“So, Noland, let’s divvy up the lantern loot. Now that’s the loot, and this is my own money from before.” Elvis spreads out the cash.
Noland empties his pockets too. He wonders where Elvis gets his money, lots of it, and he never runs out.
“Jackpot!” Elvis claps his hands. “Now how much do we declare to the boss?” He winks at Noland. “Here, you get most of the loot—it’s your lanterns, remember—and when Bobby asks you, say business was so-so.” He makes the empty palm not-so-good gesture, and giggles.
Noland echoes the little act. He’s content. My friend is a good devil boy. He looks up. The few trees are hung with stars, simple ones, just five points plainly lit. He looks farther up, but he can’t see the others. He can’t make out the real ones.
47
The guards are worried. Should we follow those boys inside?
Those boys are just exploring; at least Noland is. He notes there are only white stars hanging in a row up there. Again five simple points and plainly lit. This is a good church. He remembers the many colors in Quiapo, too many. But what does he know about good churches? Aside from one or two visits when they were new in Manila, and lately the little side-trip in Quiapo, he remembers nothing. Not how his parents used to take him as a baby to mass. Or how he was baptized with the perfect name at his father’s request. He hears Elvis laughing at the entrance, beside himself with mirth over a sign at the window.
Attention:
To our dear parishioners. Please do not leave your
Personal belongings unattended.
Somebody might think they’re the
“Answer” to their prayers.
He strides up to his friend. “Oh Noland, Noland, you should see this, this is so funny, so clever—”and he sits down on the front pew, giggling. The one good thing about his pimp was that he taught him English, and he was a smart student, but not in speaking. Anyway it’s good for business to know the language, even if it’s only in your head and not in your tongue, more so because business should be foreign. There’s not much going with the measly peso. “You should read it, man. C’mon.”
Noland sees only black squiggles on white. Besides, something else has caught his eye. On the left side of the altar is the nativity with the lifelike Joseph and Mary looking down on tiny Jesus. Mother and father look with full attention at their child; the child looks with full attention at Noland.
“Hoy, Noland, do you ever wonder why they’re all white, even all saints, all angels are white? Because heaven is white and God’s Amerkano.”
Noland’s not listening. He touches Mary’s cheek, Joseph’s beard.
Elvis slaps Jesus’s palm. “Gimme five, white boy!”
“Hoy—hoy!” It’s one of the guards striding in. He has to assure himself, ease the worry. “Just what’re you doing, huh?”
“What do you think—stealing Jesus?”
The guard stammers, closes his mouth again.
Elvis starts laughing, pointing at the warning sign. “I might think he’s the ‘answer to my prayers’—ha-ha-ha!”
“Have you no respect?”
“I’m paying my respects.”
Again the guard loses his tongue. Elvis is enjoying himself. He’s getting his own back at all the guards in the world.
Noland leads him away, fearful he’ll lose it again as he did in Star City.
“Don’t worry, I’m not staying, sir. I don’t do mass, so bye-bye.”
Still the guard can’t drag anything from his mouth.
48
Outside the guards argue. One wants to throw the children out; the other says it’s unchristian. Anyway the children are out in the car park, which is now slowly filling up. The guards agree not to make a scene, but they watch the children’s every move. They’re pushing the cart around and around, Elvis protesting, “No, I don’t do mass.”
Noland tugs at Elvis’s sleeve. How to explain that he wants to stay, not for the mass but for those three inside. Mother, father, child. He wants to look at them again.
“I used to, mass I mean.”
Noland stops the cart. It’s the first time Elvis has spoken of his past. He waits for more.
Elvis lights a cigarette, offers to share with Noland, who shakes his head. “See that?” They have stopped before the Crucifixion in gray plaster, or is it marble, half lit in a little garden. “That’s Jesus, the big Jesus. With his mother and those two other women.” He takes in a lungful. “Gory stuff … pain, suffering.” He turns away, hides his face.
It’s an awkward moment. Noland looks away too.
“You like those three inside. Oh, they’re okay … but fancy being born in a stable … don’t know where I was born … don’t know who birthed me … don’t wanna know—and you, you wanna know?”
