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“He looked at me. He said he thought of himself as different. He had a capacity for… well, for action that was rather unusual. It had frightened him at first, but he had grown to accept it, willing this quality towards what would bring a measure of justice, a measure of good.” 

- Ninotchka Rosca, “Our Apostle Paul” from the “Stories of a Bitter Country” Collection

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Prologue 

November 8, 2019
Catholic Trade Building
Santa Cruz, Manila

In hindsight, it was foolish to think that the upcoming Papal Conclave would not affect Mel’s life in any way whatsoever. 

It’s not that she did not care, per se. Or that she was an atheist — an accusation that her overbearing, Catholic mother had begun throwing around ever since she escaped her clutches and started university. Mel’s relationship with the faith may be more complex than the systems and algorithms she has to code for her Computer Science degree, but she is pretty sure she has not stopped being a Catholic. Culturally, at least. Hard not to be in a place like the Philippines. 121 years later, and yet the influence of those blasted Spanish friars has barely faded away, let alone been abolished altogether. 

Still, approximately two hours and twenty-six minutes ago, Mel was indifferent to the whole affair, and the crux of her feelings was this: the Conclave just felt so, so far away. So detached from the mundanity of real life. The world may have mourned the loss of The Late Holy Father (a complicated man, who nevertheless was surprisingly progressive in an institution as archaic as The Church), but the days leading up to his successor’s election were banal, completely void of fanfare in any other country that wasn’t the Vatican. 

Even Mel’s mother, overzealous Catholic that she is, barely knew the Conclave is happening today. What was another Pope, after all, when there were so many others that came before him? What difference would it make? Mel’s people are still hungry, still starving, still getting shot on the streets by bogus police operations, the government viewing them as nothing but collateral in the all-out “drug war” their president was waging against. When you spend each night afraid of being gunned down for a crime you did not commit, an antiquated ceremony like the Papal Conclave looks trivial by comparison. 

This… bitterness (really, there was no other word for it) is partly the reason why Mel decided to volunteer at the Kanlungan sa Paghilom Foundation^[1], a non-profit initiative dedicated to supporting the bereaved families of the drug war. Faith in action, so to speak. Not just faith for faith’s sake. Mel knew she had to stop feeling helpless because helplessness does not save. No one else is coming — certainly not those Princes of the Church, locked away in their ivory towers. The Holy See could pontificate about a Universal Church all it liked, but in the end, they are just a walled city inside of yet another walled city, ignorant and out of touch with the world’s peripheries.  

Until two hours and twenty-six minutes ago. Until now.

Mel watches as the staff and volunteers of Paghilom gather around the office’s largest display screen. The Smart TV was a gift, donated by an elderly doctor who was sympathetic to the founder’s cause. Used primarily as a visual aid for their legal training seminars, the TV is now tuned in to the Vatican News Channel’s livestream of the Pro eligendo Romano pontifice. The Holy Mass for the Election of the Roman Pontiff. Already, Mel’s co-workers have launched into a fierce and spirited debate about the recent developments in St. Peter’s Basilica. Mel only looks on, horrified yet fascinated at the same time. She can scarcely believe that an ensemble of old men almost halfway across the globe would warrant such heated arguments. 

“Hi, Mel.” 

She swivels around on her chair, startled. Atty. Rocamora, the partner lawyer of Paghilom, is hovering by the threshold of the foundation’s office. In his hand is a briefcase, so crammed with papers that its zipper is barely hanging on for dear life; in the other is a plastic bag, stuffed with two yellow ice cream tubs. Selecta Supreme, by the looks of it. He points at the gaggle of volunteers with his lips, bemused. “Anong meron?”^[2]

“Ay, hello po, Atty.” Mel stands up, slightly abashed. A member of CenterLaw Philippines,  Atty. Rocamora is a frequent collaborator of Paghilom, providing pro bono services to their families who need legal assistance. Everyone in the office holds him in high esteem, Mel most of all: some half-forgotten dream of becoming a lawyer remaining deathless in her heart. “Kanina pa po ba kayo diyan?”^[3]

“Hindi, kararating ko lang. May dala sana akong ice cream, kaso parang busy pa ang lahat.”^[4] He heads to the cubicle beside her and begins setting his things on his desk. “Anong pinapanood nila?”^[5]

“Eh, ‘yun, Atty. Nagsusubaybay sa Conclave.”^[6]

“‘Ah.” He pauses, squints at the TV screen. “Ngayon ba ‘yun?”^[7]

“Opo, sir. Balita kasi na may panibagong cardinal na lumitaw sa Vatican.”^[8] It was the one thing the international and local news cycles fixated on; the one thing they picked apart and analyzed over and over. An eleventh-hour candidate, appearing all the way from war-torn Kabul. “Pasikreto na in-appoint ni Pope Clement XV. ”^[9]

Atty. Rocamora casts a glance at her, eyes full of mirth. “Hindi mo ba gawa-gawa ‘yan, Mel? Parang Dan Brown lang ang atake, ah.”^[10]

“Uy, hindi Atty., ha!”^[11] She did not mean to sound so defensive. There is a wide grin on Atty. Rocamora’s face. Mel blushes red, sheepish. “Heh, sorry po. Pero totoo talaga ang sinasabi ko. At tsaka hindi lang ‘yun. Sabi ng Vatican Pinoy raw siya.”^[12] 

That catches Atty. Rocamora’s attention. Nothing like Filipinos marveling at Filipinos ending up in unexpected places. He looks up from the stack of documents he is disemboweling from his briefcase, intrigued. “Ay, wow. Talaga ba?”^[13] 

“Yes, po. Naging parish priest pa nga siya sa may Tondo, eh. Sabi ni Direktora, kakilala niyo raw. Si…”^[14] She scrunches her brows, trying to remember the name both the news and her co-workers have uttered incessantly for the last two hours. “Si… Fr. Vincent Benítez daw? Si Fr. Enteng?”

It takes a moment, another two, for her words to sink in. Atty. Rocamora freezes, before whipping his head around to stare at her. "Ano?”^[15]

“‘Yung bagong cardinal na nasa Vatican? Sabi ni Direktora si Fr. Enteng daw ‘yun. Kaya siya napag-uusapan ng staff kasi siya pala ‘yung founder ng partner org natin. Naging misyonero pa nga po sa Congo, eh. Tsaka…Atty.?”^[16] Mel asks, uncertain. “Atty., okay lang po ba kayo?”^[17]

Atty. Rocamora does not seem to be listening. The lawyer is clutching the simple, wooden cross he wears around his neck; a staple in his daily polo outfit rotation, though Mel never thought he was the religious type. He stands up, face wan and bloodless, and makes a beeline to the smart TV, leaving Mel and her stuttering alone. Yet another victim, she thinks, almost awed, of this mysterious Fr. Enteng’s spell. 

He finds her a few paces behind the arguing group — limbs locked, arms folded close to her chest, gaze fixed steadily at the TV. Her wry humor and easygoingness make it so that the volunteers do not mind bickering in front of Paghilom’s director, even about things like dating app horror stories or betting on who becomes the fucking Pope. It’s also one of the many reasons why he fell in love with her, got on one knee as soon as he found out he passed the Bar.

He draws close, puts a tender hand on her shoulder. She barely stirs at the touch. “Mahal,”^[18] he mutters, letting his unsaid words fill the silence. Is it true?

She does not look at him, and yet her hand snakes into his, squeezing it tightly. Her breath hitches.

On TV, the Vatican News’ coverage has shifted from St. Peter’s Basilica to the Sistine Chapel itself. Dressed to the nines in their red ceremonial garb, the cardinal-electors shuffle in a single file on the chapel’s aisle for the oath-taking. The camera is trained on a cardinal who seems to be drowning in his choir dress, skullcap sitting lopsided on the shock of jet-black hair that spills across his face. He looks older, maybe even thinner, more exhausted, but Rocamora does not need the lower third flashing across the screen to know the prelate’s name. 

