“You really think it’s an Abu Sayyaf cell?”
“Don’t be stupid, the boy’s Catholic.”
“Who says?”
“Catholic or Muslim—what’s the difference?”
“What a stupid question.”
“What’s stupid is if you don’t ask that question. There are good and bad Catholics, or Christians if you will, and there are good and bad Muslims. There’s violence and kindness on both sides, on any side—it’s just people.”
“What do you mean, it’s just people? You’re a fence sitter.”
“At least I have a better view from here, and I’m not saying it makes me any better. I’m as good and bad as everyone else, but I wish I were better—”
“Better at what—arguments in your newspaper column?”
“I wish—I wish we could invent a compassion drug, inject politicians with it and all those who hold the lives of the most powerless—”
Someone laughs. “You making some corny speech?”
“No, just wishing for an antidote against unscrupulous self-interest.”
The laughing man sobers up. “A drug for decency is enough for me.”
“Then in this case, we’re dreaming.” Another closes the subject and walks away. “I’m going home.”
The wishes are hushed, as they are around the world where the stars want to hide their faces, afraid to be picked on by another futile human longing. The small crowd of journalists and cameramen look away from each other. All know there’s little chance for the boy and his mother in there, but no one can bear to say it.
“We must be vigilant, anything can happen now.”
“Everything has happened—we should be doing something more than hanging around for the next tidbit.”
A cameraman starts texting again. “I’ve been asking friends to come. We should all go to the streets and protest—”
“At Christmas?”
A policeman and a photographer buy rice cakes and ginger tea. A vagrant who’s looking on gets a cake from the policeman. The photographer throws in a tea. All nod to each other as they take their first bite.
“If Germinio were alive, he’d be in there giving them a headache.”
“That’s why he’s not alive.”
Eugene envies the others who haven’t stopped arguing through the night, but he’s past talking. The story is over. There are culprits in custody, so everyone is appeased. Everyone will go home and have Christmas. He’s ashamed of his thoughts, but his exhaustion overwhelms his shame. He hasn’t slept in his own bed since the shooting, but he can’t bring himself to leave.
“They’ll use children to exonerate murderers.”
“We won’t let that happen. That’s why we’re here.”
And you believe that. Eugene shivers. It’s colder than he thought.
87
At 6 a.m. the waiting room is unlocked and some weak coffee and pan de sal are brought in. Mother and son don’t move, still bound together like one body, curled against the wall. The couch hasn’t been used. All night they listened to the screaming in the cell at the other end, the passing footsteps, and each little sound behind the door. Nena was certain it would open anytime and they’d be wrenched apart, and this time she might never see her son again. She tried to imagine the farm when there were still the three of them listening to the first crickets, watching the stars rise from the hill.
Sometime in the night she whispered the old story-wish to her son. The stars above the hill are angels and they’re watching over us. Noland saw the hill but there were no stars. It was broad daylight and very hot. Heat waves rose from the rice that looked almost white at high noon. Nena felt his sweat trickle on her breast and thighs, but she did not ease her clasp and nor did he. Not even air must be allowed to come between them. She only moved her lips, intoning the wish as before:
Star-light, star-bright
Make-a-wish-a-wish-tonight.
But Noland saw no stars to wish on. He’d lost all of them in his head. Even the comic strip has gone.
“It’s breakfast,” the guard says, pushing the tray closer to the prisoners. It bothers him that they’re still in the same position as when he locked the door last night. “It’s breakfast,” he says again, still hoping to see their faces.
88
He’s drawn into the little boxes, the little angels falling and flying. Here’s one with a drooping wing, here’s another with a startled look on her face, another with stick-hands raised in the air. He wants to know what happens next but it seems the same story is told in pages and pages of comic strips strung together. Roberto Espinosa flips through the notebook and finds the large star with the photos pasted on it, the mandala identified by someone stupid enough to pronounce it a cultic symbol. The boy’s a lantern maker and this is a sketch of a lantern. Why can’t they see that? Because of the photos, one of the farmer who murdered his landlord six years ago in what was alleged to be a ritual killing. Because of the yet unpasted photo: the American.
This circus is making him sick but he’s part of it and there’s no way out. That little act with the Americans at the hospital was the worst yet. And now, this. So who started the rumor about a terrorist cult? It began in that hut, an offhand remark overheard by the media, and now the public laps it up. It’s a wonder how a story is told and retold in a matter of hours. How it lands on his desk as “truth.”
Roberto takes his first coffee on what will be a very long day. The phone rings. Finally he takes the call that he’s tried to avoid all night.
89
The consul has breakfast at her desk. The colonel is angling for a quarrel. A man going around the bend is the last thing she needs after the phone hasn’t stopped ringing all night.
“Let me speak with the ambassador.”
“For God’s sake, drop it, David.” Her cup clunks on the saucer, spilling coffee. She almost curses. “We must distance ourselves from this case.”
“Because we got back our own?”
She’s trying to find the napkin. “It’s impolitic—now where’s that—it’s impolitic to keep stirring—”
“Like hell we stirred it up! All that spin. So why can’t we tell one more story, the truth this time?”