Noland can’t find the courage to nod his head.
Elvis stares at the glowing tip of his cigarette, letting it burn. “You think Jesus had a brother? Would have been nice … safe. His brother would have fought all those bad soldiers off … saved him from the cross or something.”
Noland worries that his friend speaks strangely, his voice sounds as if he’s very tired, as if he’s not Elvis. And he doesn’t want to look at big Jesus now, or Elvis, so he must look elsewhere too. Again he squints at the sky for the lights farther up, but it’s impossible to see anything. It’s too bright down here.
49
She looks up. The lanterns are lit in rainbow colors lulled by a soft breeze. The vision is spectacular. The hut is a wonderland of shining paper stars. They’re too many, too difficult to count all. She uses her ten fingers, even her ten toes, then starts all over again with little success.
A boy is staring at her counting. She’s embarrassed at her ineptness.
The breeze becomes a gust of wind, buffeting the stars around, but they’re still hanging from the strings up there. She keeps counting.
The boy offers his ten fingers, his ten toes.
She got it wrong. It’s not wind, it’s something else, that sound. It’s a motorcycle revving, whipping up wind.
The boy holds up both his hands, but not for counting. He’s trying to tell her something. His mouth is open but no sound—everything has grown silent. It revs close, one lantern is shot, the paper bursts, the light shatters. Another lantern is shot, then another and another. The stars begin to bleed, the blood dropping on her. She wakes up screaming, “He shot him, he shot him!”
50
Nena holds her, cooing, “Okay-okay … shhh … shhh.” After a while, the stars up there are whole again. Cate touches her head, her belly. Her face travels through time, crumples in grief. “I lost it … I lost—” She begins to sob. Nena holds her tighter. “No-cry, no-cry, Cate Burns.”
“You know me?” Cate asks, suspicious now.
Nena is silent.
Suddenly Cate remembers, “My passport, my bag—” She remembers more. “The taxi … oh God, I have to go, I have to go to the embassy—”
“No-go, no-go!” Nena quickly crawls to the door, blocks it.
Cate stares, suddenly fearful. Who is this woman? Nena, yes, that’s what she said—with a son named Noland. He took her here, she remembers a cart. Why are they keeping her here? Do they know about the shooting—maybe they—oh my God! “I’ve no money on me now, but I can pay you if I get my things from the embassy, or I can make a call, is there a phone around here, no, where can I find one, where is this place, oh no I have nothing on me, can you lend me some money, you can’t keep me here, are you keeping me here, am I a hostage, oh God, are you in this too?”
Nena keeps shaking her head. She can’t follow this rapid burst of English. She can only understand that this woman is terrified, of her. But I won’t hurt you, Cate.
Cate steps toward her, trying to sound calm. “Where’s your son? Maybe he can take me to a phone? Noland—he can—”
Nena shakes her head. “No Noland, no come home.”
Cate persists. “Look, I’ll pay if you let me go,
I’ll give you money—yes, money—” and she makes the sign for it, rubbing her fingers together.
Nena nods; maybe she’s trying to tell her about the reward. Her face is inches from hers, she can smell her panic, no you can’t go out there, not now, not in the light, they’ll all know, and then, and then—Nena pushes her back with all her strength.
Cate falls. Nena crawls to her feet, hugging them to her breast, and like a suppliant begs, “No-go, please no-go.”
Around the hut, the angels almost sigh.
51
They have stayed for the mass, much to the guards’ greater worry. What if they make trouble now?
Before the Crucifixion, Elvis grew talkative, then taciturn. He took off his cap and squatted there, his back to the big Jesus. When the mass started, he didn’t stay the hand that pulled him inside and sat him down.
Noland feels as if the warmth in his chest will spill over. He keeps checking the family in the stable, while trying not to miss every bit of the ceremony, every move of the white priest. How can he be white? Because Elvis is right, God’s Amerkano. The priest is in fact Irish and well loved in the parish. He speaks fluent Pilipino. Noland can’t believe it. They speak my language in heaven! The priest looks like someone’s grandfather; he opens his arms like he’s about to hold everyone. This feels right, this feels so familiar. Noland stands-sits-kneels with everyone, as if it were the most natural thing to do.