When the cardinal speaks, Rocamora is sure.

“Diyos ko,”^[19] he whispers. He falls heavily on the office chair beside her, its wheels groaning in protest. “Siya nga.”^[20] 

Beside him, his wife clasps her hands together and bows her head. For the first time in almost four decades, she is praying. After a moment’s hesitation, Rocamora does the same.

38 Years Earlier 

February 3, 1981
Santo Niño de Tondo Parish
600 L. Chacon St., Tondo, Manila

17 Days since Proclamation No. 2045

The woman’s face was heavily made up. Her hair was piled high on top of her head, and around her neck was a string of pearls — white-gold, freshly polished. She dressed, Tonton thought, rather like the lady in the newspapers that his Nanay wrapped her flowers with. Hooded eyes, puffed-up sleeves, benevolent smile. Neck adorned with pearls and hair reaching to the heavens. If Tonton played his cards right, he might finally make his first sale of the day. 

“Bili na kayo, Ale,”^[21] he said, waving the sampaguita leis he was selling to her. Tonton used the tone Sheila taught him: plaintive enough to inspire charity, but not so much that it morphed into discomfort. That's how you get them, Sheila said conspiratorially, with the industry pride of a seven-year-old girl selling sampaguita leis since she learned how to walk. That's how you get their money. 

The lady did not seem inclined to give Tonton her money. She quickened her pace, clutching her sleek leather bag closer to her body. Tonton tried to keep up. “Ale, sige na po. Piso lang po para sa isang bundle.”^[22]

He followed her past the plaza to the church’s facade, its ancient limestone walls dignified amidst a blustery February sky. At the foot of the church’s steps, Tonton grew desperate. He did what Sheila told him never to do and tugged at the woman’s blouse. “Ale, sige na. Pang-kain lang po.”^[23]

The lady recoiled as if burned. She whipped around and slapped Tonton’s hand away from her blouse. Tonton teetered dangerously from the edge of the stairs, finding his balance just in time. 

“Tantanan mo nga ako, buboy!”^[24] she snapped. Then she climbed the last of the steps, crossed herself, genuflected for good measure, and disappeared inside.

The hardest part about selling sampaguita leis, Sheila said, wasn’t the rejection. It wasn't even the lack of profit, though the hunger pangs would say otherwise. No. It was the non-look of someone who barely realized you were there; the burning at the back of your throat when they breeze past you, unconcerned and cold and indifferent. I don't care, Sheila would brag. I just shake it off. But suddenly her voice would drop to a whisper. But sometimes I can’t. She looked closer to her age whenever she told Tonton that.

That's what he was doing now. Shaking it off. Pretending the wetness gathering at the corner of his eyes was nothing. Tonton rallied himself, doing quick maths in his head (his Teacher Ley told him he was great at math, that he grasped the concepts a lot faster than most of his classmates. He would have been on the honor roll, too, he once heard her lament, had he stopped skipping class.) 

He reached the sums in a second. If he sold at least 10 bundles today, he could go home with 10 Pesos in his pocket. That meant he needed to sell 60 garlands. It was less than what he would normally earn, but it’s a weekday. Better this than nothing. 

He heard the man before he saw him, calling his name from the bottom of the stairs. “Tonton?”

Tonton’s eyes widened. The voice was unmistakable; there was only one person in the entire parish who spoke with such softness. He raced down the steps, face breaking into a wide grin. “Fr. Enteng!”

The man — Fr. Enteng — chuckled. The young parish priest was wearing decidedly unpriestly clothes: a checkered polo shirt tucked neatly into worn-out slacks. He must have gone out on some errand. He allowed Tonton to take his hand so the latter could press it on his forehead. 

“Kawaan ka sana ng Diyos,”^[25] Fr. Enteng said, infusing warmth into the blessing. He hoisted his slacks and crouched down so he was at Tonton’s level, hazel eyes open and kind. “Kumusta? Nag-almusal ka na ba?”^[26] 

There were a number of things that were quite peculiar about Fr. Enteng. His age, for a start. At just 28 years old, he was younger than most parish priests Tonton had encountered. He was certainly the youngest out of Tondo Church’s team of pastors. Perhaps it is this youthfulness that drew the barrio children toward him, why they flocked to his side after every Mass.

Or perhaps it’s because they knew he was once one of them, too — the son of a fish porter and a suman vendor at Pritil Public Market. At least that’s what Tonton’s Nanay told him. More than anyone, Fr. Enteng knew what it was like to go home to a ramshackle house only to sleep on an empty stomach. 

And there was his voice. Fr. Enteng spoke with quiet precision, every word carefully thought through and measured out. He was gaining quite the reputation amongst the barrios. Even in Tonton’s neighborhood, there was talk of the “priest with the gentle voice,” a priest who was actively involved in the organizing work that Tonton’s Tatang used to do, before the MetroCom carted him away. 

Tonton could not pinpoint the exact moment he met Fr. Enteng. Was it on a morning as humid as this one? Was it when his Tatang brought him to what he called a “prayer vigil” in the plaza? Tonton could not recall. All he knew was that if there was a list of his favorite people in the world, Fr. Enteng would be right on top. 

“Siya nga pala, bakit ka nandito, Ton?”^[27] Fr. Enteng was asking. “Wala ka bang pasok?”^[28]

Tonton shrugged, then flushed. He did not know why he was lying to a priest, or why he felt bad for doing so. “Maaga po kasi kaming pinauwi, Father,”^[29] he babbled, wiping a sweaty hand on the school uniform his Nanay ironed out for him last night. “May meeting po sina Teacher Ley, kaya dumiretso na lang ako dito.”^[30] 

Fr. Enteng did not scold him. He did not even say anything. He just sat on his haunches and waited, rocking back and forth on his heels. After a minute of guilt-ridden silence, Tonton said, timidly, “Sorry po.”

“Hindi naman ako ang dapat mo hingan ng sorry, Ton,”^[31] Fr. Enteng said, not unkindly. He stood up and offered a hand. “Halika, ihahatid kita pabalik sa eskwelahan.”^[32]

“Huwag po!”^[33] Tonton cried out. Fr. Enteng looked at him in surprise. “Huwag po ninyo akong pabalikin, Father. Wala naman akong mapapala sa school, eh. Hindi rin po ako kikita ng pera doon. Dalawang buwan pa lang na nakakulong si Tatang, pero nahihirapan na si Nanay sa paghahanapbuhay. Mas mabuti sigurong tulungan ko na lang siya, ‘di ba?”^[34]

Tonton did not realize he was already crying. He swiped at his eyes, ashamed, even as the tears continued to fall. Continued burning through a hole in his throat, in his heart.

Fr. Enteng was quiet for a while. Then he knelt down and took Tonton’s hands. 

“Ton, makinig ka sa’kin, ha?”^[35] he said softly. Tonton hiccuped a yes. “Mabuti na gusto mong tulungan si Aling Cha, ngunit hindi sa ganitong paraan. Hindi ‘yung napapabayaan mo ang pag-aaral mo. Para sa kinabukasan mo naman ‘yon Ton, eh. At alam kong hindi gugustuhin ng Nanay mo na tumigil ka sa pag-aaral.”^[36] 

Fr. Enteng gave Tonton’s hands a small, reassuring squeeze. “Ton, ang bata mo pa. Hayaan mo muna kaming mga matatanda ang umasikaso sa mga problemang ‘yon.”^[37] He inclined his head, meeting Tonton’s downcast eyes. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Tonton sniffed. The burning in his throat had not vanished, but it was not as unbearable as it had been a few moments ago. 