“Truth?” She blots the spill with letterhead paper. “C’mon, you’re tired, I’m tired.” Her voice cajoles as though he’s a peeved child. “It’s not the time to debate truth, David.”
“Aw, don’t give me that, Bettina. All I’m asking is for us to make a statement based on Cate’s claim that the mother and son are innocent—is that too onerous a task? If we can mobilize the demolition of hundreds of lives—”
“Wait a minute, that wasn’t us, that was a local strategy. Besides, it didn’t happen, it wasn’t meant to happen, and afterward we got results anyway. Someone reported the culprits—but of course you think they’re innocent. My God, David, the father was a murderer!”
“Have you asked why?”
The consul is flabbergasted. “Where’s your loyalty? Doesn’t it bother you that this is another hostage crisis involving an American citizen? You of all people should understand the implication of this case. Hasn’t it occurred to you that the Abu Sayyaf have grown so bold as to take action in the heart of the capital—at the busiest time of the year? Terrorists in this country are linked to bombings in other parts of the world, and then those assassinations, kidnappings, the beheadings—have you gone blind?”
David hears the string of arguments in his head. What if we’re wrong? What if this “terrorist group” is nothing more than a gang of kidnappers used to discredit the Muslim guerilla armies that have fought for self-determination since the seventies? Where does the story begin? Have we asked about the years of dispossession of Mindanao’s Muslims? Do we know this country? Have we asked about the endemic corruption of this government, the violence of its military against civilians, and the even greater violence of poverty? Have we asked why that farmer hacked his landlord to death? But we’re not allowe
d to go there. We stick with the present where the storytelling is required to begin, where we should always tell “the truth” with certainty.
“So, Bettina, you really believe that this case with the boys is a hostage crisis?”
“And what do you believe, David? You went to Afghanistan, Iraq—what do you believe in?”
Afghanistan he believed in: he had no love for the Taliban. Then Iraq. He believed in that too, oh how he believed in those weapons of mass destruction, and then? Certainty is terrifying. Whoever wields it.
He keeps his anger at bay. “A kid, a lantern seller, is an Abu Sayyaf operative in the slums of Manila, is that it?”
“What do you think?”
He laughs, bitterly. “A Hollywood conspiracy. C’mon, the boy’s hut is filled with stars and angels. He’s Catholic. It’s not Allah, Bettina, it’s a different God. But the spin doctors left that out, of course.”
“God’s on our side, so we got back our own.”
He can’t believe his ears. He finds himself shaking. “Allah, Christ—who cares? Whatever god it is, we use him as a badge for our possession or dispossession. We justify or we implore, and then we start a fucking war!”
She’s unflustered, keeping up the solemn tone. “Of course you know the Burnses have an uncle who’s high up at the Pentagon.”
He ignores the remark.
“Of course you know. That’s probably why you’ve been asked to handle the case. The family pulled strings and they thought they could trust the people’s colonel—and what other secret designations do you have, David? Are you CIA, or simply Pentagon?” She shrugs at his lack of response. “I wonder what they’d say if they heard you now.”
He refuses to take the bait.
“I’m going to keep my mouth shut about this conversation, but for the moment let’s just do our job. Self-righteousness is not part of our brief.” Then she tries to make peace. “Another coffee?”
David shakes his head. She pours herself a third cup. “Well, the Philippine media hounded us all last night—at least you don’t have to deal with that. They’re demanding we save the children and produce Cate as a witness against The Pizza Hut Man.” She chuckles. “Yes, as thick as a Hollywood plot.” But her amusement is brief. “We’re flying her home.”
He remains silent. What’s the use?
“You know what they’re saying? Cate Burns must appease a restless public. She’s a witness to a crime that’s become very difficult for the Philippine government. And why should their children be put in the firing line? It’s the responsibility of America, as a friend, to help. Whose friend are you, David?”
Overnight, since the arrest, the embassy has issued a statement: Cate Burns is in intensive care and the U.S. won’t undermine the Philippine government’s very competent handling of the case. Not too cool or abrupt but efficiently shutting up the protest at the other end. There’s the necessary rift between truth and diplomatic truth.
The consul walks to the window, raises her cup to the stars hanging from the acacia trees, all festive above the U.S. marines milling about and, outside the gate, the armored cars of the Philippine military. “There’s talk about a protest rally if the embassy doesn’t hand her over. A threat of people power in this street, but we’re used to it and all that ‘Down with the imperialist’ stuff. We can’t win, can we? Around the world if there’s trouble, they seek our help; if we help, they accuse us of meddling. What are we supposed to do?”
David wants to gag her, but his shaking hands find only his face, which no longer feels like his own.
“You know what really gets me? It’s the fact that we liberated this country from the Japanese. Your grandfather fought for that, or have you forgotten? We gave them democracy, an educational system, we still feed them foreign aid, and what do we get in return?”
David hears the equal bitterness of the Filipina journalist on the television panel. After a while, he whispers tiredly, “Forty years, Bettina. We occupied them for forty years, and before that, we fought them in a war, and much later, we backed the dictator who robbed them blind for twenty years.”
