The Solemn Lantern Maker

by Merlinda Bobis

  Bobby drags Noland in; there’s a struggle. The McDonald’s bag falls, breakfast scatters on the pavement. As the taxi speeds away, the street kids rescue breakfast. The littlest one jumps into the cart and the others push it away. They leave, eating and singing “Jingle Bells.”

  55

  The helicopter is back. Again it hovers low over the famous intersection. Again the strip looks up, anxiously. They’ve seen that Cate Burns on TV so many times in the last twenty-four hours. Even Mikmik and her gang are without their old bravado now, wishing the lost Amerkana would be found so there won’t be any of the wars that Mario’s boasting about. He’s seen them all on video, oh yes! And if she’s found, there’ll be a reward … yes, what about that reward?

  Inside the hut Cate and Nena are also looking up, their faces lit by the sun streaming through the cherub’s face. Outside it’s a blazing midday.

  Cate is hopeful. It’s a helicopter flying very low, the second time now. What if … Nena is scared; those flying things make her think of locusts.

  Dark and light: a closed hut and the sun insistently creeping in. The stars strung from the roof are lit. For want of something to say Nena points to them, whispering, “Star … parol … parol.”

  “Parol…” Cate instinctively echoes.

  Nena nods. “Noland make … ay, Noland,” then strikes her breast. Her son has never been this late, but there’s room for hope. On the floor are the remains of bread and Milo. The women have eaten together.

  At the public pump, the bond is alien to hope. Helen, Manang Betya, Lisa and the other women are finishing their laundry over whispers suddenly hushed by the helicopter. Dios ko, it’s back in the air. That thing is the ultimate proof, you better believe it. Why do you think traffic’s been rerouted from this intersection? And did you see the truckload of soldiers in the next street? And the bulldozer? When that thing lands, it’s over.

  The women can’t hear themselves with the Huey whipping the air, thumping at their ribcage, usurping this habitation. Hands panic with the washing. Beat, rinse, wring, beat, rinse, wring. And flush down the city drain. This is what they’ll do to us. It happens. They’ll clean us up.

  “It’s because of that Amerkana, you know—”

  “Why, is she God that she can move heaven and earth?”

  “And uproot our lives?”

  “I refuse to listen to gossip.” Helen rises, shaking. Fear with fury is enough to make one brave. She shoulders her laundry paddle and walks off. Yesterday she had thought of that Amerkana with hope, what with the talk about a reward, and now it’s punishment. Indeed, is she God?

  “Hoy, Helen, what’s with you?” Lisa is on her feet too.

  “I’m going to ask—I’ve the right to know, don’t I? This is my home!”

  “You want to get into trouble?”

  “You want to get shot?”

  But the other women soon march with her to the next street. Might as well know. The troop of housedresses, two with babies, pick up others along the way, even Mikmik’s gang.

  In the next street, they crowd the bulldozer and Helen thumps it with her laundry paddle. The driver’s attention is caught. He looks down the immense steel barrel. The others hold their breaths.

  “Hoy, is it true?” Helen calls out, hands planted on her hips.

  The driver is perplexed. “What—what’s true?”

  “That you’ll clean up the intersection?” Manang Betya finds her voice, her fingers fondling both rosary and jueteng notebook in her pocket.

  “And at Christmas too?” Mikmik pushes her way forward, blowing her trumpet at the man. “How dare you?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” The driver scratches his head, caught off guard by the assault. “Ask them over there.” He motions to the truckload of soldiers a few meters away. “I’m just a paid hand.”

  Mikmik and her gang blow their trumpets up at him and the other women jeer. “Paid hand, hah!”

  In an instant the woman with the baby clambers up onto the bulldozer and hands him the child.

  “Wha—?”

  “Take him, take him too, if you take away the roof over his head.”

  The other women are stunned. Then slowly they begin to applaud, as the driver stammers through his response and quickly hands the baby back. Meanwhile three uniforms have moved forward from the truck, rifles slung over their shoulders. When they reach the bold group, the applause dies. Silence and furtive glances at the rifles.

  “What’s this, aunties?” one of the soldiers asks in a deferential tone. No one speaks. “I’m asking.”