“Oh, sige, tahan na.”^[38] Fr. Enteng produced a handkerchief from his pocket. He gently wiped Tonton’s cheeks and brought the handkerchief to his nose. “Singa,”^[39] he said, and Tonton did. Noisily.

The priest pocketed the handkerchief and fixed Tonton’s collar. “‘Yan,” he said, giving Tonton an approving look, “handa ka na para sa school.”^[40]

Fr. Enteng got to his feet and once again offered his hand. Tonton took it, albeit gingerly.

“Ganito na lang,”^[41] Fr. Enteng said, as they exited through the Church’s iron-wrought gates. “Habang papunta tayo ro’n, dumaan muna tayo para kumain ng ice cream.” The priest’s eyes twinkled. “Ayos ba?”^[42]

“Talaga po?!”^[43] Tonton blurted out in wonder, and Fr. Enteng laughed. 

Fr. Enteng ended up buying two cones of ice cream, all mango-flavored, all for Tonton. And when Tonton got home, he found his Nanay frantically making a list at the kitchen table. It's a wedding, she said, joyous, showing him the order forms. A big one. They want us to do the flower arrangements! They said a priest at Tondo Church recommended the shop. And there’s more to come! She hugged Tonton tightly. We’ll be alright, Ton. 

The next morning, fulfilling his promise to Fr. Enteng, Tonton arrived at school early. And during their math test, he got perfect marks — the best score of the class. 

Over the next few days, only one thing occupied the minds of the people around Tonton. Even the radio disrupted its non-stop playing of the Bagong Pagsilang march^[44] to join in on the hubbub: Preparations underway for Pope John Paul II’s first visit to the Philippines!

In truth, Tonton did not know who Pope John Paul II was. He did not know why he was called His Holiness, or why he seemed to be the second. Why was he Holy? What happened to the first John Paul? And why was it such a big deal that he’s visiting the country for the first time? Tonton lived here his whole life, and he didn't think it was that great. Definitely not something worth visiting for. 

He’s like a saint! Sheila exclaimed when the topic was brought up. Both of them were hanging out in the plaza. It was a Sunday, which meant their sampaguita leis had sold quickly, which meant they finally had extra time to play. Sheila could not stop hopping with excitement.

“Sabi ni Lola, para raw siyang santo. Nakita mo ‘yung estatwa sa gilid ng simbahan? Si Pope Leo XIII? Parang ganun! Siya raw ang presidente ng lahat ng mga pari. Sabi pa nga ni Lola, pupunta siya rito para tulungan tayo. Ang galing, ‘di ba, Ton?”^[45]

Tonton supposed it was great. Sheila made it sound like Pope John Paul II was Papa Jesus himself, which was great. And Papa Jesus was a miracle worker, was he not? So maybe Pope John Paul II could perform miracles, too. The more Tonton thought about it on their walk home, the more intrigued by the possibilities he became. No wonder the visit became the talk of the town, or that Sheila was practically bouncing off the walls because of it. Tonton was not the only one who needed a miracle, too. 

If Pope John Paul II is a miracle worker like Papa Jesus, maybe Tonton could ask him to multiply the pandesal at tuyo that served as Tonton and Nanay’s meals. This way, they would never go hungry again, might even have enough to share. And maybe Tonton could ask him for a helping hand with the flower shop, so Nanay’s flower arrangements could be crafted with a wave of her hand. 

More importantly, if Pope John Paul II was a miracle worker, Tonton could ask him for his Tatang back. With his Tatang out of jail, Nanay would stop crying herself to sleep every night. Tonton would no longer have to sell sampaguita leis. Everything would be so much better if they had Tatang back.

A nudge on his ribs brought him crashing back to earth. Tonton shot a rueful look at Sheila, but she was too busy ogling the sidewalk.

“Tonton, tignan mo!”^[46]

They were at one of the many side streets that led into the heart of Foreshoreland—a reclaimed strip that ran along the northwestern coast of the bay, just behind the city’s docks. It was his Tatang who told Tonton that Foreshoreland was the largest “slum area” in Manila. When Tonton asked what the words “slum area” meant, his Tatang grinned wryly. 

Look around, he had replied, gesturing to their neighborhood: to the makeshift shacks made out of plywood and corrugated tin and jute; to children’s feet pattering on slapdash gangway planks above seawater and leachate; to open sewers that overflowed when it rained, almost always clogged with plastic waste. Home? Tonton asked, confused, and Tatang shrugged. Close enough. 

Foreshoreland’s reputation did not win it any kind of favors. The woman in Nanay’s newspapers (winning smile, bulbous sleeves, pearl-choked neck, hair stacked to high heavens) had been caught saying that people from communities like Foreshoreland were “plain land-grabbers taking advantage of the compassionate society.” Never mind that most of Tonton’s neighbors were forced out of their countryside lands by foreign companies. Or that with the new land reform laws and the steadily rising prices, there was really nowhere they could have gone. Instead, the lady took it upon herself to “beautify” the city, a process that involved evicting the poor, demolishing their huts, and dumping them and their few surviving possessions tens of kilometers away.  

The oddity Sheila was staring at seemed like one of the newspaper lady’s beautification schemes. In place of the usual debris-filled dumpsters was a twenty-foot palm tree; newly planted, so erect it looked absurd amidst the tangle of wires snaking across the evening sky. Even stranger were the fresh patches of Bermuda grass around the tree’s base. The small, manicured spot stood out like a sore thumb against the sea of hapless concrete that surrounded it. 

But the palm tree and its measly patch of grass weren't what caught Tonton’s attention. Nailed to the tree’s trunk is a large poster of the newspaper lady and her husband, both immaculately styled and dressed. Emblazoned on their chests were the words: “Welcome to the Philippines, Your Holiness Pope John Paul II! Greetings from the President and First Lady.”

“Wow, ang ganda naman!”^[47] Sheila enthused. Then she giggled. “Instant grass!” 

Sheila’s words proved to be prophetic. Wherever they went in Foreshoreland, twenty-foot palm trees seemed to have sprouted overnight, complete with their own patch of well-maintained grass. With the trees came the president and the first lady’s posters, dead eyes proclaiming the same words of sticky-sweet hospitality, over and over. Welcome to the Philippines!

“Para saan ba ‘yun?”^[48] Tonton found himself asking Sheila a little while after. He made no effort to hide his distaste. He couldn't help but feel like the whole instant trees and grass business was a distraction to conceal from newcomers the reality of Foreshoreland. Keep the ugliness out of sight, his Tatang once said darkly, so the illusion of beauty remains intact. 

Sheila, on the other hand, had no such qualms about the planned distraction. “Siyempre, para sa Santo Papa!”^[49] She looked at him in disbelief. “Ano ka ba, Tonton! Hindi ka ba nahihiya sa kalagayan natin?”^[50]

Tonton wanted to say no, he wasn't ashamed of their living conditions. He wasn't ashamed that he spent his Sundays begging snotty church ladies to buy his garlands instead of doing his homework. But that was easier said than done.

Out of the blue, a portion of this Sunday’s gospel stirred in his memory. Tonton remembered it because it was Fr. Enteng who proclaimed the words from the pulpit. 

“Pinagpala kayong mga dukha,” he said, genteel voice uncharacteristically loud and firm and resonant, shaking the rafters of the church itself, “sapagkat sa inyo ang kaharian ng Diyos!” Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are those who mourn, for you will be comforted. 

Unbidden, another memory came rushing to Tonton: of a disused lot turned dumping site, just outside Foreshoreland. Of a body found amidst the sea of garbage last year, face wrapped with packing tape, wrists held together with wires. 

Of his Tatang going home, face pale, before drinking himself to sleep.

Of Tatang the next day, nursing a headache, and narrating in a low, doleful murmur what happened after the gruesome discovery. It was a salvaging. One of those missing student activists. They asked me to call the priest for the last rites. It was Fr. Enteng who came. 

