Merlinda Bobis - The Solemn Lantern Maker

Other books by Merlinda Bobis

Banana Heart Summer
Available from Delta

and

Pag-uli, Pag-uwi, Homecoming (poetry)

A Novel-in-Waiting (monograph)

White Turtle/The Kissing (short fiction)

Summer Was a Fast Train Without Terminals (poetry)

Cantata of the Warrior Woman Daragang Magayon (poetry)

Ang Lipad ay Awit sa Apat na Hangin/Flight Is Song on

Four Winds (poetry)

Rituals (poetry)

For the Nolands and Eugenes
of this world.
I wish you wings.

DECEMBER 19

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. Noland thinks hard what he cant say as he runs from car to car, peddling his own version of stars. Around him, the festive business rises to fever pitchOnly six days to Christmas, maam, sir, so youre getting these cheap. You cant miss out, only six days.

How dare anyone miss out? At this intersection of the highway, star lanterns made of translucent capiz shells outshine each other, desperate to be sold. Red, green, gold, and pearly white blink and whirl with electric lights, like stained glass on speed. The shoppers faces catch the glow. So does Nolands. It is a solemn face, like those of plaster saints who endure years of silent watching.

Hoy, youre blocking my customers! a stall owner scolds the boy, who steadies his wooden cart of lanterns. His are made of Japanese paper, small stars with two frilly tails instead of lights. Are you serious? one shopper asks, looking incredulously from the boys simple wares to the giant creation she bought for six thousand pesos. Heaven should be grand, boy, and bringing it down to earth is costly business. Hoy, over here! a man calls out from an old Mitsubishi. Finally, a customer. How much? he asks, while peeling a pork bun.

Noland raises five fingers thrice to indicate fifteen pesos.

Intent on his dinner, the man does not see the price. How much? he asks again. Noland raises his palm close to the mans face, repeating the gesture.

The man pauses, stares

Palm as small as a star, star as small as a country.

Now where did that come from? Hes becoming a poet.

Steam rises from the bun. Noland imagines the pork stew and the salted egg inside. He hands the man a red star, eyes on the first bite. Is the yolk bigger than the white? The man pays with a fifty-peso bill. Noland shakes his head and shows an empty palm. No change, sorry sir. Perhaps two more stars? He offers a green one this time and another red.

No, keep the change. He waves the boy away and hangs the star on his window, just above the wheel. Then as an afterthought, You mute, kid?

The ten-year-old nods.

The man sighs, taking in the face that is too gaunt, too serious for a child.

My countrys children small as hope.

Of course yours are the real thing, because you make them in the old style, his friend Elvis assures him. Small stars but specially homemade by the master star maker, so gimme five! Then the customary palm-slapping before turning his baseball cap at a jaunty angle and running toward the traffic.

Noland wonders about his friends exceptional gift. Hes chatting up a Pajero now. Earlier it was a Mercedes. They met only a month ago but Elvis has quickly made himself indispensable as Nolands parol assistant, churning out most of the sales. His uncle Bobby Cool, with his Walkman, cell phone, and gold crucifix, has become their parol godfather.

Parol is the traditional star lantern. Not for Noland, though. You call a star a star, or not at all. But of course, he cant say. Nor can he say that Bobbys donation of five hundred pesos toward his business is too generous. What if he cant sell enough lanterns to pay him back? But uncle and nephew assured him that business would grow if they worked together like family. Noland grew warm inside when he heard it. Like family. Like Christmas gift-wrapped in kind voices. They grew softer when his benefactors realized he couldnt speak. You dont say because youre busy thinking, Elvis diagnosed his condition. So gimme five! Their friendship was sealed.

Buy ah-one, ah-two, ah-homemade-star, ah-three, ah-four, ah-homemade-star. Elvis waves six lanterns at a time to the passing cars, stabbing the air like a rapper revved up by attitude. Hey, watch me, dude!

Business has grown more desperate. Its eight in the evening and traffic has been stalled for half an hour. The flower girl pesters every car on the strip again, hoping to sell another jasmine strand for the Child Jesus on the dashboard or the altar at home, or simply to perfume the growing impatience and boredom. Drivers are forced to light up, courtesy of the cigarette man plying his wares with a Christmas trumpet. The duck-egg and the quail-egg vendors are fighting for territory, and an old man is selling more than his hand-mops. Hes mopping the car windows himself as street kids run up and down the traffic, begging and singing Jingle Bells. One window opens and the kids rush to the car, but the oldest girl with a baby gets there first. The driver scolds her for dragging the baby along, then gives her a ten-peso bill. She whines about her sick sister and holds out the babys palm for more. The driver curses, and the window is shut.

The boys sell as many stars as the official lantern vendors. Parked beside the stalls, the cart is their stall and they can run from car to car with their smaller wares. Noland feels his pockets grow. Elviss gimme fives multiply. He does the hand-slapping ritual with Noland after each sale, for next-time luck. While Bobby stands by, he chats up a Kombi van. The tinted window half rolls down and the driver buys all the lanterns in his hand.

Noland marvels at his friends ability. Their cart might be empty yet before tonight is over. Bobby Cool doesnt think this marvelous, just normal. He trusts his twelve-year-old protg, who now turns his cap at all angles, reporting on his transactions. Bobby approves and gives the boy a shoveback to work. Then he gets on the phone and slinks away.

Nerves are even more frayed. The traffic just wont move. Is there an accident somewhere? Cell phones ring and get rung. Drivers grow quarrelsome. Lantern bargainers get overwrought and the street kids Jingle Bells sounds more driven, a militant Christmas wish for more grace, more grace from your pockets. Those who protest by turning up the Christmas carols on their stereos are admonished by blaring horns. Hoy, some peace, please, its bad enough as it is!