The Solemn Lantern Maker

by Merlinda Bobis

  68

  By late afternoon, Nena opens the door. Light floods in. The endless night has abruptly turned into day.

  “You go.”

  “But Nena…”

  Only a few paces, and freedom. She’ll walk away, go to her embassy, have a shower. Oh to feel clean again and have a proper toilet, not the biscuit tin organized by Nena for her sake.

  Nena keeps waving Cate away, then suddenly stops, hesitates. She takes one of the five-hundreds from beside the boy and hands it to her. She motions to the open door. “You go.”

  She’ll go to a hotel, maybe fly to an island; there are many beautiful islands here. She’ll have her holiday. She’ll put this behind her, everything—this never happened. How can she even think like this?

  “Go!”

  Cate gets on her knees, crouching too. “Thank you, Nena … but maybe first you should—”

  The finger that points to the door is imperious, but the rest of her is broken. She looks older in the full light, skeletal. And the boy, how still.

  Bad-luck woman, why did you come? Nena stares into the blue eyes welling with tears. Her own fill too; the tug of grief runs between them, and much more. Pasts so estranged and futures that will never touch again. But here, they are irrevocably bound. Perhaps this is something they know but must deny so they can let the other go. It is possible. Behind tears, the other’s face blurs. It could be just any face now.

  “Maybe you should—”

  “Please go.”

  Cate takes the money, murmuring her thanks, and steps out the door. She looks up and down the strip of slums, all the salvaged refuse of a city raised into homes, into lives leaning against each other, trusting this sheer effort to stand and remain standing.

  Two naked little boys gawk at the white giant in a brightly flowered dress that’s too small for her. Across the tracks, Helen stares in disbelief. The white woman meets her stare, is about to say something, then returns to the hut. She shuts the door. “Here,” she says, returning the money. “I think we should take him to a doctor.”

  69

  Helen takes the two boys by the hand, away from the door. She puts a finger to her lips—don’t tell anyone—then sends them home. She looks around. Did anyone see what she saw? My God, it’s her neighbors then. Ah, I knew it in my gut—and maybe that strange boy who visits them, and the Pizza Hut man? They’re all in it together. Who would ever think? But that Cate—she’s sure it’s her from the photo—she looks okay, no sign that she’s been shot. How very white. Whiter than on TV.

  Helen stands in the middle of the tracks, raises both hands to heaven. Thanks be to God, we’re saved, we’re all safe now. But should she tell her neighbors? She quickly returns to her hut. Her husband Mario is out today. She can’t tell him anyway. She shouldn’t tell anyone yet—but what if? No, how can she be wrong—the proof was there, staring her in the face a minute ago. No wonder Nena looked terrified whenever the police were mentioned. But wasn’t she always fearful, even before?

  She remembers how they arrived two years ago with nothing but that boy’s cart, a few plastic bags, and that junk of a TV. They parked across from her house, among the garbage, and slept in the cart for the first night. The mother talked all the time, as if she were talking for the boy, who never spoke. Helen couldn’t help herself. She went over and chatted. The mother told her their names and a vague story about losing their house. Then she grew as silent as her son. Since then Helen has known nothing more about them. She suspects the poor boy isn’t quite right in the head, that’s why he can’t speak. He stares at her in that strange way, unblinking and serious and sad; it makes her look away.

  Who would ever think—but you never know with people these days. Murderers can look like saints. But there’s still this war inside her. If she rings the authorities, that would be betrayal. If she doesn’t, there’s the bulldozer. She sorts the videos on the floor and turns on the TV to drown her doubts and another thought, a little spark of hope that she must extinguish—but how can she think this now?

  She looks around the hut with its half a concrete wall. The rest is saved bits and pieces from everywhere, but it has enough room for the video viewers, even a couch. Its bedroom and kitchen are set apart by plastic curtains. And it has a large TV screen and a video—who knows, they might even switch to DVD? Theirs is a hut that’s on its way to becoming a proper house if they get lucky—and what if they do get lucky?