Of Tatang telling a horror-stricken Nanay how Fr. Enteng waded through piles of refuse and waste, face grim but unflinching, so that he could whisper the requiem prayer to the corpse and ease the soul to rest. He knew the girl, Tatang mumbled. She was from his barrio. 

Tonton thought of Fr. Enteng, knee-deep in compost and mud and rot. He did not have to see through the pageantry to find the ugliness. He was of it. And yet while others wanted out of the trenches, wanted to hide away in shame, Fr. Enteng only submerged himself even deeper, refusing to look away. He stayed. 

It suddenly seemed odd to Tonton that he had ever seen a Christ-like figure in Pope John Paul II. He shouldn't have bothered. Fr. Enteng was right there. 

Three days before Pope John Paul II arrived, Sheila hatched a plan. 

“May kaklase ako,”^[51] she told Tonton furtively, huddled beneath the bust of Pope Leo XIII by the side of the parish. They were eye level with the statue’s bronze plating, which declared Father of Social Justice, Champion of the Working Class. “Yung sakristan sa Binondo Church? Sabi niya naatasan daw siya ng organizer na mamigay ng flower bouquet para kay Pope John Paul.” Her eyes shone with promise. “Baka pwede natin siya gayahin!”^[52]

Tonton was skeptical. “Baka hindi nga tayo makalapit, eh. Ang dami-daming tao.”^[53]

But Sheila was insistent. “Palagi naman tumatanggap ng mga regalo ang Santo Papa ‘dun sa St. Peter’s Square, ah. Pagkakataon na natin ‘to, Ton!”^[54]  

Even his Nanay Cha seemed excited at the prospect. On the day the Pope was set to visit Foreshoreland, she handed Tonton a flower lei she had personally spent the whole night making. 

“Wow,” Tonton breathed. He held the lei reverently in the palms of his hands. “Ang ganda naman, ‘Nay!”^[55] 

Oh, but it was beautiful. Exquisitely hand-crafted, too, yet so fragile it was a miracle his touch did not disintegrate it into a million pieces. The garland was all native flowers—sampaguita and gumamela and kalachuci and lirio and ylang-ylang—threaded together with the sturdiest and most expensive abaca hemp Nanay could get her hands on. Completing the circlet (and easily its most striking feature) was the crucifix. Carved ornately from kamagong wood, the pendant hung right at the end of the lei: the dark, beating heart to the floral capillaries. A sweet, honey-like scent emanated from it, distinct from the blossoms’ light, already mingled fragrance. Nanay had wiped the crucifix with rose oil, then, deciding that wasn’t enough, doused it entirely in the aromatic for good measure. 

“Natutunan ko ‘yan sa mga rosary suppliers ‘dun sa Quiapo,” Nanay explained, words laced with a tender kind of pride. “Nagbabakasakali akong magnegosyo na rin ng mga religious artifacts. Dagdag pera na rin, ‘di ba?”^[56]

She ruffled Tonton’s hair. “Mahirap lang tayo, anak, pero hindi ibig sabihin na wala tayong magagawa para sa kapwa.”^[57] 

Tonton stared at the garland. He did not know what to say. All he knew was that he was overflowing with love for his Nanay. He kissed her cheek, heart fit to burst. 

“Promise kong makukuha ‘to ni Pope John Paul, ‘Nay!”^[58] 

That was more than four hours ago. Now Tonton was squished amongst a mass of jostling bodies lining the streets of Metro Manila, all hoping for a glimpse of the infamous Popemobile. The papal motorcade was supposed to pass through Delpan Street before stopping at the bare bones of the Our Lady of Peace and Good Voyage Parish. Two hours of waiting later, and the motorcade was nowhere in sight. 

The day was hot. Arid. Tonton’s shirt was sticking to his back. Beside him, Sheila stood on her tiptoes, trying to see past the row of heads and banners in front of them. Clutched close to her chest was her token: an intricate wooden carving of Santo Niño de Tondo.

"Wala akong makita!” She complained. “Tonton, andiyan na ba?”^[59]

Suddenly, sirens: loud and high-pitched, their wailing reverberated around the streets despite the great distance. Next, a wave of tumultuous applause, starting from the crowds closest to the motorcade and undulating far, far beyond it. Hundreds upon hundreds of people screamed and cheered in unison, the humid air doing nothing to dampen the sonorous noise. Dust rose from the unpaved street as the masses pressed closer to the arriving pontiff. 

Tonton and Sheila held on to each other, afraid of getting swept away by the horde. 

“Hindi tayo makalapit!”^[60] Sheila cried out. A man screeching “Totus Tuus, Santo Papa!” forcibly shoved her aside. Sheila yelped; Tonton grabbed the hem of her shirt to keep her steady. “Anong gagawin natin?”^[61]

Tonton thought and thought. He pulled Sheila’s hand. “Tara!”

They went the opposite direction, weaving through the rushing crowds like two needles in a particularly loud and hysterical haystack. Sheila stumbled, struggling to keep up. “Saan ba tayo pupunta?!”^[62]

“Hintayin natin sa may simbahan,” Tonton gasped, swerving behind two women fervently waving yellow and white flags. “Dadagsa at dadagaa ‘yung mga tao sa parish, kaya pangunahan na natin!”^[63]

They eventually reached an area where the crowds were much thinner; most of them had congregated around the moving Popemobile. Tonton and Sheila doubled over, panting.

“‘Yun!” Tonton was pointing to the entrance of the unfinished parish, where a few people, mostly organizers and some of the clergy, were milling about. The church courtyard was lush green (instant grass again) and surrounded by prim 4-foot-high white fences. At the center of it all was the podium and stage intended for the Holy Father, lavishly decorated with red and white flowers. 

“Dito tayo, Sheila!”^[64] Tonton ran for the space closest to the stage, barely able to believe his luck. Maybe Sheila was right… they could do this after all…

“Hoy!” A rough hand caught him by the arm, stopping him in his tracks completely. Tonton staggered and looked up. 

A burly man towered above him. He wore the same badge and uniform as the men who raided their home and hauled his Tatang to prison. A MetroCom Sergeant. 

Tonton shrank away from his grip, terrified.

“Anong ginagawa niyo rito?” The sergeant’s gaze was cold and unforgiving. His eyes raked through the pair’s grubby appearance before falling on Tonton’s flower lei. “Teka. Ikaw ‘yung nagbebenta ng sampaguita sa Tondo Church, ah! Bawal paninda mo rito, bata.”^[65]

“H-hindi po,” Tonton stammered. He glanced at Sheila for help, but she seemed to have grown roots, mute in her terror. “Gusto lang po namin ibigay ‘to kay Pope John Paul.”^[66] 

The sergeant snorted in derision. “Loko-loko pala kayo, eh! Ba’t naman tatanggapin ng Santo Papa ‘yan? Ginto ba ‘yan? Insenso, mira?” The sergeant’s face grew stony. He tightened his grip on Tonton’s arm, began dragging him away. “Magsialis na nga kayo!”^[67]

“Huwag po!”^[68] Tonton dug his heels into the ground, frantically trying to pry the Sergeant’s meaty fingers off of him. It was no use. The sergeant was going to throw him out of the courtyard in front of everyone, no matter how much Tonton begged him not to. The shame was too much to bear. “Manong, huwag po! Gusto lang namin makita ang Santo Papa! Manong, sige na!”^[69] 

The commotion was beginning to draw the attention of both the laypeople and the clergy. Onstage, Tonton saw a blonde man in a black choir dress watching the scene with growing concern. He desperately opened his mouth to call for help. 

It happened almost in slow motion—Tonton distracted, resisting the sergeant with as much force as he could muster, just as the man’s fingers got caught on the flower lei the boy held in his captured hand. One good yank and the garland snapped, its limp blossoms fluttering dejectedly to the ground below.

