The Solemn Lantern Maker

by Merlinda Bobis

  “Yes, Noland septy-septy…” Safety-safety wherever he is right now, Nena hopes. She searches the white woman’s face. “You sad … like me … no son, no husband … he die?”

  Cate is silent. Her own stories jostle each other inside; she’s sinking under their weight. If only she hadn’t woken up, couldn’t remember. She hears the question again: “He die?” The man back home who did not want it?

  Nena’s eyes are fixed on her face, keen for an answer, but Cate is afraid to open her mouth; she can’t trust what might come out. Instinctively she passes a hand over her belly, swallows tears. Her wretchedness is an imposition here, but she can’t help hearing him now. Their last conversation.

  “It’s too sudden, Cate, and unfair. I never agreed to it. It will turn our lives upside down. And your future—you’ve just started your thesis. It’s bad timing, especially now that we’re fighting this merger with another department. I’m so stressed out, you know, and you too—it will be too much stress for both of us. Think of the poor child, and your health.” So she packed for a Christmas holiday, alone with it. He wanted a termination.

  He die? No, it die.

  “He die?” Again Nena asks.

  Cate nods. What satisfaction to wish him dead.

  Nena nods too. She makes a decision. From underneath the red and green Japanese paper, she retrieves a notebook. She holds it for a bit, still unsure, then hands it to Cate.

  The angels hold their breath. You’re not supposed to tell, it’s a secret.

  “No touch, no see … I touch, I see … you, Noland like … you okay touch, you okay see.”

  Cate stares at the notebook’s cover of angels and stars.

  “He like star, he like angel … guardian angel…” Nena makes a gesture of gathering the angels around the hut. “Make Noland-Nena septy-septy.” She opens to the first page. It has a blond angel cut out from an old Christmas card. She half smiles. “Noland say … you angel…”

  62

  The film has just finished and the viewers are making a move to leave. It was a free movie, a local comedy, but no one laughed. Even the wire-man Mang Pedring is here, shoulder to shoulder with Mang Gusting and the twins, Vic and Vim. Lisa too, crouched close to her onetime flame, who doesn’t look at her now, what with his heartbreak over Hong Kong. Manang Betya leans against her, wondering if luck could be turned around this late. She checked a while ago, and yes the bulldozer is still there.

  “Seen them lately?”

  “Who, Helen?”

  “Nena and Noland. I’m terribly worried about them. You think they’re away, went home to the province maybe? But where’s their province? I never really asked … you know, City Flash said it’s maybe street kids…” She lets this dangle, waits for the others’ responses.

  “Oh-oh,” Lisa begins, clutching her chest. “Maybe they think street kids live here, just because we’re squatters—”

  “I’m not,” Manang Betya protests. “I have a proper home and work. By the way,” she says, taking out the little jueteng notebook from her pocket, “I have a tip for all of you—we can change our luck with a winning combination, you know.”

  “Aw, shuddup!” It’s Mang Pedring, knotting and unknotting his hands. Some hours ago, a plainclothes policeman cornered him while he was tinkering with the wires behind the nearby hardware store. “Aha,” the man said. “Going for it again?” He hid his pliers quickly but the man said he could report this free loading on someone else’s circuit, and by the by, tell us about your friends over there, pointing to the intersection. He demanded stories, conspiracies that led to the kidnapping of the American. At a loss, the wire-man soon promised the cop he would find out, but please no reports. Now he’s watching each of his neighbors, for any possible story, any possible culprit.

  He starts with the lantern maker, who still owes him three hundred. “You, Vim, you were there when it happened, and you helped that man who was shot at the wheel. How come you know him?”

  Vim is shocked at the accusation. “I did not know him, I saw him shot!”

  “And you were the first to report about the American.”

  “Lay off my brother.” Vic turns on the wire-man. “You know he was bashed because he told the police what he saw—he still has the bruises to prove it. Use your eyes and your stupid head.”

  “Yes, he was trying to help, foolishly I must say,” Manang Betya adds.

