David Lane shakes his head: just “a little tour” of the slums, the embassy, then back to base. Once for him the base was 9/11. He was there the day after, so he went to Iraq. Then, in his heart, it felt right. But has he, in fact, done it wrong? When did the heart become a cog in a wheel that is now impossible to turn back?
Ambivalence. Ah, this scary thorn in the side, but how reassuringly human. And dangerously so for the trigger finger. It demands only conviction. An American life is at stake, so fly a combat helicopter to show we refuse to be terrorized. Part of operations, and he can’t be accused of being unpatriotic, un-American. Always protecting our own. He orders the pilot to do another circuit.
Mang Gusting scolds his daughter: “Stop screaming your Merry Christmas!” That helicopter is a premonition, like the shooting, like the Pizza Hut man. Their lives will be turned upside down. Beside him the wire-man is wrapped in his own thoughts. What a beauty is this flying thing. He thinks of bigger planes, he thinks of war. So does Mario. He has seen enough war videos to know that a helicopter this close means trouble, and a white man in it means action, soon. Of course. Did the lantern twins not say an American was also shot? And she’s missing. His wife Helen finds it hard to breathe, like the baby at her elbow. It’s clutched tighter to its mother’s breast, smothered by fear like Lisa’s “oh-oh;” for once she’s dumbstruck. Manang Betya crosses herself, thinking the end of the world is near, maybe after Christmas.
The Huey moves out into the city. In full combat gear and burnished by the sun, it is a Christmas tinsel to contend with.
A vagrant sleeping on the pavement wakes up: is it landing on him? Around the corner, those lining up for a McDonald’s breakfast jump at the ominous drone. Farther out along Roxas Boulevard, street kids are distracted from begging, shielding their eyes to see the beauty better. A businessman and his mistress sit up in bed, awed by the helicopter with a machine gun hanging out right at their hotel window, while in Starbucks below a junior executive texts a friend, US abt 2 Lnd!
It lands on the manicured lawns of the American embassy. The acacia trees hung with star lanterns bristle. American marines in an armored car look up. The consul has just received the latest brief about her probably shot, probably abducted compatriot. The woman’s photo now appears on her computer screen, along with a story about the Pizza Hut man. A tiny Christmas tree winks absurdly on its heading.
Somewhere else a Pizza Hut manager argues with City Flash reporter Eugene Costa, on a stakeout to interview workers and clients.
“You can’t accuse me of conspiracy to murder, you stupid meddler!”
“No, sir, I’m not accusing, sir, I’m asking.”
“You mean ‘interrogating’?”
“I don’t interrogate, the police do that—I simply report, sir.”
“Get your film crew out of here—I said get it out!”
34
Before his sleeping guest, Noland’s eyes are still closed in the attitude of listening. It’s out there flying. They all know now, everyone knows. His mother calls him; he opens his eyes. The beating of wings becomes the sound of a faraway helicopter again.
It has landed the second time in another territory, the Philippines’ Villamor Airbase. Colonel Lane is welcomed by his Filipino counterpart, Colonel Romero. Under the still-churning Huey, the men salute each other, then shake hands with a more social heartiness. There’s the usual slapping of the other’s arm, like a manly support of the handshake. The cameras click, the films roll, the reporters angle for the right grab.
“Is this meeting about the Balikatan program, sir—or is it about the missing American? Do you think it’s a hostage situation, like those that happened in the south—in Mindanao?”
“Do you believe the hostage crises in Mindanao were motivated by terrorism? Are you sure the Abu Sayyaf is a real terrorist group or is it a criminal gang? Is this why you’ve reinforced the Balikatan program, sir?”
“Balikatan means ‘shoulder to shoulder’—but are you sure it’s about our countries fighting the war on terror together? Isn’t it about Washington paving the way to reopen the U.S. bases here? Are you getting nostalgic for the old days?”
Colonel Romero raises both hands diplomatically, as if in surrender; he chooses his words with care. “The Philippines and the United States have always worked shoulder to shoulder. But right now, we’re off duty. We’re having our Christmas lunch, so if you’ll excuse us.” The two officers, who have only just met, walk away like old friends to a generous spread of Philippine delicacies, spirits, and the talk of kinship in war.