Outside the guards are checking the cart parked before the Crucifixion. One guard is convinced it’s blocking the way so the other pushes it from the main thoroughfare. “There, satisfied?” he asks. “Worrying will do no good. We’ll keep our eyes open and it’ll be okay. We can’t afford a scene.”
When “Silent Night” comes on, the same guard whispers, “That always gets me, you know … sung like that.”
The ancient Christmas carol is sung by a boy whose voice hasn’t broken yet, an angel voice. Noland closes his eyes, letting the song wash over him, take him elsewhere. I know a story you don’t know. He dreams up another comic strip. Perhaps it is prayer.
Empty sky.
Fallen angel on the ground.
Fallen angel ascending.
Sky with shining star.
52
Bobby is in a taxi, scouring the streets, cursing under his breath. It’s 6 a.m. He hasn’t slept. “Try Roxas Boulevard, the Baywalk,” he tells the driver. “And go slow. We’re looking for two boys with a cart.”
The metro aides are busy sweeping up last night’s revelry. A group of joggers zigzag through the clean-up. One remarks about the photo of Cate Burns on a newspaper. Some older folks are taking in the sea breeze, alongside stragglers from last night trying to clear their heads. Traffic is picking up. The lanterns at each lamppost are now simply plastic decorations, not the shining stars, flowers, or fruit of last night. Magic sleeps in the morning.
It’s that Elvis, he should have never trusted him. He’s crazy that boy, precious crazy. The clients adore his aplomb, he makes them laugh, he’s very good, a goldmine for some years now, and he likes his job. He likes the fringe benefits, the food, the huge tips, the luxurious overnights, sometimes the out-of-town holidays. He laps them up. He likes to hang out by the sea in the early hours, so he could be anywhere now. “I said, slow down,” Bobby scolds the driver. Elvis loves it here, often sitting with the cool men and daring his pimp to tell him he’s not as cool.
Under the palms along Manila Bay, the statues do look cool. Mayor Arsenio Lacson sits on a park bench, reading the paper, and Senator Ninoy Aquino points to the horizon, hopeful before the tragic tarmac incident at the airport now named after him. His murder went through years of investigation that petered out into doubtful justice. Ninoy’s gaze is fixed ahead, a visionary’s attitude or perhaps he’s just searching for two boys and a cart. Like the bronze President Ramon Magsaysay across the road, shielding his eyes from the sun to see better, perhaps looking for some speck in the horizon. My country’s children small as hope.
Bobby’s phone rings. He breathes in deeply and takes the call. Bobby pours his apology into his cupped palm. “Sorry, sir, very sorry, I promise but there’s problem, only a little, I fix—yes, I promise, sir, and I keep my promise, but—yes, yes, I will, sir.” Absentmindedly he unbuttons his shirt as he speaks. He needs to air his mea culpas for not getting the lantern delivered last night. “I promise. You get pictures today.”
53
Locked in, the hut is a world of angels and two women. Nena and Cate are sizing up each other warily. The winged creatures are fascinated by this earthly wariness. Nena is still blocking the door, caught between anxiety and hope. Cate is sitting on the mat, between fear and grief. What an unlikely tableau, like a forced pause in a play, but the angels hear a conversation: two different tongues, two different intentions.
Cate: I can make a run for it.
Nena: Ang reward … puwede kaming mag-Christmas.
Cate: Surely she can’t run after me …
Nena: Baka makapag-aral si Noland …
Cate: But where do I go?
Nena: Nasaan ba ang batang ’yun?
Cate: My chance … out that door and …
Nena: Pero walang pulis, walang uniporme …
How to cross the miles between them? A mother’s hopes for her son, maybe a real Christmas or possibly an education, even till high school, which she never finished—if they get that reward. But no police, no uniforms, please. The other hopes for only one thing: escape. Maybe the angels speculate and wager among themselves. Let’s see what they do, how they bridge this divide.