  “And now we’re all under suspicion, under threat, with that putang ’nang, that son-of-a-whore bulldozer about to mow us all down,” Mario whines. “You and your big mouth, Vim, if you hadn’t—”

  Vic hits him.

  The women crouch in the corner, Lisa starts to weep, Mario keeps swearing, putang ina, he’s lost a tooth, but he doesn’t have the will to hit back, not now anyway. He eyes the twins, rubbing his cheek. Maybe they know something… They all size each other up, wondering what stories they can tell the soldiers so they’ll go away and take their bulldozer with them.

  Every look resurrects old grudges. I suspect Manang Betya pocketed my winning once. That Lisa hijacked my laundry customer; and she’s done it again to that poor Nena. Ah, Mang Gusting has always turned up his nose at me, just because he’s got dollars from Hong Kong. Wonder what he knows, wonder what she’s really up to, wonder what they’re hiding.

  The heart of terror is Machiavellian, and in it is the power of story.

  Outside there are no firecrackers, no carols, no karaoke, no blaring trumpets. Unusual two days before Christmas, and all the huts are closed. So are the lantern stalls. It’s never been this dark.

  “Do you think we’re people?” The question breaks the terrified spell. It’s Lisa, now chewing her nails.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They don’t think we’re people,” she whispers.

  “No, they do … we’re just nothing people, that’s all.”

  Everyone chews on the thought of being nothing. “Shouldn’t we start packing?” Vim rises, his voice shaky. “You know … just in case…”

  “Aw, come off it,” Manang Betya scolds, then solemnly begins. “I have a solution,” and she takes out her bookie’s notes. “I prayed for it, divined it, you bet. Quite simple, it’s like inverting bad luck. Now, when was the date of the shooting, the 19th, now add that number to Christmas Day, 25, and …” She whispers into each woman’s ear what other numbers to rumble, to win over bad luck. Then she waves her notebook in the air, weaving magic with her story of luck. The men are drawn in, wanting to be part of the action, except for the twins who walk out.

  “Oh-oh, yes-yes.” Lisa is convinced, taking out a twenty from her pocket and handing it over.

  But Helen is less gullible. In fact, she’s shocked. “Dios ko, how could you let murder and kidnapping in on luck? That’s inviting the devil!”

  “No, we’re scaring the devil away, we’re letting the angels rescue us—don’t forget we’re adding the date of Christmas, 25, so there!”

  “No, Manang Betya, these days, real luck is if you find that Cate, then you get the reward.”

  “Yes, yes, that reward.” The others nod, suddenly dreamy.

  “Heaps and heaps, I’m sure,” Lisa figures.

  “And in dollars,” Manang Betya chimes in, pressing her luck for more bets. “I tell you, we just need to rumble the numbers for one good luck and we break this dry spell,” and she waves her notebook again, amen, amen.

  “But street kids, imagine that—no, it’s not possible.” Helen is about to say more, but shuts her mouth. There was a stranger, a boy wandering around here, he kicked the dog, he went into there one time—she looks out to Nena’s hut. It’s still shut, still looking empty.

  63

  Across the tracks the women look at the notebook open on the floor. On its last page, away from all the drawings, is a tabloid clipping from six years ago. It’s a photo of a young Nena with four-year-old Noland. Both are looking straight at the camera, the mother with apprehension, the boy curiously.

&n
bsp; WIDOW OF SHOT FARMER CRIES FOR JUSTICE

  The caption stares Cate in the face.

  “My son … he see bang-bang…”

  WIDOW OF SHOT FARMER…

  It steals her breath.

  “He see fall, Cate … he see father … fall…”

  In the dark, the secret grows. It finds each corner, invades even her mouth. Cate wants to say sorry forever. She wants to weep with this woman for a long, long time.

  “Please-please, Cate Burns, no-go, no-go, no police, no uniforms…”

  The angels hear a soft crying.

  DECEMBER 23

  64

  The tracks are deserted, the huts closed. At the intersection, a taxi deposits a boy clutching two bags. He’s wearing a new shirt and his first pair of long pants. He seems disoriented. It’s dark but on the horizon the sky glows from the city lights. Framed by this glow, the small figure in the middle of the tracks looks eerie. The silent row of huts and the stretch of steel seem to converge toward him, in him. All of this still life.