Shoulder to shoulder indeed. But when the dust settles, whose shoulders will sprout wings to escape, and whose will bear the weight of the rubble? Is there a bone, a tendon made for brotherhood—so forever we’re joined as equals?
One journalist pushes past the others. “So will we see more combat helicopters on city tours, Colonel Lane? Will your so-called ‘permanent-temporary presence’ in Philippine territory be more permanent than temporary? How soon before we have stars and stripes flying in Manila’s airspace?”
David Lane turns around, smiles broadly for the lens and emphatically denies any cause for anxiety. He wants to argue that U.S. forces are overstretched these days and have no intention of flying the flag over Philippine soil. But of course this will be refuted by “the American activity” in Mindanao, so he wishes everyone a Merry Christmas instead. “Season’s greetings to you all. Rest assured we’re working to the best of our ability for the good of both our homelands—and do call me David.” He’s not nicknamed “the people’s colonel” for nothing. The tag always gives him heartburn. Heartburn is part of the job.
35
The broad smile fills the television. At 6.30 p.m. City Flash cleverly strings its news together. First, the meeting at Villamor Airbase, then a clip of a Philippine and U.S. joint military exercise, a few blank shots fired in the jungle, the death of an American hostage in Mindanao in 2002, then cut to the latest update on the shooting at the intersection. Pizza Hut has issued a statement that on the day of the shooting one of their motorcycles was stolen, so the assailant can’t possibly be one of their men. The police must look elsewhere in their investigation, but the media is adamant about its best scoop yet.
Nena and Noland see their home again, the stretch of tracks and slums, the blinking stars, the traffic, and Eugene Costa’s random interviews of Pizza Hut delivery boys looking wary and needing to get away. Then cut to Eugene interviewing Senator G.B. “Good Boy” Buracher at the wake of the murdered journalist.
When the reporter asks the senator what he thinks of the shooting, the bodyguards push the microphone aside, but G.B. chooses to answer. Any decent Christian would feel enraged by the salvaging and his heart bleeds for the bereaved family. The TV short-circuits; Noland hits it with his fist. It comes on again showing the widow of the victim screaming, “Murderer, murderer! How dare you come here, how dare you?” She’s rushing at him while he’s protesting his innocence, professing his deep sadness as his bodyguards bodily lift him out of the funeral parlor.
Nena grabs her son as if to suckle him. He can’t breathe, but he wants to watch; he wants to see the face of the man accused of the murder, this “Good Boy” fallen from grace. He doesn’t look like a Pizza Hut man. He rides in a tinted Pajero not a motorcycle, he wears a suit. But his mother turns off the TV. The hut grows dark. She rocks him, rocks herself soundlessly, trying to wish away the pain in her legs.
Outside the train is passing. It rocks both of them, even the woman sleeping on the mat. Soon he will return to his notebook of stories. He will add another comic strip, querying the cosmic.
A sky filled with stars.
Angel falling from the sky.
An empty sky.
He will hear his thoughts: Whatever happened to his wings?
36
Wings not clipped but resting in a bar. Bobby Cool likes it here. Never mind if it has gone down a grade or two. This hotel has been good to
him for years. He likes its pouncing lion sign, now softened by mistletoe.
“So Mr. Bobby, are we settled about the lantern?”
He takes time to answer, slowly savoring his Johnnie Walker. He wants to gauge the thickness of the pocket of this very cultured voice. The Japanese speaks perfect English. He doesn’t give his name or his room number, not yet.
“Difficult to order, sir, the lantern,” he finally answers.
The other stares at his perfect fingers.
Bobby also gauges them by their hands. The more refined, the more generous. The more generous, the more discreet. The more discreet, the less hassle. He’s hardly ever proven wrong. He likes this soft-spoken man who asks, “How can I make it easier for you, Mr. Bobby?” while the perfect fingers slip him three hundred dollars. A show of trust.
“I try, sir, I try.”