  “Is—is it true?” Manang Betya whispers. “The demolition?”

  He chuckles, shakes his head. “Who’s been gossiping, huh?” He surveys the ragtag of housedresses, mostly wet. “Go home and finish your washing,” he cajoles, pushing them back playfully with his rifle, but when the other men frown, he lets the weapon slide back on its strap. “Go home. What demolition? You’ve been watching too much TV drama. Go, go.”

  The women eye the rifles, hesitate, then shuffle back home. None is able to make a sound, despite the howl in each throat. But such is terror, it’s always lonely. The knotting of the body is yours alone.

  Back at the public pump, it’s beat, rinse, wring once again, and a faint whisper, “It’s because of that Cate…”

  The helicopter is now following the traffic at Roxas Boulevard where everyone is looking up. Look, those stars and stripes threaten this season’s peace and goodwill, but oh that poor lost Cate, who’s now spoken of on a first-name basis after so much drumming up by the media, and oh that Pizza Hut terrorist man whose identity has expanded with terrified speculations… Everyone is looking up. Everyone is missing the two boys with a pimp in a taxi, down here at ground level.

  “Shut up! It’s better to be good boys rather than poor boys, you hear?”

  “Putang ina mo—your mother’s a whore, Bobby!” Elvis screams.

  “Watch your mouth!”

  Elvis keeps arguing with the pimp, but Noland has flown away. His eyes are shut. He’s listening for his angels, but there’s only the drone of the helicopter. He shuts his eyes tighter.

  The comic strip is empty. It’s just a strip of boxes now.

  56

  The venue has changed but Bobby isn’t surprised. No longer that bar with the pouncing lion sign, and it’s five stars this time. The hotel lobby is tastefully decked. Christmas glitter that’s not too loud, mostly traditional designs; the shell lantern is the main motif. Bobby is convinced. The man has class and is extremely discreet. The text message was brief, no names, just the new hotel and room number for Mr. Bobby.

  The boys are wearing fresh clothes, and carry lanterns in their hands. The pimp has been extra careful to achieve the right look. He orders coffee for himself, Coke for the boys. He makes small talk for the ears of an English family close by who are waiting for the airport shuttle, the father reading the papers, the mother bouncing her baby. Sometimes she smiles at the two boys and their lanterns. “Look, sweetie, stars!” she coos to her daughter.

  Bobby smiles back and keeps up his small talk, dropping in English words here and there. “Miss n’yo si dad, di ba—you missed your dad, right? Of course, after five long years abroad.” He buttons up Noland’s shirt, pats Elvis’s head. Elvis growls.

  “Don’t push it, Elvis,” he whispers, then to Noland adds more audibly, “It’s not polite to stare.” He smiles apologetically at the woman and her baby.

  Noland is staring at a familiar face on the back of the husband’s newspaper, nudging Elvis secretly. Look, look it’s her!

  Elvis tries to make out the caption, then nudges him back. Cate Burns. That’s her name. And they say she’s been shot and kidnapped! Elvis takes Noland’s hand, presses it hard. I told you it was crazy to take her home, crazy-crazy—what if?

  Noland returns the pressure and shifts uneasily on the deep sofa, the stars slipping from his lap. The whole world knows.

  57


  Noland is still not home. The women are sitting closer on the floor, a candle between them. Cate has stopped wondering if she can make a run for it. Earlier Nena pleaded with her and somehow something came through the fog. The boy has not come home, simple as that, but it’s tearing apart this mother’s heart. She can see it now, it’s no lie, it makes her less doubtful, especially when Nena says, “Okay you go … tomorrow … but wait Noland please-please, okay?” She’s clasping her legs to her chest, her face contorted.

  “You okay, Nena? Your legs—?”

  The other woman turns away, mumbling, “Accident…”

  “Can I do anything?”

  “No!”

  Cate shrinks from the violent response, as if the woman has just spat at her.

