The Lantern Parade

With the evening sky overhead and the glitter of lamps everywhere, Motong stood in front of UP Diliman�s Melchor Hall, smoking his cigarette and toying with his camera. A sizeable crowd of students, packed like sardines, had already taken the convenient front steps of the College of Engineering for their seats; from there they shared their hot breaths, sticky sweat and deafening ruckus as they watched the passing of the gigantic lanterns. A few more resourceful students took either their eagle eyes or their binoculars to the perches on the second floor of the immense building, in front of which lay the route of the annual Lantern Parade. For Motong and the rest of the students, the gutters on both sides of the street would have to accommodate them, although these seats for the show would prove rather uncomfortable.

Motong wiped the sweat from his brow with a soaked handerchief. The afternoon heat and the evening humidity had already taken its toll on one of the shirts that he brought in preparation for what now seemed a long, arduous task. With tremors of fatigue rippling up and down his wobbly legs, he returned his camera into its handy carrying case, and then sat down alongside other excited spectators in the darkness of a grass slope.

The awful humidity had not been that much of a problem last year, Motong recalled. The clammy atmosphere had even threatened an onset of rain, unnerving last year�s Engineering students when they fussed over their non-rainproof electronic display. In his recollections, he heard his friend�s sweet, feminine voice, adorned with traces of a Cavite�a accent, urging him to ignore the unbearable heat just for the parade�s remaining hour. The sheer vigor in her quest for the perfect shot never failed to keep him focused as well. He remembered her cries of delight back then upon securing her own shot of a moving lantern. �I have the shot, Motong! Hold it, hold it, wait, wait� gotcha!�

His neighbors� loud applause put an end to his reminiscences. He looked up just in time to see, past the silhouettes of photographers and bystanders, the parade presentation of the Engineering students for their home college. Whoops of delight and merriment ensued from the onlookers when the Engineering students prepared their otherwise unassuming lantern, a black, unadorned platform balanced on a large frame with wheels, with an attached bundle of wires leading from the lantern to both a towed computer and a portable generator.

The Engineering students propped up the top half of the rectangular platform, revealing an oversized version of a laptop computer, complete with a liquid-crystal display and keyboard, framed by lines of red lights along the edges. Each one of the keys was at least as big as a shoebox, and all of them emitted a greenish glow. A hush fell on the students from both sides of the street as they inched closer to the curious display, with the vertically-challenged students at the back pushing forward to get a look past the thick, excited crowd.

The brief silence broke when the selected performers got on the bottom half of the platform and began to dance, prompting a roar of praise and excitement from the audience. The previously blank screen illuminated the dancers from behind when it suddenly burst into a montage of colors and shapes. Motong cast his cigarette into the darkness and made his way to the lantern, as he had already done for many other lanterns that night. Through the loud dance music from the float, Motong overheard the various comments of the awed students as he weaved in and out of the cheering audience.

�Wow, that�s amazing! That�s one damn big computer.�

�See that computer back there? I think they�re controlling the display and the music from there.�

�What I want to know is: how did they make it so� so damn big?�

Motong�s experienced fingers prepared the camera while his focused eyes scanned the noisy and congested darkness around him. A tall narra tree, right across the road from the College of Engineering, caught his attention, with its Y-shaped juncture, where the main trunk parted into two, sitting way above the heads of the crowd. The juncture, having enough space for a photographer to stand on, would have made a good vantage point for his photography, Motong thought, if only he weren�t as vertically-challenged. For consolation, he told himself that no photographer would be that crazy to climb a tree and risk getting weird looks just to get a good shot.

Contented with keeping himself to the ground, Motong stooped low against the asphalt on the main road itself, near the front of the float, which the crowd had avoided to keep away from the humming generator and the electrical wires. Together with Motong stood the other photographers, busy preparing their flashbulbs and taking their shots, either for the demands of their newspaper or also for their own enjoyment.

Motong carefully glanced over his shoulder before taking his shot, aware that blocking a fellow photographer�s viewfinder was nothing less than a mortal sin. His eyes lighted upon a familiar face in the shadows, and consternation mingled with his surprise when her eyes found him as well. Their mutual stare lasted only for a few seconds, until the woman retreated past the other photographers, back into the obscure darkness.

So she�s also here, Motong said in his thoughts, as he wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. What�s she doing here? Mulling over the uncanny and unexpected confrontation, he then froze for a moment, with the flurry of camera flashes behind him partly illuminating his uneasy frown. The images burned in his memory flowed thick and fast, under a filter of sepia suggestive of antiquated photo albums, until all he could see was a man and a woman, standing face to face beside an outdoor fountain, with the rain-soaked tiles under their feet and a sea of stars overhead.