  There’s a drummer boy in one bag, food in the other. There’s a hundred-dollar bill in one pocket folded neatly over a photo torn from a newspaper, and two five-hundred-pesos in the other.

  All dark, the huts look strangely alike. Which is the hut of angels?

  He walks a few more paces. He smells of fresh hotel soap and some sweet lotion. His skin is soft from it. He stares at his feet. New shoes too. Black leather. Christmas has come early for him.

  He keeps staring at his feet. They made marks on the man’s chest when he asked him to stand there for a long time. Stand still. Don’t cover yourself, don’t be shy. He felt dizzy with the blinking lights. The man took many pictures. He offered many gifts. He spoke all the time in an unfamiliar tongue. His voice was gentle. His hands too when he showed him how to stand, sit, lie down, or look, and when he washed him. He took more pictures in the bath.

  The boy shuffles on. Each step is an effort, as if it were his first.

  What will his mother say?

  His feet feel strange in the shoes.

  Will she like him this way?

  His pants are too long, he steps on them.

  Will she ask?

  His body feels strange, dizzy, inside out.

  Will the angel ask?

  She has a real name now; he has her picture.

  He reaches the creek, stands before it in his newness, like a cutout from another story. He softly tiptoes toward the hut; it looks like the right one. He sits at the door. He looks up, searching for stars. There are none. He closes his eyes to make them appear.

  The comic strip is not only empty. Each box is black.

  65

  Elvis and Bobby Cool are sitting on a bench overlooking Manila Bay. Above them, a lit flower lantern. Higher up, the morning star. It’s 4 a.m. and in every church around the country the pre-dawn mass has begun. Baywalk is nearly empty of holidaymakers. Except for the late-night-to-early-morning lovers and a confused drunk, the strip is peaceful. But not Elvis. He’s seething. He’s lost his cap; the cockiness is gone. He’s all vulnerable rage, his skin burning, his heart cold. “Fuck you, Bobby, you agreed to leave Noland out of this. You weren’t to touch him—you promised!”

  Bobby is calm, his voice soft and reassuring. “Aw, simmer down. No one touched him. It was only pictures. He’s hit the jackpot for so little work. He was paid very well, even got a big tip. He has plenty of money for Christmas, for his sick mother. What are you complaining about?”

  Elvis chokes on his words. He swings at the pimp, hitting him right on the mouth.

  Bobby is shocked. His lip is cut, there’s blood.

  “We’re finished, Bobby.”

  It takes a moment for the man to comprehend what’s happened. He looks at the blood on his hand and snaps. He hits the boy square on the face. The boy sprawls on the ground howling, hand on an eye that feels dislodged from its socket. The man kicks him. The small body rolls farther away with the impact. He kicks him again, harder. The boy curls up. The man grabs him by the shirt so that it rips at the collar. He pulls him close and spits out his contempt. “Don’t forget, I picked you up from the gutter, I clothed you, I fed you—I saved you! And now you hit me, huh? You ungrateful wretch, you little shit, you whore!” He lets go, then starts to walk away. “So we’re finished?” he yells. “See what happens, see how hunger suits you—then you’ll come crawling back.”

  Elvis crouches against the sea wall, sobbing, “I’m going to kill you, I’m going to kill you.”

  Behind him, the sea is calm, the sky just lightening. Even the waves are not yet fully awake. Soon the first metro aide comes sweeping the street. He asks Elvis if he’s okay. Elvis screams at him to fuck off.

  66

  The women speak to Noland, but he seems not to hear them. He is dizzy inside out. He is here and not here. The room is spinning, the star lanterns are dancing, but when he shuts his eyes, he sees only a strip of black boxes, the black bleeding into each other. All starless night, all nothing.

  Above him the cherub looks on, still blissful and as helpless as sooty Saint Michael with his raised sword fixed on the wall. Like Saint Raphael, who can only imagine clutching his fish a little tighter, and nothing more. Like the angel at the door, wishing she had kept it tightly closed between the boy and the world. There is nothing anyone can do against being fixed in one place for the rest of one’s life. The gods are in heaven, the mortals on earth.