  From her window, Helen is looking at the silent hut across the tracks. She can’t clear the cobwebs in her head. I wonder if Nena knows about that bulldozer. It’s still there, waiting—ay, what if we lose our homes? And what’s happened to those two? It’s been silent in there since yesterday, no sign of mother and son. I hope they’re okay, what with these murders and now a demolition, Dios ko … I wonder when that helicopter will land, when that bulldozer will start moving … I wonder where that Cate is … I think they suspect we’ve all kidnapped her.

  Helen is sorting videos and laundry, nearly folding in a video with the laundry—ay, stupid me! Then she pauses, slips into a dream, wondering how much is the reward. For a devout Catholic, it’s easy to mix up the carrot and the stick. Heaven and hell. Paradise and brimstone. It’s easy to be torn apart.

  She leaves her chore, studies the hut across, listens for any sound—nothing. Noland didn’t fetch water at the pump today … that’s strange. There’s something about that hut, she feels it in her chest. She finally walks across and knocks at the door. “Hoy, Nena, Noland, you there? You okay?”

  Inside Nena freezes. Cate walks to the door, about to open it. Helen calls out again. Nena blows out the candle.

  Helen walks around the hut, trying to peek in. She’s almost sure she saw some light inside, some movement. She knocks the third time. “Nena, Noland!”

  Nena crouches lower on the floor, making herself small.

  Cate peers through the crack bisecting the angel at the door. The neighbor is walking away. She almost calls her back, but hesitates. She turns toward Nena; she can’t see a thing now. She gropes her way back, almost tripping over the terrified woman on the floor. She sits down again.

  When all is silent, Nena whispers, “Thank you.”

  Cate makes a little sympathetic sound, to fill the darkness, and the other does the same. “My son … he good hands … he make star many-many … he make story many-many…” Nena whispers, pausing here and there to make sure her guest is still listening, or perhaps her heart. Listen, listen.

  There is room for hope. I know a story you don’t know, that you can know.

  58

  A camera clicks, light flashes. Noland’s closed eyes. Another click, another flash. Noland’s mouth in repose. Noland’s full head. Noland’s torso. Noland’s feet. Noland’s whole body sleeping in the middle of a king-size bed. He’s wearing a pink silk kimono. At his feet is a geisha doll, also in silk. On the bedside table is a Christmas toy, a drummer boy. Tinsel is draped on it, just a hint of glitter, quite tasteful. Farther away, on a large table, is food just as tasteful: grapes, cheese and biscuits, two bottles of fine red, a Christmas ham, a box of Belgian chocolates, all partly feasted on. The used plates and cutlery and wine glasses are neatly stacked. Two people had a quiet party.

  The camera clicks again, the light flashes: Noland’s face waking up.

  “Good evening, boy. Ah, long sleep.” Soft voice, impeccable English, barely a Japanese accent. “Hungry maybe?”

  Noland slowly gets up, tries to remember where he is. His head is heavy, his tongue thick, his eyes can’t focus yet. He’s wearing a dress he thinks, with nothing underneath. He pulls it around him, tighter. He stares at the Japanese with his camera. He’s also wearing a dress?

  “That’s a nice face.” The camera clicks. “You like the toys?”

  Noland understands the nod toward the toys as a go-ahead. He picks up the geisha. Why’s her face so white? Is she meant to be dead? He drops her quickly, then picks up the drummer boy. He turns it around and around. Each action is shot by the camera.

  “That’s for you.” The man comes closer, winds up the drummer boy with his perfect hands. It starts drumming. “Like it?” He pats Noland on the head like a proper father or uncle.

  Noland picks it up and it drums in mid-air.

  A shot of Noland with the toy.

  “Ah, beautiful boy … now, take it off, please…” The perfect fingers tug at his own kimono to make the point.

  59

  In the suite next door, the scene is less proper, less pretty. The clothes and bedcovers are strewn all over the floor, empty beer bottles and half-eaten burgers and chips sit on travel brochures, and the television is on, loud. It is City Flash on the famous crime, with the voice-over of the taxi driver wondering whether the American was actually abducted by street kids, because she was sort of with them when it happened. More witnesses from the intersection have also come forward to tell their version of the incident; in fact there are many versions now. And yes, there were street kids, yes, she was talking to them, yes, we’ll do anything to help find her. No, we had nothing to do with her kidnapping.

