Technicolor. He was a hick with a bad haircut, an awkward fellow who looked as though he’d been dragged into the picture: Charles Lindbergh, Will Rogers, Clyde Barrow, Lou Gehrig, Lincoln.

  “That was before the second Battle of San Leandro,” Harding said. “Did you ever hear about that battle?”

  “No . . .”

  “I didn’t think so. It’s your final chapter. We’ll go there together. I’ll tell you how it was and I want you to take it all down.”

  “That sounds fine,” Griffin said, still poring over the picture Harding had handed him. It was out of a time when men at war posed for group pictures, like sports teams, faces forward, staring out into history, taking their chances on tomorrow.

  “You must have felt like you owned the world back then,” Griffin said.

  “For a little while, we did.”

  Eddie Richter and Cecilia Santos were waiting in the lobby, ready to escort them to the military cemetery in Makati. Eddie had dressed for the occasion: his aloha shirt was black and white. Santos wore a basic black dress: whether it was the color or the dress that was basic, Griffin wasn’t sure, but Cecilia Santos was a traffic stopper.

  “How are you gents doing?” Eddie asked.

  “I think it’s going to work out fine,” Harding assured him.

  “That’s great,” Eddie said. “I had a feeling about you two . . .”

  “It’s not too early to thank you for putting us together,” Harding continued.

  “Do you believe you can write a book, Mr. Griffin?” Cecilia Santos asked.

  “Yes, Miss Santos,” Griffin answered, wondering what she was getting at.

  “And who, besides yourself, checks this book to verify its accuracy?”

  “Who beside myself will verify the book’s accuracy?” He repeated the question thoughtfully, as if this were a novel question, worthy of his most careful consideration. This had to come up, he thought, but he’d expected it would be from Wingfield, and much later. />
  “Yes . . . who will verify your work?”

  “Who wants to verify it?” Griffin responded. “Anybody who wants to talk to me, I’ll be more than happy to meet with . . .”

  “That’s not the point,” Santos said. “Talking to you is not the point.”

  “Sorry,” Griffin said.

  “Who, finally, controls the book? Who owns it? Who does the story belong to? Does it belong to the Philippines government? To the investors in the film?”

  “It sounds to me,” Griffin said, “that something is bothering you. I’d like to answer your question, but it would help me if you told me what your concern is.”

  “That’s right,” Eddie chimed in. “Any problems you have . . .”

  “I’m not sure it’s my problem,” Cecilia Santos said. “It may be your problem.” She looked hard at Griffin and her look told him that his act hadn’t fooled her: the sincerity, the ingenuousness, the apparent puzzlement. I know you, her look said. I know what’s in your head and in your heart, what’s in your wallet and between your legs. And I am not impressed. “The government approved this film on the basis of a script that was submitted. That script was read . . . very carefully. Certain revisions were suggested. All of them were made. Now we have this so-called book . . .”

  She’s really pushing it, Griffin thought, staring out the window so she wouldn’t see his anger. They were on the so-called superhighway from Manila to Makati, passing through a zone of slums. For some reason—beautification, security, who could tell?—a wall of concrete blocks fenced the slums. But wherever there was a road, the wall opened, and people on the superhighway had a glimpse of the Third World, a Malthusian vista of tin roofs and tired wood, potholes and puddles, garbage piles and cooking fires and wash lines. Families of nine. Could this island contain them? Could the world?

  “Anyone who knows the Philippines,” Cecilia Santos was saying, “knows that the war years were a complicated time. There were difficult issues. Collaboration. Coexistence. Resistance . . .”

  “I know,” Harding said. “I was here.”

  “I was in the neighborhood myself,” Eddie Richter added.

  “But you’ve been away, both of you. And you have no way of knowing how alive these questions are. You have no way of knowing how, not long ago, an opposition weekly published an analysis of the war record of no less than President Marcos himself. The article—written by a Filipino living abroad— claimed that the exploits in Marcos’s memoirs were exaggerated, that many of his medals were frauds. Well, gentlemen, the magazine was closed and the staff placed under house arrest, pending trial for slander and subversion.”

  “I guess somebody hit a nerve,” Eddie said.

  “Exactly. And Colonel Harding hit a nerve when he made his speech on Corregidor. Just one example. He—”

  “He?” Harding spoke up. “Me.”

  “Very well sir . . . you . . . you referred to liberation guerrillas. Do you remember that?”

  “Sure.”

  “Guerrillas at the moment of victory: I’m sure that’s what you meant. But here a liberation guerrilla is someone who started to fight only when the battle was over. What you would call a Johnny-Come-Lately, more interested in back paychecks than in freedom. In short, an opportunist.”

  “That so? You have people like that?” Griffin saw a tiny smile cross Harding’s face.

  “You see my point. This is not history. This is not movies. Reputations are at stake. The Philippines government does not want to be embarrassed. It deserves to know who this book belongs to.”

  “Well, lady, it’s my story,” Harding said.

  “But the issue—”

  “My damn story,” Harding repeated, as if that settled everything. Cecilia Santos waited for more. When nothing came, she retreated, but in good order.

  “I see,” she said. “You wouldn’t object if I take this matter up with Mr. Wingfield?”

  “No, I don’t care,” Harding said. “The movie company paid my way out. I understand they’re picking up George’s fee. Well, tell Larry, if he’s worried about his investment, I’ll refund the ticket and I’ll hire George myself. You game, George?”