  “Ay, my son, my son!” his mother wails, as if he has died. She’s clutching him to her breast, can’t let go, even as the other woman tries to help him onto the mat. “Hush, hush,” she says. “Lay him down, Nena, lay him down.”

  “What happened to you, who did this? Are you hurt, did they hurt you? Ay, ay, what did they do to you?”

  “Nena … please, let’s settle him first.”

  Shock. The boy’s in a state of shock, Cate is sure, but she can’t quite understand the new clothes and shoes, the sweet scent, the expensive toy, the food. Maybe nothing really happened, nothing bad … and yet there’s another voice sneaking into her head. What if? No, don’t go there, don’t.

  Noland keeps his eyes shut. His mother is angry and he can’t tell her anything now, never. He knows a story that can never be told. Because it confuses him. Because he’s ashamed. Because he’s no longer himself. He feels his shoes being slipped off his feet. What if they see the man’s chest on his soles? His shirt is unbuttoned, and his pants. No, no, I don’t want you to see me. His mother’s sobbing hurts his ears.

  Nena checks her son’s body for marks, frantically turning him this way and that. It’s difficult. He’s curled up tight on the mat. Only when a blanket covers him does he relax and fall asleep.

  “Nena … Nena … let’s leave him alone, let him rest…”

  “Ay, Cate … me no understanding…”

  The women speak in whispers as they go through his things. Each item is a clue for the mother, a stab into her breast. She reverts to her own language, still addressing Cate, who hears her tone clearly, her intent.

  “This toy, Cate … it looks very expensive…”

  “Nena, maybe he was with a friend … or a relative?” This sounds so lame.

  “And his clothes … they’re new … and the shoes…”

  “Christmas gifts maybe from—from—”

  “What’s this?” Nena has found the two five-hundred-peso bills.

  “From—from lantern sales maybe?”

  “And this?”

  It’s the hundred-dollar bill this time. They stare at it, search for a reason.

  “That Elvis—that devil, that scum.” Hasn’t she suspected—Dios ko, if she goes to the end of this thought, she’ll die.

  Very soon she finds Cate’s photo folded under the bill. Her fears take another route.

  67

  The angels look more cheerful. They have no choice. The morning begins to stream into the hut. But the women are grim; they have stopped talking, each alon
e in their thoughts. When Nena discovered Cate’s photo, she kept the Amerkana at arm’s length. She’s the root of all this, she’s a bad-luck woman. Soon the police, the uniforms will come, and it will be over like last time. It will end. The poor have wretched endings every day. Why is that?

  Nena has become catatonic like her son, her house-dress riding up her hip, revealing a sight that shocks Cate. Below the tattered panties, all the way down the thighs, scars, then the misshapen knees, the crooked calves. She’s crouched at her son’s feet, her eyes never leaving his face.

  Cate shivers in her corner. There’s something about those legs, the violent ugliness of—“an accident”? “You must eat. I’ll make breakfast. Yes, you watch over him, but you must eat,” she blurts out, rising with a sickly feeling in her gut. But there are only the empty packets of Milo and cheese, and very little water left in the pail in the corner. They finished the bread yesterday. She notes the contents of the bag on the floor, but does not dare touch them. Her stomach grumbles. Chocolate bars, cookies and nuts, two apples, an orange juice. Not local brands. Bought at random in a supermarket? No, hotel food, but they’ll never know.

  “You must eat something, Nena.”

  Nena doesn’t budge.

  Cate wants to come close and pull the housedress down, but the mat where she used to lie is strange territory now. A refuge for mother and son, and she is the intruder.

  The boy turns and groans. Both women quickly bend over him, their breaths held. Was that a word? Did he speak?

  He raises a hand and Cate instinctively grasps it. Nena tries to push her away, but she hangs on, clutching the cold fingers, blabbering her anguish.

  In the dark in his head, Noland hears it. “Noland … Noland … I like your angels … your angels, Noland.”