The Solemn Lantern Maker

by Merlinda Bobis

  “My God, Chief, just look at this!” one of the forensics team whispers, hesitating at the door of the hut that isn’t quite empty. Roberto Espinosa enters before the others, all gaping. A reverent quietude washes over them, as if they’ve walked into a cathedral. The flickering heart of the tree makes the stars and angels tremble among the shadows of the men.

  “It could be … that the boy’s mad.”

  The remark breaks the spell and the men get to work, discovering key items that will later fuel various media spins, depending on who’s writing for whom. They find Cate’s bloodstained clothes. Then the money and Cate’s photo from the paper. Then Noland’s notebook, which is scanned with care. They see angels and stars, the endless comic strips flowing into each other. They find the tabloid clipping about the death of a farmer six years ago. He killed his landlord, hacked him to death, before he was shot while escaping.

  With each page that’s turned, the angels want to look away. Each of the boy’s secrets is out now, each desecrated by the hands of strangers.

  There is one peculiar drawing of a star. It fills the page and is framed by a circle. Each of the star’s five points is also encircled. In each circle is a pasted picture: the boy they arrested, his mother, a man (is he the Pizza Hut man?), then another boy (the report said there were two of them), and the last circled point is still empty—but of course there’s the picture of the American freshly torn from a newspaper to the same size as the other photos. She is the fifth point.

  A star has five lights. Noland thinks it so it must be true. Angels live in stars, with fire in their chests. So when they breathe, the sky twinkles.

  If only the angels can tell the stories that Noland tells himself.

  In the way the star is drawn and decked, it looks like a—what do you call it, a mandala? Is this evidence of a cult? Was the American abducted by a cult? And the journalist shot by their hitman? Are the boys working for a terrorist cult?

  They bag all the evidence. They must find that other boy.

  75

  The chief examines the pasted angels, holding his lighter close to their faces when he can. The full spectrum intrigues him: from smiling innocence to bliss to vengeful conviction. He waits until everyone else has left, and turns his attention to the tree. He’s fascinated. What a clever light contraption.

  The candle inside the milk can splutters and he reaches in, trying to rekindle it with his lighter. This is how David Lane finds him, like a child secretly fixing up his tree. He withdraws his hand, embarrassed, and angry that he is. The candle dies. The two men face each other in the dark. Then the American moves forward to restore the light himself and extends his hand. “I’m David, David Lane.”

  “I know, Colonel,” the chief says, carefully enunciating the last word and ignoring the offered hand. “And I’m Roberto Espinosa of Special Projects. We’re in charge of the case.”

  “Of course,” David is quick to confirm.

  The two men stare at the candle trying to keep its light, the brave wick not quite succeeding, then David breaks the silence. “Smoke?” He offers the man his pack while lighting up.

  “Don’t burn the evidence to the ground, Colonel,” he says, blowing out the candle completely. “Let’s go outside.”

  David feels chastised. He bites back a cutting riposte. He can understand the other man’s belligerence. He’d hate anybody on his own turf too. He puts out his light, saying, “Whatever you say,” and follows the older man, who retorts, “That’s right, whatever I say.”

  Outside his phone rings. The Filipino officer takes the call and the American waits, keeping his distance, trying not to cover his nose against the smell of human excrement rising from the creek. The flashing lights from a police car help him to make out the other: gray hair, slight build, barely reaching his shoulders. He catches an expletive and the word “senator,” and sees the man looking at him with even more contempt.

  When the call ends he says, “I’m ordered to accommodate your needs, Colonel, because we must stand shoulder to shoulder.” He walks off briskly, without even looking at the American, through the babble of relief traveling the tracks. Ay, thank God, it’s over, the culprits have been arrested and we’re saved, we’re safe again. After the phone call, for Roberto, “safe” will always be a pretend word.

  76

  “Of course I was shocked. They’re my neighbors, you see. They seemed to be good people. They came here two years ago. Nena can’t walk, and her son Noland is mute. She used to wash clothes for Mrs. Sy across the highway and he makes those little paper lanterns, sells them at the intersection—but the other boy, I don’t know about him, though I saw a strange boy going in there. He had an argument with my husband a few days ago, I remember now. Plenty of attitude, that boy.”

  Eugene is interviewing Helen, who has much to say. Her heart is pounding. She can’t believe she’s on City Flash. She must ask if they’ll replay this, so she can watch. Imagine if her neighbors were watching now.

  Her neighbors are watching, live. They’ve flocked around, wanting to get on TV too. The crew fans the excitement, the camera lights ease the darkness within. Mikmik and her gang make faces behind Helen, trying to catch the camera’s eye.

  “You live just across from their hut,” Eugene says. “So how well do you know them?”

  Helen hesitates, then, “Tell me, did they hurt Cate? I mean, I still can’t believe they’d hurt her. They’re actually very peaceful folks, though you never know these days…” Her voice trails off; she stares at her feet. “No, I don’t really know them, they’re just neighbors.”

  “You said they’ve lived here for two years. Did you notice anything strange about them, or any strange happenings around here?”