  70

  City Flash has a special news edition. The Christmas crime is now the most celebrated case of the year. The whole country is agog over the bizarre whodunit.

  The anchorwoman goes through the twists and turns of the plot with convincing realism so that most viewers feel this story is now their own, that they could be at risk if they ordered a Pizza Hut delivery, that poor Cate is their very own heroine, and that they must watch out for street kids and keep their car windows shut at those busy intersections, and perhaps it’s a good idea to clean up that part of the city—you never know what terrorists it harbors. But some viewers are appalled that the journalist’s murder has been sidelined by this fixation on that American and on the specter of terrorism against the U.S. Angry debates have been brewing around the nation, so City Flash has gathered a panel “to chat in the spirit of peace and goodwill.”

  Helen stops sorting videos. She sits on the couch and watches keenly, cell phone in hand. She must get those special numbers to ring. She’s sure they’ll show them again on the screen.

  The panel includes a priest, the president’s press secretary, a journalist, a political analyst from the state university, and an American official. So the discussion is fair and square. The studio is crawling with media. The case has alerted the foreign press and has been growing a life of its own in the other side of the globe, where the husband of the lost American has broken down on American TV.

  Young Eugene Costa is squeezed between two American journalists.

  Father Ruben Santos opens the panel, and rightly so, as he explains. “This isn’t just about murder or abduction or terrorism. It’s an issue for soul-searching in this season of peace and goodwill. I know the radicals among you will think I sound like I’m giving a sermon, but I’m just presenting the tragic core of this case: the loss of peace. Think of the violence in our streets. Then there’s the loss of goodwill. There’s so much bickering among us Filipinos when we should be asking, why are our children involved.”

  “With all due respect, Father, while I agree with you, isn’t it better for us to look at the root of the loss of peace and goodwill, and the terrible plight of our children?” Mary Ann Fuentebella, a writer for one of the major dailies, wrings her hands before the audience. “The reality is that no one’s safe in this country, not our children, not our journalists, or our tourists, because of the political machinations of a rotten system. Why do you think Germinio de Vera was shot? Why do you think we have street children? Why are we murdered if we expose the stink of the system—tell me if this is not terrorism. Filipinos know terror in their own homes, in their own streets.”

  Father Santos clears his throat for a riposte, but the only foreigner in the panel gets in first. Colonel David Lane is the reluctant American official. He never wanted to come, but he’s the public face of this American case, so he might as well make an effort. “Miss Fuentebella, I totally agree with your point about home-based terrorism and of course the United States sympathizes with you on this—has worked in fact with your government in the Balikatan program. We’re on the same side, more so now that terrorism is a global issue that we should—”

  “Colonel, why don’t you review your history?” she cuts in. “Listen to this. The Philippines: nearly four hundred years under Spain, forty years under your America, three years under Japan—passed from hand to hand like chattel! And of course, forever under governments run by Filipinos who have terrorized their own people. Please, Colonel, don’t dare lecture us on terrorism.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Fuenteb
ella, but the United States is not lecturing you on terrorism. As you may appreciate, politically motivated violence has new dimensions, so the contemporary use of the word ‘terrorism’ is entirely different from the old definition—”

  She’s even more incensed. “So who defines it now? You think you have a patent on the word?”

  “Please hear me out, okay? If there are terrorist speculations about the abduction and possible shooting of an American national, it’s because of the previous American hostage crises in Mindanao—I’m sure you’re aware of that history. It’s because we’ve suffered from 9/11 and have grown acutely sensitive to any untoward actions against our citizens.”

  The woman swings toward him, her body making its own argument. “9/11 is tragic—any senseless death is tragic. But do you ever reflect on both sides of the equation? The problem with America is that it always paints itself as victim if not liberator or peace broker—never as an aggressor!”

  Quickly the president’s press secretary makes peace. “Colonel Lane, we feel for that great tragedy of your people.” Venancio Reyes outdoes the American’s apologetic tone. “I truly understand the unfortunate repercussions of 9/11, as evidenced by your government’s response to this current case, and of course the earlier American hostage crises in Mindanao are crucial to this current case. Let me assure you that the president herself has promised full support for Cate Burns. These are stressful times and, under stress, of course we act accordingly.”