In one quick motion, the woman�s fist landed on the man�s left cheek with a resounding smack. Before the man could steady himself, the woman added to the injury by burying her knee against his groin. Slumped against the fountain�s lip, the man watched the woman march off in high dudgeon before he reached out into the fountain to fish his bag, his prints, and his camera, which she had thrown in earlier out of anger, from the waters.

In the course of the revelry, the humidity and the heat began to choke Motong once more, until the whole world faded, with its cheering students and blinding camera flashes, into nothing but his throbbing pulse. Finally, another round of encouragement and applause from the spectators snapped his trance; with a quick shake of his head to clear his befuddled mind, he brought the camera to his eyes and then casually looked through the viewfinder.

�Do you have Coke?� Motong asked the hard-up and elderly woman seated behind the makeshift sidewalk food stand, one of the ten others situated along the side of the campus� main road. The hanging Petromax lamp cast its strong yellow light on the numerous wrinkles all over her sunburned hand while she reached over a pan, which was full of hot oil and fishballs, for his change. Licking his dry lips, Motong already had the can of overpriced carbonated soda to his lips when the familiar voice behind him, adorned with traces of a Cavite�a accent, drew his drink to a stop.

the ghost busters: college of fine arts, university of the philippines, diliman

�Still taking pictures of the lantern parade, I see.� It was her. Samantha. The sound of her voice instantly sent hackle-raising shudders throughout his exhausted body.

�Hi, Sam. Long time, no see.� Motong replied without turning to face her, speaking in the gravest voice that his parched throat could muster. He knew that physical exhaustion was nothing compared to emotional exhaustion; the agony of his five hours in UP Diliman will mean nothing compared to five minutes of conversation with Sam. Please let this end soon, he prayed. The tremendous urge to run screaming like a scared and raving lunatic, away from woman whose image had gnawed at his conscience for months, clashed with another urge to turn around and shout at her face for her to go away and leave him in his misery.

�You�re looking good, Motong. I�m taking pictures too. I�m using ASA 400 but I�ll push it to 800 EI later.� To Motong�s surprise, Sam�s voice betrayed nothing but good spirits, without a trace of the hurt and bitterness that he had expected. �How are you? You never called or e-mailed or��

�I was busy.�

He downed a half a can of soda in the silence that followed, as if it were medicine to ward off the burning heat in his heart and the loud ringing in his ears. In front of him, another group of students shuffled by on the main road, flaunting their reflective costumes and their glow-in-the-dark wristbands. The luminescent colored bands had always been a staple during the lantern parade. He could hear the booming voices over the speakers at Quezon Hall, introducing each lantern presentation finale to the audience.

�Fine Arts is coming up in a few minutes, Motong. They have really nice lanterns again. They even have the Powerpuff Girls!� Sam�s gentle laughter behind him carried no signs of weariness after a long day. Motong only nodded in response, remembering the last roll of film that he had reserved for the prize gem among that night�s wonderful sights. The lantern parade always saved the best for last every year; his night would turn into a nearly complete loss without pictures of the lanterns from the most creative sector of the UP Diliman community. His quick and much-needed breather, despite his intense longing to make it last forever, would have to be cut short upon the arrival of the Powerpuff Girls� in front of Melchor Hall.

�I didn�t know if we�d ever see each other again before I join my family in Canada, Motong.�

After receiving no reply, Sam addressed her friend�s nape. �You seem so� laconic tonight. Around this time last year, you were still chatting away, betting on Engineering for first prize. Are you okay?�

�Yeah. Just tired. It�s so hot this year.� Damn, you idiot; why don�t you try to be friendly for a change? Motong berated himself for his cowardice.

�I brought my umbrella just in case it rains.�

Motong snickered. �You know it never rains during the lantern parade, Sam.�

�There�s a first time for everything. It�s so humid, isn�t it?�

Grasping in the air for something to say, Motong stammered �I � I saw your exhibit in SM Megamall last month. �Mornings in Manila� was nice. It was a little off with the composition and balance, but still nice.�

�Why don�t you just turn around and look at me, Motong?�

The matter-of-fact tone in her voice held a forceful command that Motong could no longer deny. He turned around. There she was, standing in front of him, the woman with the raven-black shoulder-length hair, the twinkling chinita eyes and two glowing red bands on her wrist. A rugged knapsack, and a smaller bag for her flashbulb, hung from her shoulders. The addition of a few pounds had given much needed weight to her otherwise thin and lanky frame, Motong noted. Standing in front of him, with her arms akimbo and the Petromax�s strong light washing over her composed features, she looked every bit the rugged photographer who had debated J.D. Salinger�s �Catcher in the Rye�, taken photos, and developed prints, all with him, so very long ago.

The Lantern Parade, part two

The Lantern Parade

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