Once, when Tonton was little (well, littler), his Nanay and Tatang took him for a swim in the bay. This was in the early days, when beachgoers flocked to the coast by the CCP Complex during the summer, and the bay’s blue-green waters glittered in the sun. Nowadays, the bay was all black and gray sludge, filled with nothing but sewage and oil slick. Not unlike the rest of Manila. 

But before, before. Tonton had fond memories of the bay before: walking down its coastline, splashing in its waters. His Tatang had brought him for a dip just beyond the shallow end, near a hidden break in the shoreface. Stay close, his Tatang had ordered, but Tonton was bold, not to mention incredibly stubborn. In the single second his Tatang was distracted, Tonton had swum farther, farther, only to realize, too late, that he was caught in a vicious current he could not fight nor escape from.

That feeling of drowning — of kicking wildly while the current pulls you under, of keeping afloat despite the crashing waves —Tonton felt it now, in that unfinished church courtyard with the phony, instant grass. Head underwater, struggling to breathe. He felt, rather than saw, blurry figures darting around his vision, felt the strange ringing in his ears that was muffling everything else. He tasted salt on his lips and wondered, dimly, when he let the tide take him completely. 

More shouting, more movement. And then an objection, distorted with barely concealed rage: “Pinapalapit ng Panginoong Hesus ang mga bata Sa Kanya, Sergeant. Hindi tinataboy!”^[70]

Firm arms scooped Tonton up and carried him away. A hand began rubbing soothing circles on his back, the gesture achingly familiar. His Tatang, coming to his rescue yet again. Tonton could scarcely believe it. His Tatang was here. His Tatang was finally back.

The person spoke, murmuring words of comfort, and all of a sudden, the illusion shattered. Tonton knew who its owner was before he even saw him. He sounded angry and worried, but the telltale softness was there. The priest with the gentle voice.

“Fr. Enteng,” Tonton whimpered. He buried his head on the priest’s shoulder and sobbed. 

There was a bakery on a corner of Delpan Street that was relatively empty, its usual customers drawn away by the Papal crowds. On days when she scored big on her flower arrangement orders, and she was not haunted by the prospect of her family starving to death for discarding a few centavos, Tonton’s Nanay would indulge in the few luxuries they were allowed to indulge in and bring home ensaymada from the bakery as a treat. 

She always reserved two pieces for Tonton, always paired it with Coca-Cola poured in a plastic bag so Tonton had something to wash the pastry down with. Ensaymada was happiness was pleasure was relief, the reward for surviving the day with an excess that rarely came after the cost of living had bled their pockets dry. Never in his life did Tonton think he would be eating ensaymada with an ice block on his throat and a knife to his heart, yet here he was: miserable and runny-nosed and garland-less, watching the processed cheese clump, not melt, on top of the sugary, margarine icing, and wishing the world would just swallow him whole.

Beside him, Sheila was frowning down at her half-bitten mamon. She looked more upset than Tonton, which was saying something. She was not the one who received the sergeant’s biting remarks, not the one who got most of the lashings — for all Tonton knew, she mostly went unnoticed during the entire scuffle — but perhaps hers was a different kind of pain altogether. Sheila had been so convinced that everything would magically become better the moment Pope John Paul II visited Foreshoreland. If Tonton could have stopped her…

But what else could he have done? He was just as sold to the delusions as she was. No one was the wiser, really, between the pair of them. In the end, Tonton and Sheila were fools. Worse, they were children. 

Just children.

Conversation with the bakery owner finished, Fr. Enteng walked back towards them. He was wearing something Tonton had never seen him wear, not during the priest’s many errands, not even when he celebrated mass: a black choir dress, not unlike what the blonde man on stage had, its form simple yet tailored. The fabric was rich and becoming, woven out of material unlike anything Tonton had ever felt before, and its buttons were soft, almost velvety to the touch. 

It was clear that the choir dress was brand new, made just for the occasion. The only tainted spot in the otherwise pristine garments was the tear-tracks Tonton left behind. This he would have felt sorry for, if the choir dress didn't make Fr. Enteng look saintly and beatific and not remotely like him at all. The priest’s appearance is more akin to the santos and poons that crowded Sheila’s house, eerie in their repose and incorruptibility. What a foolish thought, to ever think he wanted Fr. Enteng to be a saint. Tonton wished Fr. Enteng would remain as Fr. Enteng instead.

Maybe the world had its mercies. When Fr. Enteng spoke, careful, thought-out words tinged with concern, the priest who waded through compost and mud returned. “Kumusta kayo? Gusto niyo bang bumalik sa Parish?”^[71]

He meant the Our Lady of Peace and Good Voyage Parish. The parish that was just bare bones, with the distant Pope and the phony grass and the instant trees and the dead-eyed posters. Not the Parish all three of them considered as home. Tonton opened his mouth, but Sheila beat him to it. 

“Para saan pa?” she said, harsher than Tonton thought she was capable of. “Bawal naman kami, doon, eh! Sinira nga nila ang garland ni Tonton. Ba’t kami babalik sa lugar na pinagtatabuyan kami?”^[72]

Sheila was spitfire. Sheila was spindly legs and rebellious hair and sharp teeth, whose sass blistered like skin on brimstones, you almost forget she didn’t look close to her age and believed in miracles. Almost. And now life would not even let her have the latter. She glared at Fr. Enteng, wronged and hurt, her Sto. Niño de Tondo figurine discarded on the ground. 

“Palagi mong sinasabi, Fr. Enteng, na ‘pinagpala kaming mga dukha, sapagkat nasa amin ang kaharian ng Diyos.’ Ngunit bakit parang hindi naman totoo? ‘Sa amin ang kaharian ng Diyos,’ pero hindi kami pinapasok para makita si Pope John Paul. ‘Aaliwin ng Diyos ang mga nagdadalamhati,’ pero sila ang nagpapa-iyak kay Tonton. Sila rin ang kumuha sa Tatang niya.”^[73] 

Her chin started wobbling, tremulous. “Sabi ni Lola, dapat matagtag ang pananampalataya ko, kasi pagsubok lang naman ‘yan. Konting hirap lang ‘yan. Ang hindi ko maintindihan ay kung mahal talaga kami ng Diyos, bakit niya kami pinapabayaan? ‘Yan ba ang ibig sabihin ng pagmamahal sa Kanya?”^[74]

Sheila was spitfire. Sheila was rolled-up eyes and cheeky grins and faux-confidence, who walked around with the swaggering bravado of a decades-old sampaguita seller to conceal the fact that a churchgoer’s indifference made her throat burn and her lips tremble. But her eyes betrayed her. The tears came in earnest now, and she dashed angrily at them — ashamed, like Tonton was, that of all people to flay her heart in front of it had to be him. Fr. Enteng, the priest with the gentle voice, whose kindness burned like a bolo fresh out of the kiln: white-hot, newly forged. 

“Sorry po,” she choked out. She sucked in a breath and looked away, the better to hide the waterworks. “Bumalik na po kayo sa Parish. Baka hinahanap na po kayo ng Santo Papa.”^[75] 

It was only for a moment, so brief that Tonton thought he imagined it, the way he thought he imagined hearing that terrible pastiche of Fr. Enteng’s voice only a while ago, righteous fury perversing his placating countenance. But Tonton had. Seen it. Seen the flash of anger contort Fr. Enteng’s features. What unnerved him the most was how at home this fury looked in the priest’s usually mild face, blazing like a vengeful seraph. Tonton realized, then, that there was more to Fr. Enteng than cherubic benignancy. There was also anger in him, choleric and indignant and rough, this son of a fish porter and suman vendor at Pritil Public Market, and Tonton wondered if it was this, above everything else, that fed the fire of his relentless service. 