Nena tries. “You sleeping long time.”
She gets no response.
“Noland watching you long time.”
Still silent.
“He like you. You like dress? You like slippers?”
Cate turns around—okay, she’ll play along. “I like him too. I’d like to thank him for these,” she fondles her blue housedress, “so tell him to come. He can help me, he can take me to a phone—please?”
“Sorry, no Noland.”
This is useless. She’s been giving this same lie for an hour. Yes, she must be lying. Why doesn’t she leave that fucking door?
“No Noland, no son, no son, no son—see?” Nena waves her empty palms around to make the point. Why can’t this woman understand that he hasn’t come home?
Cate is silent, then like a late echo, “No son …” Her breath catches. It’s the snag in the lungs, unmistakable to Nena. Maybe it was a boy. Instinctively she crawls forward, saying, “Sorry-sorry … baby…” but the other makes a move toward the door so Nena rushes back to it, blocking it apologetically.
“Okay-okay, Cate, me understanding,” she pleads her case, massaging her knees under the housedress, trying to calm the little gnawing mice. “Baby die … mother sad-sad … father sad-sad.”
She is desperate to commiserate, but Cate hears only one thing. She protests bitterly. “No sad father.”
Nena looks perplexed, then nods. “No father? Ah, no husband … sorry for you … me understanding … me no husband.”
The women are silent. Above them, the hanging lanterns are ghostly shadows. After a while, Nena asks, “Hungry?”
54
Hungry at 8 a.m., so McDonald’s then. Elvis takes Noland to his favorite joint. Noland hesitates. “C’mon, brother,” Elvis beckons, “they have fantastic breakfast here, my blowout.”
They fall in line like everyone else—the office workers, the teenagers still groggy from last night, even a man in a business suit anxiously whispering on his cell phone about how his U.S. deal might crash because of this latest terrorist act, you know, the case of that Burns woman.
When it’s their turn, Elvis nudges Noland—watch this, listen to this, nothing beats this, man.
“Your order, sir, is two pancakes and two hamburgers and two hot chocolates to have here, and two more pancakes and hamburgers to go, and you gave me five hundred pesos.” The till rings, the hot food
slides onto the tray.
Elvis isn’t called “sir” anywhere else. McDonald’s is the best joint.
Noland is worried and he doesn’t understand English anyway. He keeps looking at the clock on the wall. His mother is surely furious by now. The big breakfast makes his stomach warm, though, and he’s never had these flat things with sweet, sweet water on them. “Pancakes,” Elvis explains. And the cart, he keeps checking the cart through the window. The guard said he’d watch over it; he has nothing against carts or children with carts. Noland didn’t see Elvis slip him a fifty-peso note. His friend is his old self again, fussing over his cap.
Outside there are street kids begging and singing a carol with a tambourine made of Coke bottle caps. Elvis slips them a twenty on the way out. He feels perfect. Close to the water like this, he’s on top of the world. He’ll sit with that mayor what’s-his-name on the park bench, get his nose on his newspaper and watch Noland’s eyes go wide, ahhh. He’ll take him for a stroll under the palm trees, count the yachts with him, tell him the names of the big hotels, about their cool rooms, their big beds, let him know he’s lived the good life, yeah—
He barely gets a word out when a hand grabs him by the nape and drags him into a taxi. It’s Bobby pinning him down, growling at him. “I knew I’d find you here. You have the nerve to run out on me, you little shit! Now let’s do real work—and you too, Noland, get in!”
Outside the street kids watch with interest. Noland protests, motioning toward his cart and holding up the bag of breakfast that he’s taking home. He’s sorry he ran away, he’ll make up with more lanterns tonight. His hands weave deep apologies in the air.
Elvis pleads, “Bobby, I’m game, but not Noland, he’s not in this, he has no clue, not him, Bobby, not him, I’m game, I’ll do all jobs, I’ll make up for last night, I’ll do double jobs, I promise, but not Noland.”
The Solemn Lantern Maker Page 9