  “Like our government giving priority to a lost American—more than its own citizens? Like taking a combat helicopter on a city tour? Like threatening the most helpless with demolition? Now, think about that, Colonel. We’re ready to erase the lives of our own people, for your sake!” Miss Fuentebella flings her bitterness at the crowd, her face contorting with the effort. “But what’s new? All these years we’ve always kissed the ass of the imperialist.”

  Everyone is silenced. The university professor decides against speaking. He’s bitterly disappointed. He came here with high hopes. No grandstanding, please. Don’t sabotage our chance to talk about this intelligently, to gain some political clout for the deceased.

  The silence is only a beat. Soon the press are shooting questions and hardly anyone can be heard in the din. Eugene finds himself being quizzed by the American journalists.

  “Who’s that?”

  “The lady has balls!”

  On her couch, Helen feels totally excluded. She can barely understand the discussion. The panel is in English.

  71

  The women stare at the American hundred-dollar bill and Cate’s photo. Does the boy’s condition have something to do with her? And what did they’do to him? They or he? The Pizza Hut man. And the gifts are a bribe for—the women make sure the door is firmly shut. Nena refuses to take the boy to a doctor. Cate cringes at the blame in her eyes.

  There’s a knock. The women look at each other anxiously.

  “They’ve come,” Nena whispers, crawling back to her son, but she’s stopped midway by the voice outside.

  “You okay, Noland?”

  Elvis!

  “So it’s that devil after all, I’ll make him pay for this.” Nena lets him in, quickly grabbing his feet, tripping him. On the floor, she hits him, waves the money at him. “What’s this? You know about this, don’t you? What have you done to my son? What happened to my son?”

  “No, Nena, let the boy go, let him tell us.” Cate tries to intervene. She notes the swollen eye and the ripped collar, the grimy shirt, the bruised knees.

  “I’m sorry, Noland, I’m sorry, he didn’t hurt you, did he, tell me he didn’t, Noland, tell me.” He wants to get to the mat but Nena pins him down, pummelling him with her fists.

  “You’re going to tell me what happened to my son, you’re going to pay for this, you scum.”

  “It wasn’t me, Aling Nena, it wasn’t me.”

  Unable to understand the exchange, Cate tries to get Nena off the boy. “What’s he saying? Let him tell us, leave him alone. He’s hurt, can’t you see? What happened? Please tell us. Was it—was it because of the shooting?”

  “I hit him, Noland,” Elvis calls out to his friend, who is just waking up. “I hit him right-smack on the face, I hit him for you—but he didn’t hurt you, did he? Bobby said he wasn’t meant to. It’s true, isn’t it—isn’t it?”

  Nena’s fury fills the hut. She wails curses, she damns him to hell.

  Outside the train passes. They barely hear each other.

  The knowledge rips the mother apart. She drives him out of the hut, screaming, “You little whore, you little whore!”

  On the mat the boy wants to tell them it’s not him, not his friend, but he can’t tell, ever. He closes his eyes again. I know a story you don’t know.

  72

  I’m like everyone. I’m turning with a thousand lights. I’m just another light. If only he could believe it.

  Elvis is in the sky. The Ferris wheel studded with rainbow lights turns and turns. It blurs all the riders beyond recognition. It’s only a lightstreaky wheel to those below, perhaps a whirling pattern of shining stones to the stars above. It’s competition, a brighter constellation.

  Elvis kept walking when he left the hut, roaming listlessly, retracing the route he and Noland took when they sneaked away. He ended up at Star City. He smirked at the guard, who didn’t recognize him, though he stared at his black eye, even asked if he’s okay. He played the games. He did the roller coaster, then the bumper cars. He bought himself a new cap and a toy revolver; he stole a pocket knife. He fancied himself armed to the teeth. I am deadly.