Quick as lightning striking through water, the moment passed. Fr. Enteng looked steadily at their tableau, his gaze quiet but searching. Reaching a decision, he took off the choir dress with one swift movement, revealing his everyday clothes underneath: a black polo this time (not checkered), tucked neatly into worn-out slacks. He draped the garment carefully on his arm and stood up, gesturing for them to follow. A small smile was playing on his lips. Oh, but he was so kind. The kindest man Tonton had ever met. 

“Huwag kang mag-alala, Sheila,” he said. “Hindi na ako kailangan doon.”^[76]

Funnily enough, when Tonton looks back on this day, he does not remember what should, by all accounts, be one of the worst and most humiliating moments of his life.

He does not remember the sergeant’s scalding look, or his bruising words, or the sting of rejection he felt when he was inevitably dragged away. He does not remember seawater rushing into his lungs as soon as the garland, work of his Nanay Cha’s hands, snapped under the sergeant’s grip. Wilted and died, taking all his hopes with it. 

He does not remember crying into his ensaymada, miserable and runny-nosed and garlandless, watching the processed cheese clump, not melt, on top of the sugary, margarine icing. Or spitfire Sheila’s sucked-in breaths and trembling lips —  hurt and ashamed, like Tonton was, that of all people to flay her heart in front of it had to be him, this son of a fish porter and suman vendor at Pritil Public Market, whose voice could lull the wildest monsoon into sleep. 

By all accounts, the day Pope John Paul II visited Foreshoreland should be one of the worst and most humiliating moments of Tonton’s life. But he does not remember any of that. 

What he remembers, instead, is the cool breeze blowing throughout Luneta Park. Fr. Enteng had brought them there for a quick pasyal, and the morning, once unforgivably hot, had mildened into a cool, mellow afternoon. Tonton and Sheila had found another gaggle of children playing on the verdant, not-instant grass, and the rest of the day was spent racing each other in a game of habulan, even as Fr. Enteng sat patiently on the benches to watch over them. 

He remembers stopping at the newly opened restaurant in town, cheeks flushed and heart full, dutifully helping Fr. Enteng with the packs of food he bought. As soon as they got back to the parish (their parish, finally), Fr. Enteng gathered every parishioner he could find for an impromptu salu-salo. The table was at first solely saddled with plates of hamburgers and Chickenjoy and spaghetti, though it soon became filled with a variety of dishes — the laity cheerfully volunteered their share without even Fr. Enteng’s asking. Banana cue and kwek-kwek from the street vendors parked in the plaza outside the church; barbecue and inihaw na manok from the carinderia right beside it. The spur-of-the-moment potluck was as lively as any barrio festival, and it lasted well into the night.

Most of all, Tonton remembers Fr. Enteng bringing him and Sheila to the high altar of Santo Niño de Tondo Parish. When they reached the altar, Fr. Enteng handed Tonton a white, folded handkerchief: somehow, between facing against the sergeant and comforting his ward, Fr. Enteng had collected the blossoms that had fallen from Tonton’s ruined garland and wrapped them carefully with the delicate linen. 

Tonton stared at the bundle, eyes wide. He thought he had lost his mother’s handiwork forever.

The Holy Father may not have seen your gifts, Fr. Enteng said, but He does. He pointed to the image of the Child Jesus, smiling almost mischievously from his plinth. And that's what matters most. Together, they placed Sheila’s wooden figurine and Tonton’s flowers at the foot of the image. 

Tonton put the last of the flowers on the altar, then hesitated. From the bundle, he fished out the Kamagong cross, the centerpiece of the once-glorious garland, dangling on a string of abaca hemp. Oh, but it was so beautiful, even by its lonesome. A fresh scent of roses still emanated from it. 

Tonton held on to the string, thinking. He looked at Fr. Enteng. “Pwede po ba sa’kin nalang ‘to, Father?”^[77]

The priest laughed. “Oo naman. Halika.”^[78] He took the string and tied it around Tonton’s neck. The cross lay on Tonton’s chest, a stark contrast against his faded, Voltes V shirt. 

“‘Yan,” Fr. Enteng said. Fond. “Para hindi mo mawala.”^[79]

It was a jest, intended to be taken lightly; not a promise to be made for a lifetime. But Tonton took one look at that cross and made his decision. 

A no-brainer when it came down to it, really. Four decades, a street revolution, and a bar exam later, Tonton held on to the vow, the dark, beating heart of his mother’s once-garland hovering like a talisman over his sternum. A reminder of what should have been, by all accounts, one of the worst and most humiliating moments of his life. Until Fr. Enteng made it otherwise. 

Four decades, a street revolution, and a bar exam later. Tonton kept that cross, and he remembered. 

At exactly 6:20 in the evening of November 10, 2019 (11:20 in the morning in Central European Time), while the Cardinal-electors were barricaded inside the Sistine Chapel for the Papal Conclave, a large explosion rocked the entirety of Vatican City. 

Tonton — now Atty. Julian Antonio Rocamora, public defender — stands in front of Paghilom’s largest display screen, listening intently as reports about the tragedy start pouring in. Around him, the staff and volunteers of Paghilom are whispering to each other, deeply shaken by the news.

A car bomb… exploding at the Piazza del Risorgimento… 30 people killed… many more wounded… shooting at the Church of San Marco Evangelista… no casualties reported inside the Sistine Chapel…

At his side, Paghilom director Sheila Rocamora is staring at the screen: arms folded, limbs locked, expression grim. They both know, without ever the need to speak about it, what the other is thinking. Thinking, thinking of him: Fr. Enteng, now Vincent Cardinal Benítez (God, Tonton did not even know his real name, did he? He only ever knew him as Fr. Enteng, blissfully unaware of the history the priest had given up for his mission), Archbishop of Kabul. The peculiarity of Tondo Church, this son of a fish porter and suman vendor at Pritil Public Market, who knew what it was like to go home to a ramshackle house only to sleep on an empty stomach. Fr. Enteng, now Vincent Cardinal Benítez, Prince of the Church, first amongst equals, who once faced down a Metrocom Sergeant without as much as a flinch; who waded through compost and mud and rot to ease a salvaged soul to rest. Fr. Enteng, the priest with the gentle voice, who was (is) one of Tonton’s favorite people in the world, who changed his life in more ways than one. 

The thought of Cardinal Benítez — Fr. Enteng — dying inside that fortress of a chapel, surrounded by strangers, uprooted from the community he sought after and cared for…

No. Tonton shakes his head, jaw clenched. Fr. Enteng will not die there, in a walled city inside of yet another walled city. That death is unbefitting for him, a man of the world, a man of God. If God exists, thinks Tonton, He will not be so cruel to a servant so faithful and kind. Fr. Enteng will die free, surrounded by the people he loves, and by those who love him. He squeezes Sheila’s shoulder, clutches the worn Kamagong cross around his neck, and wills it to be true. 

White smoke at two minutes before midnight. 

It takes thirty minutes, probably more, before the screen finally stops streaming the Sistine Chapel’s belching chimney and cuts to the Loggia delle Benedizioni. The Loggia of the Blessings. Below the balcony, the roar of thousands upon thousands of flag-waving, hymn-singing pilgrims. The din transports Tonton from their living room couch to that hot, dusty street in Delpan, Tondo. Foreshoreland. Another place, another time. Another Pope.  

The door to the balcony suddenly swings open. Tonton nudges a lightly dozing Sheila, and together they watch as a slew of Vatican officials (bedraggled, but none the worse for wear; the explosion must have done a number on them) parts the balcony’s velvet curtains. One of them, whom Tonton recognizes as Cardinal Santini, Prefect of the Dicastery for Catholic Education and Senior Cardinal-Deacon, makes a gesture; an acolyte brings the microphone he is carrying closer to the Cardinal-Deacon’s lips. A hush falls onto the sprawling crowds, and though they are separated by TV screens and distance, Tonton thinks they have begun breathing as one. 