“Yes, try please.” The Japanese smiles politely.
“I take care of my lanterns, sir.”
“I like the smaller one.”
“But you don’t know smaller one—”
“I’ve driven past, and I like it.”
“Ah.” Bobby pauses, tries another strategy. “Smaller one very new, sorry sir, and not shiny.”
The perfect fingers add another three hundred. Then a faint sigh, as if he’s suddenly tired. “Just pictures, Mr. Bobby, that’s all I want.”
37
It’s eleven in the evening. There’s a bigger crowd at the intersection, most of them nosing around. As Eugene Costa reported earlier, the crime scene has become a tourist attraction. Business is booming. The lantern, cigarette, and jasmine vendors, even the young carolers and beggars, have never been this busy. But not Bobby Cool. People are scrutinizing everything and everyone, so he can’t maneuver his transactions. Everyone is on the case. Elvis and Noland can only sell lanterns now. Everyone is interested in lanterns. The journalist was probably shot after buying a lantern, there was one found in his car, and the American was probably choosing a lantern. Why else was she standing right here before she was shot, then abducted—but how do we know she’s alive? And the Pizza Hut man drove from this point to that point for his getaway, possibly.
The traffic gets more clogged as the sleuthing goes on.
Vim, the lantern twin who was bashed, is noticeably absent, but his brother Vic is unfazed. Business is good, very good. Red, green, yellow, blue blink for only a little while before the star leaves the stall, headed back to some heaven. But the camera and film crews keep up the blinking lights. People offer themselves to be interviewed. Everyone has an opinion, a version of the Christmas crime and the Pizza Hut man mystery, and of course the missing American. It’s a woman, a beautiful blond woman, they say.
Bobby watches his charges, intent on the smaller one. A weak debate goes on in his heart, under the gold cross that swings each time he moves. He’s too young, but Elvis was even younger when he—and he’s mute, his life’s wretched, his mother’s sick. All the more reason to rise to this occasion. In his own time, he did. Saved himself from the gutter—well, a nice man did. Clothed him, fed him, gave him a home, this gold cross, loved him. He was Australian. But he had to return to his country, so he passed him on to a friend. But he’s able to live decently now. He has his own apartment, his stable business—with Elvis, a jackpot!
Noland gives Elvis five, and the other responds, giggling. “Now one more five—that’s it, you’re learning fast.”
Noland smiles, one of those rare events.
“Smile more, man, it’s Christmas!”
Bobby’s phone rings. He takes the call, heads farther away from the crowd so he can hear, while calling out to the boys, “Stay put, both of you. Don’t take off on me again, okay?”
38
Noland and Elvis sneak away, selling lanterns. All stars must go! There’s perfect business with the cars and passers-by, and heaps of “Gimme fives” between the boys. Elvis attempts its rap version. He teaches Noland how to groove, man. “Okay to stray a bit from the boss,” he whispers, turning his cap in full cocky revolution.
Noland protests against the venture—we’ll get into trouble, we’re out of our territory, we’ll get bashed! But Elvis is cool about it. “Trust me, man, I know a route with no competition, and we’ll pretend we’re just picking up garbage, you know, with your cart.” He winks.
They push across the highway, zigzagging through the traffic, making cars honk. Elvis yells at them, “Buy the best homemade star in the world!” or “Hoy, you trying to run us over?” He sneers at the street kids begging from cars, caroling from window to window. “Remember, Noland, begging is the worst, no dignity. I work, you work, so we deserve a reward. C’mon, man.”
Noland gestures in protest, worried about Bobby Cool. He parks the cart against a lamppost, refusing to budge.
“Didn’t I take you to the mall and you loved it?”
Yes, the lights, the lights. Noland closes his eyes. The lamplight catches his dreaming face.
“Hoy, wake up!” Elvis slaps his back and Noland grunts in protest. “Well, don’t you want a bigger expedition? This one’s unforgettable, man.”
Noland waves his hands in the air, full of arguments.