  “Well … that Noland, he stares in that strange way, if you know what I mean.” She makes a gesture to indicate that he’s not right in the head. She thinks of Nena’s ugly legs. “It’s sad, you know.”

  “Tell us again how you saw Cate Burns for the first time.”

  “Well, she was just standing there, this afternoon.” She points to the hut crawling with police. “I couldn’t believe my eyes, you see—then she went back into the hut and shut the door. Very strange.”

  “And you rang the police. There is the reward, as you’re aware.”

  “Of course, it’s not about the reward,” she protests. Should she tell him about the bulldozer? Doesn’t he know? Then she finds the best answer. “Young man, it’s really about being a good Christian this Christmas. Christ saved us, right? So I save the American. It’s what any good Christian will do.”

  “Thank you for talking to us here on City Flash.” Then he turns back to the camera to proceed with his report.

  “Do you think they’ll be all right … I mean Nena and Noland?” Helen whispers from behind, but the reporter is already walking away with his crew.

  77

  He hurts more now that he’s back on solid ground, in the park of the fountain and giant lanterns. Earlier he checked his bruises in the toilets at Star City. The one on his chest isn’t the shape of a shoe and the pain is deeper and rising, pushing at his ribs. If there were a fairy tale about the ribcage, perhaps he would understand.

  Once upon a time in a land far away, there was a ball in a box with slats to peek through. It saw that the world was not good. The seeing hurt it more than the being out there, because it could not do anything. In the box the ball bounced and raged, but still it could not do anything about the world. The bouncing bruised the ball, strained the box to its seams, hurting it too.

  The rage kicks in again, making it hard to breathe. Elvis paces. He tries to lose himself in the season’s revelry, but he can’t, not on solid ground. He sees the sisters who commandeered their cart last night, fast asleep on the mat behind the cars. Around them bliss abounds. He whips out the toy revolver tucked at his waist and aims at the girls—bang-bang! No one bats an eyelash. Happiness is such a deadening thing.

  Across the road the church i
s empty. He plays hide-and-seek with the guards as he slips in. He stops by the sign about not leaving one’s things unattended. He shoots it too. He walks to the altar, gun at the ready. He finds the nativity. He comes close, surveys the Holy Family: Mary and Joseph staring at their child, their child staring at him. He aims. The stare does not waver. Still solemn, still knowing. He lowers the gun to his side. His eyes smart, his chest gives.

  78

  Nena is squatting in a corner, glued to the wall. She is holding her son like a baby. His head is buried on his mother’s breast, his body curled. Her head is burrowed between her knees, her legs drawn in to shield him. In the dim light they look like one body, not human, just limbs bound together.

  A corridor away a young man crazed by speed is screaming about monsters. The drunks, streetwalkers, and petty criminals arrested for the night scream over his screaming, “Shut up, shut up!” and ask the guard to take this crazy out of here. They get all sorts in this season. But the most precious find is in tight security. Not in a cell but a waiting room without windows. The door is double-locked, an armed guard posted outside. The guard’s ears feel the assault even this far away. Why doesn’t someone gag that mouth?

  Nena thinks of pigs being butchered in the big house, long ago on the farm. They could hear them a long way away. The pain in her legs makes her feel faint. She hushes it, hushes her son, who’s beginning to whimper. She whispers his name over and over like a nursery rhyme, and she’s returned to his baptism in the village. Her husband insists that he, not his wife, must hold his son in the ritual of naming. He cradles the bawling baby, the weight of a name. Noland.

  The machinery is rolling. The police are on the case, the military are on the case, and so are the American embassy and the presidential palace. There’s no sleep, no relief for the phone lines. In the police compound the notebook has passed between tables and hands, as have the theories and conjectures.

  The compound is patrolled by armed men. The blue blinds are drawn. There are armored cars and more armed men outside the gate. Traffic is blocked. The media keep vigil on the other side, some meters from the blocked area. It’s not yet midnight.

  “What do you think is happening in there?” a journalist asks Eugene Costa. It’s the American who stood beside him during the panel. “They can’t hold a ten-year-old like that.”

  “He’s with his mother and I was told they’re with someone from the DSW,” Eugene explains.

  “What’s that?”

  “The Department of Social Welfare—to make sure they’re okay.”

  “And you believe that?”

  Eugene can’t answer. The American stops asking. There’s something companionable about doubt. Strangers feel like old buddies.

  “Makes you tired … and angry,” Eugene mutters under his breath.

  “I know.”

  The two men sit on the pavement.

  The American is first to speak again. “I’ve followed this case since it broke out. It’s incredible, mad. I don’t think I can believe anything now.”

  “I know.” Eugene wants to talk about a detail, but it’s not news to be reported: the boy looking like he just woke up among the masks and assault rifles. He’s holding onto the hand of one of the soldiers. When his mother is taken away screaming, he just keeps holding on.

  79

  The senator is on the phone. He’s growing impatient with this long overseas call. Occasionally he nibbles some low-fat chips. His beer is no longer cold. “Yes, yes, this is a heart-to-heart—senator to senator, okay? I don’t want complications and you don’t want complications. This is a local matter, but I’m sure your ambassador will understand—very wise to get her out on the next plane. Great relief for the Burns family, I’m sure—and we’re just as relieved that her uncle’s on the ball over there. By the way, this Colonel David guy, you think he’s okay?”