But she barely hears. She’s searching the streets for any sign of activity. “Yes, possibly people power again. But this is a country that performs its protest, and performances can be exhausting. One must draw the curtain sometimes for rest—the restless public must have their Christmas too.”
“Are you done, Bettina?”
“Go home, David … it’s Christmas Eve.” She leads the silent man to the door, convinced that her ambassador must ring Washington. This new military attaché, or whatever is his undocumented designation, has lost the plot. Whoever posted him here has made a dangerous mistake.
90
He likes his fried rice with plenty of garlic, and his dried fish salty and crisp. Senator G.B. is having “a poor man’s breakfast,” but only rarely—it’s not healthy, you know. This is what he confides on the phone after inquiring about the detainees and how the search for the other boy is progressing. Offhand, he suggests that they must be moved somewhere safe from the media. All this drumbeating about the poor child in custody might cause Roberto Espinosa to lose his job by the New Year. You know, this could hurt any career irreparably, but he can speak to friends who will make sure this doesn’t happen. But first, please take care of the situation. We don’t want that cult messing up our turf, do we?
Senator G.B. likes his circuitous persuasions. He can speak to friends who will make sure someone loses his job if this isn’t handled his way. He likes the stunned silence at the other end as this point is digested. He likes breakfast with a little kick on the side, to start the day. “And Roberto, thanks for accommodating our American friend, we’ll talk again soon.”
He splashes whisky into his coffee and turns the television on. Thank God he has his own media. If the mother and son disappear tonight, there might be a story about another abduction by the cult. A tale is only as fresh as its fodder.
“Honey, are you still making those phone calls?”
“Ah, Margarita, mi amor, come here—I don’t know what I’d have done without you over these last few days.” He kisses his wife, who is twenty years his junior. He married her when she was an upcoming singer and shifted her career toward singing for his religious charities, which earned him the nickname Good Boy.
“Really, G.B., Jingjing’s been waiting to have breakfast with her dad for an hour now. It’s getting too much, you know, we’ve got to put a stop to this. Can we at least eat at the table like family?” She picks up his coffee and confiscates the little flask, slipping it into her pocket.
“Just a minute.” He flips channels, then stops. “Again?” He’s furious. “How many times do they have to show that? Putang ina!” he curses the TV. “If there’s any more tugging at the heartstrings, they’ll snap.”
The camera is meticulously panning across the boy’s face as if it were the most precious find. It lingers on the eyes that outstare the lens.
91
Is it a downward turn of the mouth or a crease on the brow? Or a wariness in the eyes? Something else is there, or something is missing. She can’t find what has made his face strange, or what it has lost.
Nena urges her son to eat. He stares up at her, also querying her face, then burrows deep into her breast again. Does she know?
She dare not ask now, she dare not find out. “If they ask, we know nothing,” she whispers.
She thought it out through the night. Today the uniforms will ask questions, will ask for stories. About the American, the Pizza Hut man, about that bad-luck woman, about things she can’t even ask her son after he went missing. She rehearses denials in her head—but about what? What did she or her son not do? Her breath quickens, quick as the little mice in her legs, scurrying, gnawing. Once in a circle of uniforms she was asked questions about her husband, about the altar on their wall and the pictures of their dead ancestors beside the crucifix, about the missing machete, about who their friends were and h
ow long they’d hated the big house.
Never, in all her life, has she been asked what has been done to her family. Her back aches, her limbs are cramped, but she can’t disengage herself from her son. Sometime in the night she needed to go to the toilet but she was terrified to talk to the guard outside. She longed to stretch out, tried to crawl to the couch with Noland in her arms, but he whimpered piteously. She whispered the story about the stars on the hill. He grew quiet and fell asleep.
92
This story began with a star. At the airport she imagined it flashed a warning. Two hours later it seduced her out of a taxi and spun her life out of her hands. Cate peers at it through drugged eyes. The patchwork of shells at the window is still, unlit. Her life and other lives once so alien have all become a patchwork. Six accidental days and they’re bound in one story.
She tries to rewind the tape in her head to before the flight, the taxi ride to the airport on the other side of the world, to a sleek apartment at leafy Cornell, the bedroom, the man in the bed who did not even know she was taking off to another country. She ran away with his smell still on her, the imprint of his unwelcome love-making in the early hours evoking the other welcome ones years ago, for this is how it happens when it’s over. The final and the first act converge, and you see clearly.
He was her lecturer at Cornell. She was an impressionable freshman and she desired this gray-haired god and vowed to get him. They were married after her graduation and she desired more than just the scent of his spunk on her skin. She wanted it in her, growing, and he said to wait because he was finishing his third book, and then wait because he was setting up cutting-edge research with Oxford, and then wait because he was going for the professorial chair, and then wait some more, for what she doesn’t even remember now.
Child evasion is like tax evasion, she once argued with him. Cook up the books for debit, cry poor, or poor me, and wait for the taxman to validate your withdrawal from the ranks of fatherhood. It is this waiting that remains with her. Everything else has grown shadowy, like something under mossy water, so her eyes return to the surface, which becomes a screen playing six days as a lifetime, ending with an oh-so-solemn face in her head, with a kick in her womb.
The Solemn Lantern Maker Page 15