Elvis gestures back, pretending he’s mute, speaking in sign language even with his feet in the air. Then he’s dancing—rap, dude, rap. Noland giggles. “Good, let’s go then.” Elvis pushes the cart along, past a store, an apartment, a garage of jeepneys, a warehouse, then another slum. He stops the cart, surveys the tinseled shanties, the winking lights.
“Wow, look at that … when all stars are lit, we can’t feel poor … as if we’ve never been poor…”
The boys listen to the murmur of children still at play—hard to sleep three days before Christmas. The voices lean against each other, lift each other, like the scavenged wood, plastic, and cardboard keeping each other from tumbling down, keeping a home.
“Merry Christmas!” Elvis is bursting with insouciance. He throws up his cap and expertly catches it with his head. He shakes his arms and hips. “Bom-tarat-tarat—tararat-tararat-bom-bom-bom!” It’s the catch-cry from the TV show Wowowee. Pitched toward the poorest, the show promises cash, a car, even a house. “Cash or basket?” Hope is dangled before the most desperate.
“Bom-tarat-tarat,” Elvis yells out again.
“Tararat-tararat-bom-bom-bom!” The chant is picked up in the slums. A window opens and two kids do the trademark hip wiggle.
“See that, Noland? Everyone wants a piece of the action—bom-bom-bom!” he echoes the chant, the hip wiggle of hope that will later inspire a stampede of more than twenty-five thousand vying for a change of luck on a TV show. Seventy-four will be killed, one of them a four-year-old. How is it that hope grows too fully too soon, even before a full set of teeth?
“C’mon, Noland, I’ll show you real action.”
They stride on, stopping cars to sell lanterns. It’s close to midnight but the jeepneys are still awake, missing each other by a hair’s breadth. These are a legacy of forty years of American occupation, but made truly Pinoy. The American jeep was stripped of its grim army demeanor, then painted and polished to a tropical shine. Colorful banners and metal horses and the image of the Child Jesus, if not Mother Mary, were added, and behold—the Philippine jeepney was born. Passengers are skin to skin and eye to eye on two benches facing each other. With overpopulation, the city can’t help but be hopelessly intimate. “Hoy, boys, give me a star,” a driver calls out. The transaction is quick; the belching tail of the jeepney disappears in no time.
“Gimme a star, gimme five.” Elvis slaps his friend’s hand. “You know where we’re going, man?”
Noland shakes his head.
“Of course I’m not telling, it’s a surprise—bigger than the mall, man.”
They cross another intersection where on school days jeepneys race with luxury cars. In this avenue of the richest university, kids get chauffeured to school, sometimes with their maid. Chauffeur and maid wait until their
charges finish classes for the day.
“You’ll love this place, Noland. One more intersection and we’re there.”
The cart rattles across the street close to what used to be Manila’s busiest red-light district, until a zealous mayor closed the girlie bars and business went underground elsewhere. Farther up is one of the city’s first shopping malls, which soon became a pick-up area. Foreign men with local girls or sometimes children in tow used to be as commonplace as merchandise. Shoppers would look the other way—too hard to think about it. The boys are close now. They’re about to cross Roxas Boulevard, but Elvis pauses as a fish-ball vendor catches his eye. “Want a snack, Noland?”
Noland slaps his full pockets, does the little hip wiggle.
Elvis laughs; he can’t believe what he’s just seen. “That’s what I mean, some libog, some sexy oomph, man,” and he does his own wiggle. “Bom-bom-bom—so how many can you eat?”
They pig out. The vendor can’t believe his luck. Elvis clowns about, singing the twelve days of Christmas, one line-one day before gobbling one stick of fish-ball that “my true love gave to me.” Noland eats with him through twelve sticks, then drops giggling on the pavement, a mock-collapse. He wears his satiation like an old shirt.
39
Long ago, before electric lights, the very first lantern guided the faithful on their way to the pre-dawn mass, a nine-day tradition culminating in the Christmas Eve service. The first five-pointed star was made of bamboo strips wrapped in Japanese paper and lit with a candle. Delicately simple, it was a star guiding the feet to the first star.
The Solemn Lantern Maker Page 7