  He listens to the winding tale in the other end, making impatient faces. “I know, I know, but it will still help if you ring your ambassador—yes, as we speak, I’m watching the latest.”

  The update on the arrest is on the screen that fills a whole wall. His eyes don’t leave it. Could it be that the terrorist group Abu Sayyaf has spread its claws beyond the south? Is this “terrorist cult” at the intersection an Abu Sayyaf cell? There’s fear of a rescue attack from the terrorist cult. Fuck! Whose spin is that? His own journalists must stay on the case.

  “How can I forget? Of course, I’ll take care of it, amigo.”

  The den is like an intimate cinema with its home theater, a sprawling bar, and a bed.

  “Yes, it’s been difficult, the damned media—thanks for your concern.”

  The beer has gone flat. Senator G.B. throws up his hand in the air, exasperated. “Listen, my reliable sources here tell me it’s a cult killing—no, no, not terrorism—that’s another media hype. It’s safe, yes, your interests are safe here. They’re not in Mindanao, remember.”

  He listens for a moment, then, “Quid pro quo. If you help me, I’ll help you—the last thing we want is to complicate the case when we’re finally seeing some light.” He chuckles at something said in the other line. He lounges on the bed, a squat man who swears by the gym. He strokes his pecs, as if they were a precious pet. “I know, we live in very interesting times—as you do there in America—though we’re more interesting here. You’d believe anything here.”

  G.B. has been making calls since the arrest and even before it. He has friends and those who aren’t friends are afraid of him. He knows the perfect pressure points. He frets that he must stay home tomorrow to monitor them. He will miss the gym. Already he feels the protest in his limbs.

  “You see, I’m innocent, I’m exonerated, thank God. After all the grief the media have given me—but you’ll make that phone call, of course. I’m sure your ambassador will welcome sound advice.”

  He’s comforted by the other’s assurance. He changes channel. He has seen enough, talked enough. He’s dying for another beer, a very cold beer.

  “Yes, I’m fine—and your mining deal, of course. I’ll make sure it is fine. My Christmas gift … of course, I’m a friend.” Then suddenly his impatience dissipates. “What—which Celestia? You mean the drug multinational Celestia?” He listens intently.

  “A sure bet? When did you know?” His face lights up. “Fantastic! Well, thanks for the tip, amigo. Yes, of course, anytime—and a very merry Christmas to you too.”

  Suddenly the senator feels his day lifting, his limbs easing. Ah, some things are better than the gym. He chooses the coldest beer in the fridge, guzzles it. He’ll make another phone call, this time to his broker. Two thousand Celestia shares, yes! The beer fizzes in his throat, the figures rise in his head. In this part of the city, there’s no need to rumble them for luck.

  80

  A star is hung at a window too soon. It’s not yet whole. The star maker, whose face she can’t see, polishes each shell and raises it to her for approval. She inspects it. It’s so shiny, like a mirror, she can see herself on it. The shell is glued to the star then they start all over again. Polish, inspect, attach, until the star is finished. Now it lights up, flashing each facet like a giant gem. The star maker is gone. It’s just her and the star making prisms. Each facet bears her face. Each has a story of her face.

  There’s Cate at the airport, staring at a star that blinks like an alarm. Cate awed by the flashing stars at an intersection. Cate on a bed of bloodstained stars. Cate among stars infused with light. Cate inside a star.

  The star maker is peeking at her. It’s the boy. He breaks into the star to reach for her, but his hand comes out empty and all the little shells are undone. He starts all over again. Cate starts all over again. He polishes each shell, raises it to her for approval and glues it back on. But when they do the next shell, the first comes off. They can’t finish the job.

  It is a restless dream. Cate begs the boy to please stop, but no sound comes from her mouth.

  81

  It’s
only the star at the hospital window. Her half-closed eyes make out the small lantern. She’s still groggy from the drug used to settle her. There are murmurs she can’t quite make out.

  “She wasn’t shot, she must have fallen. There’s mild concussion, nothing too serious—and she miscarried. There are signs of PTSD, of course. Yes, post-traumatic stress disorder. I suggest we keep this short.”

  Three figures lean toward her, all soft voiced.

  “Welcome back, Cate … I’m Dr. Hill. You have visitors.”

  “Hello, Cate. We’re from the embassy. I’m Bettina and this is David. We’re here to make you as comfortable and safe as possible. The ambassador sends her best. She’ll do everything she can to help.”

  All efficient kindness coming to focus: the mestizo doctor and two Americans, the consul and the colonel, who have dropped the formalities.

  “The hospital is only a few minutes’ walk from the embassy, so everything is fine.” The consul pats her hand. “If there’s anything you need, we’re close by. Your backpack’s in the closet, all your papers are safe, and we got you some fresh clothes—they’re in there too. It’s very comfortable here, like a home really.” The consul makes a sweeping gesture around the luxurious suite. “I’ll leave you with friends now. Someone will stay at the other side, in your private lounge, for as long as you’re here—if you need anything. We know you’ve been through so much. I’m very sorry.”