  He is above the city now. No one can hurt him up here. He wishes he could believe this. But there’s this pain expanding in his chest, as if it’s about to explode. Of course it’s where Bobby kicked him. Up here, he can’t see the hotel where he took them. He can’t see the intersection. They don’t exist. Down there are just lights. He can’t see the pimp who’s now in a bar convincing another drunk that he saves children from the gutter. He can’t see that in many homes the television flashes the great news of the season. A concerned Filipino has reported a sighting of the lost American. Cate Burns has been found.

  73

  The intersection is crawling with uniforms. Two bulldozers, a crane, armored cars, and an ambulance are on stand-by, and the sirens are wailing. The Huey hovers above, an angel sending the air into a terrified spin.

  “We’re back at the scene of the crime.” Eugene tries to talk over the drone vibrating even his teeth. He’s whipped about, his microphone nearly slipping from his hands. “Cate Burns is being held in one of these huts. Cate Burns is about to be rescued. The Philippine National Police, along with the military and some U.S. officials, are working together tirelessly in this dramatic culmination of a story that has filled the last few days.”

  The city is glued to the screen. This is the most exciting reality TV, and at Christmas too. The mystery is about to be solved. The story will have a true Christmas ending. Salvation.

  There’s a shot of the blinking stars, the slums, the residents trying to run to or from their homes but cordoned off by the authorities, then the frenzied media and the growing curious mob that is almost impossible to contain. Eugene rushes closer to where the Special Action Force spills from a van, in dark camouflage and helmets and masks, assault rifles at the ready. He’s pushed back, he keeps reporting. “We understand that late this afternoon, a call was made to the police about a sighting of the missing American. And the initial speculation is right. Street children were involved in her disappearance. But right now, what we’re seeing is the biggest breakthrough in this Christmas crime.”

  Lydia de Vera is watching her screen, feeling sick. The rescue of the American is the biggest breakthrough? How can you say that?

  Assault rifles slip from hut to hut. A gloved hand draws a circle in the air, then a thumbs-up sign, a nod from a dark mask, all precise speeches in eerie silence.

  Around their home th
eater, Senator G.B. and his family pin their hopes on this breakthrough. Street kids. He’ll be exonerated.

  The faces of Mikmik and her gang flash past, their terror leaping out of the screen.

  The American embassy officials are still at work, glued to this event, which they were alerted to early tonight.

  The lantern twins are crouched at their door, hands on their heads before an armed officer, and the camera moves on, over an array of lives, of histories reduced to frame after frame.

  The Philippine president and her press secretary are also watching with great relief, as is the whole nation.

  Finally the hut. The door is kicked, the assault rifles barge in, then the screams.

  On the other side of the globe, Americans are also fixed before their screens, captured by this spinning web. Now they’ll know the story. They’re about to meet Cate Burns and her abductors, maybe even the Pizza Hut terrorist man. No one blinks. This is their story now. In no time the screen is filled by a startled-looking white woman being strapped to a stretcher. She’s struggling? She’s screaming at her rescuers? “Listen to me, this is a mistake, I said listen to me!” She’s spirited off screen, then another screaming woman is bodily lifted by one of the uniforms. Behind her is a boy looking dazed, holding onto his Tagaligtas, his armed “Savior.”

  Is that the street kid? Where’s the Pizza Hut terrorist man?

  The woman is lifted away from the boy. She’s kicking, sobbing, pleading for the boy.

  Ah, the mother. The mother and her son.

  The public search their screens for that ferocious monster lurking inside, waiting until it’s dragged out of the hut. Nothing.

  Is that all?

  74

  The angels have been orphaned, just like that, their purpose lost. There’s no one to guard now. Saint Michael will never use his sword, even if he once vanquished the revolt of angels in heaven. Saint Raphael will be perpetually pinned onto the wall, as is his healing fish. He’s the patron of the young, but not today. The cherub, the winged child, won’t guarantee safety. He’s meant to live in the safest place in heaven, so he will never fly from the roof. And the angel guarding the door will let in the next troop of uniforms.