  There are louder voices from the shower.

  The news continues. The taxi driver is under police protection—and is possibly being interviewed by U.S. officials? There’s protest against America meddling with Philippine affairs, besides this is a civilian matter, or are we seeing the usual neo-colonialism? Human rights activists are enraged over the rumor that the military have ordered the demolition of the intersection, but the Chief of Special Projects, Roberto Espinosa, dispels all anxiety. The police, the military, and Philippine and American agencies are collaborating to solve this crime, which is made even more shocking by the fact that it was committed in a season of peace and goodwill.

  In the shower, a man’s voice negotiates. “But I paid the full price!”

  “No, don’t like,” Elvis snaps back.

  “You’ll like, I’m gentle,” the man cajoles, then sneers. “Don’t tell me you’re a virgin?”

  The Philippine president commiserates with the American ambassador, emphasizing the friendship between the two countries. She invokes their joint military exercises for an urgent cause: the war against terrorism. The anchorwoman asks, “Is this abduction a terrorist act?”

  “Just suck, that’s deal, okay?” Bobby said.

  “You and your pimp want to rip me off? C’mon, don’t make me wait, boy. Turn around, I said turn around, you cheat!”

  The shower is steamed up, as if there’s a fog. Behind the glass, two bodies struggle. A boy is screaming, “Fuck you, fuck you!” his body flattened on the glass, his hands held up, as the man grunts, “Yes, I’m fucking you, I’m fucking you. That’s the deal, that’s the fuckin’ deal!”

  On TV, again the face of Cate Burns.

  60

  A man’s bare back is on camera. He’s arguing with a small crowd of media that seem to have flocked from nowhere. Senator G.B. has been cornered by City Flash, again, as he’s about to have his swim at an exclusive sports club. He’s screaming, “Are you stalking me? Yes, you’ve been stalking me, I recognize you, boy. What’s with you? What do you have against me? I’m a good Christian, I feel for Germinio’s widow, I have no quarrel with his family even if they shot my reputation to pieces, I am a good Christian!”

  The good Christian looks like he is about to have a heart attack.

  The stalker is relentless. “Senator, what about the fact that the deceased exposed your alleged involvement with illegal gambling, that you’re possibly one of its big bosses, and that someone, in fact, overheard you threaten to ‘mow down any two-bit journalist’ who messes with you
r so-called ‘operations’—what do you say to that, Senator?”

  The bodyguards come between their boss and the reporter, pushing him back as the senator spits out his rage.

  “And Senator, do you think there’s any connection between Germinio de Vera’s murder and the kidnapping of Cate Burns?”

  “How dare you—are you implying—?”

  “And what about the rumor that innocent people are being harassed because of this series of crimes?” Back and back, the reporter is pushed by the bodyguards—he falls into the pool.

  On screen Eugene Costa’s face bobs in the water, gasping for air.

  Lydia de Vera watches this face from her bed. Get out of the water before you drown, she wants to scream. She remembers the earnest face at the wake, the hand quick with the microphone. He asked the senator about the Pizza Hut man, and her husband. Only a boy, a brave fool. Don’t drown, please it’s not worth it, don’t let your loved ones drown.

  61

  The women are huddled together before a stack of lantern paper. The candle is lit again. Nena can’t keep still. Up and down she rubs her legs under the house-dress, then stops at the hem, twisting it. The twisting is echoed in her gut, but she must be calm, so she won’t drown. She must talk normally about the boy they’re waiting for.

  “Papel de Japon—red, green.” She tries to explain Noland’s choice of Japanese paper in Christmas colors. “No pink, no blue, no yellow—red, green, Noland like.” She lays a piece of each color on Cate’s hands. “Christmas color,” she says. “You like?”

  Cate touches the other’s hand. “I like, yes.”

  Nena whispers, “Noland like … Noland like you—you like?”

  Cate nods her head. “Yes, I like your son, he’s a good boy. He’ll be okay. He’s just late, a bit late.” How lame she sounds. How to believe herself, now that she’s wondering about the murdered man, how the boys were there with her then, how they saw it too—what if, oh God! Should she ask Nena about that time, and whether—but what if they’re in it?