Cardinal Santini clears his throat. In the beginning was the Word, and it is this Word that he speaks. 

“Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum;

habemus Papam:

Eminentissimum ac Reverendissimum Dominum,

Dominum Vincentium

Sanctae Romanae Ecclesiae Cardinalem Benítez

qui sibi nomen imposuit Innocentium Decimum Quartum!” 

“It’s him,” Sheila says faintly. “Diyos ko. It’s him.”

Emerging from behind the velvet curtains is a slender figure in a pure-white cassock, zucchetto slightly askew on his jet-black hair. It seems he has decided to forgo the elaborate, red mozzetta of the traditional papal regalia. The effect this has on him, under the glare of the world’s entire spotlight, is dazzling: saintly and beatific and not remotely like him at all. Up close, his lined, delicate face is marred by a deep, freshly cleaned cut on his forehead, though that only sealed the Christ-like image even more. A santos, a poon. O, holy man, eerie in his incorruptibility. The Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Catholic Church. 

But then Pope Innocent XIV smiles, slightly abashed, and waves his hand at the adoring crowds. But then he speaks, his cadence gentle and warm, and with that simple gesture, Fr. Enteng returns.

“Fratelli e sorelle,” he intones on the microphone, “buonasera!” For good measure, he adds, “Magandang gabi sa lahat!”^[80]

That night, when they are in bed, Sheila murmurs, “It’s going to kill him.” 

Tonton glances at her. It’s nearing three in the morning. They stayed up to watch Pope Innocent XIV’s first-ever Urbi et Orbi Speech. Sheila — spitfire Sheila; sassy and wry-humored Shelia — kept silent through it all. Until now. 

“It will,” she is saying. Quiet, matter-of-fact. “Changing that place, I mean. It’s going to kill him.”

 Tonton lets out an exhale. Finds that he does not disagree, no matter how grisly and macabre it is. “It will.”

“But he’s going to do it anyway,” Sheila says. “He’ll try. And he’ll try. Till there is nothing left of him.” 

Another exhale. Another statement he cannot refute. “Yes. He will.”

Sheila turns to face him. There on her lips, Tonton is surprised to see, is a helpless, watery smile.

“He lied.”

What?”

“That day. In Nong Ryan’s Bakery in Tondo. When I asked him to go back to the parish, he said he was not needed anymore. He lied. They need him now more than ever. They probably never stopped needing him in the first place.”

Tonton remembers that day too, though he has not thought of Pope John Paul II’s visit in years. It’s strange what time does to you. Four decades, a street revolution, and a bar exam later, and you think you have the world figured out. You think you know all there is to know, that just because you halted demolition jobs and argued your clients out of their trumped-up murder charges, you have seen everything. You think this day will never come, yet come it does: the ill-fated sunrise when you wake up and realize you have not stopped being who you were before. There you go again, the sampaguita-selling child at the foot of the church’s staircase, wondering why you had to use a plaintive tone to inspire charity from the “devout,” with their puffed-up sleeves and piled-up hair. There you go again, soaking up the love and attention of the one person in that institution who truly ever cared about you. All while losing that love to the greatest (to the worst) martyrdom of all. 

It’s strange what time does to you. 

Tonton clutches tight to the things that he knows to be true, things that remain constant despite the cruelty of time: the Kamagong cross, worn yet fragrant, hovering like a talisman over his sternum. Sheila beside him, sass stripped raw and heart flayed open. Father Enteng, now Pope Innocent XIV, on that balcony. This pontiff who is the son of a fish porter and suman vendor at Pritil Public Market. This Vicar of Christ who is of compost and rot, of waste and refuse, who is of the ugliness but never looked away from it. O, holy man with the gentle voice, who could lull the wildest monsoon to sleep. Incorruptible but indignant. Familiar yet unknowable. He who will change the world as they know it… or at least be martyred for trying. 

Tonton holds Sheila close. Sends a prayer to the God he has stopped praying to, but never stopped believing in. Hard not to, in a place like the Philippines, where uncertainty and faith walk hand in hand, side by side. This bittersweet country that’s ugly and beautiful and wondrous and terrible all at once. 

 “You’re right,” he tells Sheila. “I guess they do.”

༻❁༺

Sa gitna ng dilim, ako ay nakatanaw,
Ng ilaw na kay panglaw, halos 'di ko makita.
Tulungan mo ako, ituro ang daan,
Sapagkat ako'y sabik sa aking pinagmulan.

Bayan ko, nahan ka? Ako ngayo'y nag-iisa.
Nais kong magbalik sa iyo, bayan ko!
Patawarin mo ako kung ako'y nagkamali
Sa landas na aking tinahak.

- Asin, “Pagbabalik”^[81]

༻❁༺

Epilogue 

February 3, 2023
Santo Niño de Tondo Parish
600 L. Chacon St., Tondo, Manila

Three years into the Pontificate of Pope Innocent XIV

Once, in an interview with Catholic Digest, a journalist asked him how he coped with the stress of his mission and the inevitable homesickness that came with it. 

This was in the early days, when his work in Bukavu started gaining international attention. Later, that same journalist would find him again in Kabul, would photograph him staring at the burned-down skeleton of his church, fighting to keep the well of despair inside of him from opening up even further. That candid shot would eventually find its way to the front cover of Catholic Digest, accompanied by words that are louder than they had any right to be in print. “Monsignor Vincent Benítez: The Gentle Missionary of the Middle East.” He never read it. He had been caught in too many wars in his lifetime to know how easily the media, even Catholic ones at that, slid from humanization to sensationalism in their correspondence. 

Just as in Bukavu, the journalist in Kabul asked him how he dealt with homesickness. The first time, he had rattled on about keeping in touch with those he had left behind (and he did. For a while). The second time, his answer was brief and succinct: "It's easier to be a stranger in a foreign place than to be a stranger in your own home.” 

Now, celebrating mass in Tondo Church for the first time in nearly four decades, Vincent feels his words come back to him, feels them penetrating the skin and lodging painfully in the spaces between his ribs. 

The press has painted his apostolic visit to the Philippines as a triumphant return — the homecoming of the first-ever Filipino Pope. Oh, he smiled and waved at the cameras, weathered the familiar Manila sun beating into his face. But that was the extent of the familiarity. More than forty years away, and when he finally comes back, he realizes, with a grief so potent it makes his chest ache, that there is nothing left for him here anymore, nothing in this place he can recognize.

It terrifies him, this inky nothingness, the ease that comes with forgetting. He is the Vicar of Christ, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, and yet he feels just as disoriented as he did when he first set foot in Bukavu. A stranger in a strange place, the Kamagong rosary clenched in his fist his only anchor (It had been a going-away present from one of his child parishioners at Tondo Curch, and it was so fine, so well-made, he had carried that rosary everywhere, from Manila to Baghdad to Vatican City itself.) Out of his depth, yearning to go home. Except he cannot be homesick for a home he abandoned, left for dead. Not for the first time, Vincent thinks of the life he would have had if God had not called him. If he refused that call, did not become Pope Innocent XIV and remained Fr. Enteng instead. 

A gentle hand on his shoulders. Vincent turns and finds his Dean of the College of Cardinals (Thomas, dearest Thomas) with his brows furrowed in concern. The Mass has just ended, and a quick meet-and-greet with the community’s leaders is scheduled for the side alcove of the parish. Vincent has remained at the high altar, staring at the church’s rafters. 

How long has it been since he was twenty-six years old, gazing at those vaulted ceilings and wondering what God has in store for him? Four decades, a car bombing, an appointment at a clinic in Geneva, and a conclave later, and Vincent is still gazing heavenward, thinking that if he stares hard enough, he will be able to decipher His Will. Prepare himself for what’s to come for a change.

How long has it been? A lifetime, no doubt. Probably even more. 