  “That’d be fine,” Griffin said.

  “Hope I can afford you.”

  “You can afford me.”

  “So that’s that,” Harding said. “It’s up to you. I’m here and I’m staying, movie or no. I guess you could revoke my visa or something, but I can’t imagine that. Not after the boss hugs me on Corregidor and welcomes me home, I don’t believe he’ll run me out of here, out of these islands, which are famous for their hospitality. So, it’s like the man said.”

  “What man?” Cecilia Santos asked.

  “I have returned . . .”

  CHAPTER 9

  Relaxed and nonchalant, like a gardener strolling among his roses, Harry Roberts Harding led a party of veterans out into a field of crosses. There was nothing sad about this little walk; it was as if the buried dead had arrived early at a place where all of them would camp eventually. Harding walked up to the monument, deposited a wreath and stood still for a moment, as though to give everyone a chance to remember him. Then he rejoined his comrades for the walk back across the cemetery.

  Griffin thought it was wonderful. It was the feeling of Corregidor all over again. While he stayed behind with people who took notes and exposed film, the man out there had touched, or been touched, by something special. It was lucky he’d tapped into MacArthur’s Ghost, who was going to take him somewhere he had never traveled: the story you lived.

  “Is that all?” Cecilia Santos asked. She’d expected more, it seemed, standing there with pen and paper, ready to file a report, but the paper was creamy blank.

  “Tabula rasa, Cecilia?” Griffin asked.

  “What’s that?” Eddie asked.

  “It means blank tablet, unwritten page,” Cecilia Santos said. “Latin.”

  “Tabula rasa,” Eddie repeated. “Sounds like the name of an exotic dancer.”

  “I was impressed,” Griffin said. “I’m glad I came. How about you, Miss Santos? Was it worth your time?”

  “I’m happy it went well,” she admitted.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Eddie said. “It won’t be too many more years us old fossils will be showing up like this. Every year, there’s a few more underground and a few fewer upstairs. I can remember when—”

  “What’s that?” Cecilia Santos interrupted sharply. Eddie peered over in the direction she indicated, to where Harding had come out of the cemetery and stood near the administration building.

  “I don’t know,” Eddie said. “The deal was, he was supposed to sign the visitors’ book and pose for pictures and that’s all.”

  “He’s giving a press conference!” Cecilia Santos cried, rushing toward the group that had formed around Harding. When Griffin started to follow, Eddie held him by the elbow, gesturing for him to stay where he was.

  “I love it,” Eddie said. “He’s MacArthur’s Ghost again.”

  “She doesn’t love it,” Griffin said, gesturing to Cecilia Santos. But Eddie wasn’t worried.

  “Did I tell you about Florida?” he asked.

  “Florida?”

  “He was running a motel halfway down the coast, on the Gulf side. A ten-cabin mom-and-pop operation filled up with senior citizens who go soak their bodies in some mineral springs down the road. The place was all canes and bathrobes, ace bandages and herb teas, and Harry Roberts Harding is their gofer, running errands all day long and babysitting at night. That’s where he was at. Sitting out front, not sleeping, just sitting, watching moths dance around a neon vacancy sign and thinking God knows what. That’s how he was, the night that I drove up. And I said, ‘Colonel, you’re going back in.’ “

  “And he knew what you meant?”

  “He knew, all right,” Eddie answered. “Now look at him. MacArthur’s Ghost. It tickles me.”

  The impromptu press conference had broken up, it seemed, a
nd Cecilia Santos walked briskly back toward them, reading out of her notebook.

  “Your simple, straightforward American hero,” she said, “your honest-to-God veteran of the last good war, your legendary guerrilla leader . . .” She struggled to control herself, rustling through her notes, inflamed by what she found. “Hints, threats, promises. He said he will have secrets to tell, heroes who were betrayed, victories that were defeats. That’s not all. He mentioned Yamashita’s treasure.”

  “What did he say?” George asked. The treasure had appeared in the screenplay, he recalled. It was a trove of gold supposedly hidden by Tomoyuki Yamashita, the “Tiger of Malaya,” who had defended the Philippines, retreated to the mountains of northern Luzon, and been hanged for war crimes in 1946. But Griffin had assumed that the treasure was a scriptwriter’s device, something to give purpose—otherwise in short supply—to a conventional thriller.

  “Yamashita’s treasure,” Eddie explained, “is the oldest, hoariest, hardiest . . .”

  “Most discredited,” Cecilia Santos added.

  “Yeah, most discredited wild goose of a treasure yarn to come out of the war, right up there with Amelia Earhart or with Hitler in the Amazon. Did he say there was a treasure?”

  “Oh, he’s no fool, your colonel. Do we want to find out what really happened? Do we want to know who the real heroes were? Or where the treasure lies? Where do we go?”

  Eddie and George traded glances, but neither of them saw it coming.

  “To your book!” she said. “Everything will be in the book he is preparing with the celebrated American writer, Mr. George Griffin!”

  Part Two

  HARDING’S FIRST

  CHAPTER

  CHAPTER 10

  The Reverend Elbert Hubbard Harding believed that there was order in the world and so might have been consoled by the fact that he died on December 8, 1941 (Manila time), when Japanese planes swept into Pearl Harbor and ended forever the colonial America that had made him a king in the remote mountains of northern Luzon. Reverend Harding did not believe in coincidences. He believed in patterns: death and the Japanese came riding in together, end of life and end of an era.