“Your Holiness,” Thomas is saying. He glances around and, when he ascertains no one is looking, whispers, “Vincent. Are you quite alright?” 

That shakes him out of his stupor. “I’m fine,” Vincent replies, nevertheless shooting Thomas a grateful look. It’s risky, he knows, for Thomas to call him by the name he left behind, but. It is comforting, almost. A summoning. Of the person he once was, the person he hopes he still is, despite the gilded cage: Vincent “Enteng” Benítez of Tondo, son of Aling Escolastica and Manong Melchior  — not a saint, not a savior, not even a Pope, but just. Enteng. Just Enteng. 

Vincent takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders. He raises a wry eyebrow at Thomas, who chuckles, amused and utterly endeared at the same time. Together they walk towards the alcove, where a small group of community organizers has already gathered, buzzing with anticipation. All of them raise their heads at the sound of the pair’s footsteps. 

Vincent stops in his tracks. At the center of the group is a man, younger than him by ten years, maybe twenty, holding a bundle of sampaguita leis. Beautiful, exquisitely hand-crafted, putting all the other bouquets inside the church to shame. 

“Your Holiness,” he says, bowing low to kiss a dumbstruck Vincent’s ring. And then he grins, eyes shining with tears, and for a moment Vincent sees them: a priest and a child, eating mango ice cream under a blustery, February sky. “Kumusta kayo, Fr. Enteng?”^[82] 

“Tonton,” Vincent gasps, and finally, finally, the familiarity returns. With a cry of joy, he is engulfed by them — the parishioners of his past; his flock, who gravitated to him, chose him as their shepherd, before he was even elected Pope. Those whom he helped and helped him in turn. Whom he loved and loved him in turn. Vincent had not lost his home. It was there, right there, in the place where he left it, waiting for him all along. 

The world has its mercies after all.  

Footnotes & Translations

1.Refuge for Healing Foundation[↺]

2."What's happening?"[↺]

3.“Have you been there long?”[↺]

4."No, I just arrived. I brought ice cream, but it seems everyone is busy."[↺]

5."What are they watching?"[↺]

6."Well, Atty. They're watching the Conclave."[↺]

7."Is that today?"[↺]

8."Yes, sir. There's news of a new cardinal in the Vatican."[↺]

9."Appointed secretly by Pope Clement XV."[↺]

10."Are you not making that up, Mel? Sounds straight out of a Dan Brown novel."[↺]

11."Of course not, Atty.!"[↺]

12."I'm sorry. But what I'm saying is true. The Vatican even said he's Filipino."[↺]

13."Wow. Really?"[↺]

14."Yes. He was even a parish priest in Tondo! The director said you know him...."[↺]

15.“What?”[↺]

16."The new cardinal at the Vatican? The director said it's Fr. Enteng. He's the founder of our partner org - that's why the staff can't stop talking about him. He was even a missionary in Congo! And... Atty.?"[↺]

17."Atty., are you alright?"[↺]

18."Love,"[↺]

19."Oh my god,"[↺]

20."It's him."[↺]

21."Please buy these flowers, Miss."[↺]

22."Please, Miss. Just one peso for one bundle."[↺]

23."Please, Miss. It's for my meal."[↺]

24."Leave me alone, kid!"[↺]

25."God bless you."[↺]

26."How are you? Have you eaten breakfast?"[↺]

27."By the way, why are you here, Ton?"[↺]

28."Do you not have any classes for today?"[↺]

29."We went home early, Father,"[↺]

30."Teacher Ley had a meeting. So I went straight here."[↺]

31."It's not me whom you should say sorry to, Ton."[↺]

32."Come on. I'll bring you back to school."[↺]

33."Please don't!"[↺]

34."Please don't make me go back to school, Father. It's useless. I don't earn any money there. It's been two months since Dad went to jail, and Mom is struggling to make ends meet. Wouldn't it be better if I helped her instead?"[↺]

35."Ton, listen to me."[↺]

36."It's nice that you want to help Mrs. Cha. But it shouldn't have to be this way. You shouldn't have to skip school. You're doing this for your future, Ton. And I know your mom would not want you to drop out."[↺]

37."Ton, you are so young. Please let us adults handle these problems for you."[↺]

38."It's alright. You're alright."[↺]

39."Blow."[↺]

40."There,"...... "Now you're ready for school!"[↺]

41."How about this,"[↺]

42."Let's stop for ice cream on the way."...... "Do you like that?"[↺]

43."Really?"[↺]

44."New Birth," also known as the "March of the New Society"[↺]

45."Grandmother says he's like a saint! Did you see the statues by the side of the Church? Pope Leo XIII? Like that! He's the president of all the priests! Grandma says he's coming here to help us! Isn't that great, Ton?"[↺]

46."Tonton, look!"[↺]

47."Wow, that's beautiful!"[↺]

48."What was that for?"[↺]

49."For the Holy Father, of course!"[↺]

50."What's wrong with you, Tonton! Are you not ashamed of our situation?"[↺]

51."I have a classmate,"[↺]

52."The acolyte at Binondo Church? He said he's assigned to give out flower bouquets for Pope John Paul.".... "Maybe we can do what he did!"[↺]

53."We might not even get near him. There’s bound to be so many people."[↺]

54."The Holy Father receives gifts at St. Peter's Square all the time! This is our chance, Ton!"[↺]

55."Mom, This looks beautiful!"[↺]

56."I learned that from the rosary suppliers in Quiapo"........ "I'm thinking of starting a religious artifacts business. More profit for us, right?"[↺]

57."We may be poor, but that doesn't mean there's nothing we can do for our fellowmen."[↺]

58."I promise that Pope John Paul will get this, Mom!"[↺]

59."I can't see anything!"...... "Tonton, has he arrived?"[↺]

60."We can't get near!"[↺]

61."What are we going to do?"[↺]

62."Where are we going?"[↺]

63."Let's wait for him at the Church!"......... "More and more people will be swarming the parish, so let's get there first!"[↺]

64."Here, Sheila!"[↺]

65."What are you two doing here?"....... "Wait a minute. Aren't you the sampaguita vendor at Tondo Church? You're not allowed to peddle your flowers here, kid!"[↺]

66."No... we just wan't to give this to Pope John Paul."[↺]

67."That sounds stupid! Why would the Holy Father accept that? Is that gold? Incense, myrrh?"......... "Get lost!"[↺]

68."Please don't!"[↺]

69."Sir, please don't let me leave! We just wan't to see the Pope! Sir, please!"[↺]

70."The Lord wishes the children to come to Him, Sergeant. He does not drive them away!"[↺]

71."How are you two? Do you want to go back to the parish?"[↺]

72."What for?"....... "They don't want us there! They even destroyed Tonton's garland. Why are we going back to the place where we're not welcome?"[↺]

73."You always told us, Fr. Enteng, that the poor are blessed because ours is the Kingdom of God. But why does it seem like a lie? 'God comforts those who are mourning,' and yet they're the ones who made Tonton cry. They're also the ones who took his Father away."[↺]

74."My grandma said I should not doubt, because it's all just a test. It's just a little bit of hardship. But if God loves us, why does He abandon us? Is that what love means to Him?"[↺]

75."I'm sorry." ..... "Please go back to the Parish. The Pope might be looking for you."[↺]

76."Don't worry, Sheila," ..... "I'm not needed there anymore."[↺]

77."Can I keep this, Father?"[↺]

78."Of course. Here."[↺]

79."There,".... "So you don't lose it."[↺]

80."Good evening, everyone!"[↺]

81."Amidst the dark, I have witnessed / A light so dim, I almost could not see it. / Help me find the way, / For I am longing for my motherland. / My country, where are you? I am all alone. / I yearn to come back to you, my country! / Forgive me if I have been misguided / In the path that I have taken."- Homecoming by Asin [↺]

82."How are you, Fr. Enteng?"[↺]