A cat's tale

(Published in Prime Weekly under the column “Still Life,” June 15, 1989)

It came about suddenly, the realization. One night I noticed how the cats were all around, as if in a world within a world. I saw the compact shapes by street corners and garbage piles, perhaps figures at a distance revealed only by the faint light of street lamps. It was a world that came alive at night, a world where I was a stranger, an intruder. The cats seemed to be everywhere, just lurking in the darkness, and their presence almost seemed to carry purpose. What that was, however, or if there was really anything of the sort, I couldn’t say. But they were there, stray cats, survivors in a world of no compassion. The night ushered in their world, and that world became clearer and clearer with time. I would see them watching, and at times I would see their eyes. Those eyes were almost frightening. But then they were only cats, strays, and the cats had always been around, neglected, fending for themselves, surviving somehow.

At night I saw them, and I entered their world. Sometimes I would sense some purpose to their presence, some logic and reason in their movement. At times I felt there was something going on, something that the cats reserved only for themselves. Perhaps, I thought, the night held certain secrets. What it was the cats did, if anything at all.

One night while I was on my way home I noticed something different about the cats. I noticed, what, a purpose in their movement, direction. I saw one cat emerging from the darkness. I didn’t give the matter very much notice till I saw others doing the same thing. The occurrence struck me as strange; I thought perhaps that it was just coincidence, some matter that merited nothing more than a moment’s thought, but as I walked on I noticed a certain oneness in the way they moved, in how other cats joined what could have been a solemn march, in how they all seemed to be taking to the streets, as if by some silent understanding. That night, overcome by curiosity, I followed them.

Cautiously I did, taking care not to cause any disruption. The cats moved slowly, even then with purpose and direction, and as I followed them I knew there was a reason for what they were doing. Somehow I knew. Quietly the cats seemed to be headed somewhere. I moved with them and watched them. Several times some of them stopped and seemed to look at me, but then they always continued on their way. To where, however, I still didn’t know.

For the moment my world was reduced to the cats. Only the world of the cats existed, and I was an outsider, an observer. I was there, it seemed, only by their silent consent. I followed them, wondering where they were headed, till finally they stopped. And I realized that there were other cats around, some with their bodies barely visible in the darkness. They had gathered by a dark portion of one street, and I seemed to be the only person around, as though I had been chosen to witness whatever was to occur, if anything. It was quiet by that portion of the street, and the cats were no longer moving. They were simply waiting, so it appeared. They stayed by the sides of the road as vehicles passed by now and again. Then I saw one more feline coming.

By the light of a distant street lamp I caught sight of the approaching figure, just one cat moving slowly, wearily, even then with a feline grace. The other cats kept still and waited. The cat continued on its slow approach. The other cats looked on, rather solemnly. I remained where I was, keeping still and just observing what was happening. What it all meant, I still didn’t know. Just the cats waiting for this one cat on a quiet road. The strays, the homeless, the unloved.

Then I saw the light. It got brighter and brighter, all so quickly. A car was coming. The cat continued in the same direction toward the others, still slowly. The car was moving faster now, yes, the bright headlights beamed. The cat was in its path, and the vehicle wasn’t slowing down. The other cats did nothing. They just looked on silently. The vehicle sped closer to the moving cat, the newcomer. I wished to call out, perhaps for the driver to put on the brakes, but I never got to do so.

There just came the sound, that horrible sound. Like something bursting.

The vehicle was quickly gone. The other cats were still silent.

Another vehicle was coming. A third. That sound again, that sound.

The other cats just looked on. Witnesses, I thought.

For some time there was an uneasy silence. One cat gone, a stray, run over three times in a world of no compassion. After a long silence the cats began to wail, as if in grief. Almost in an anguished chorus, the stray cats wailed, as if the mourn the loss of one of them, just a stray, a survivor till that night. And as the cats wailed, I listened, even then chilled by the sound.

Till the cats turned silent and began to leave, some of them walking away slowly, others just running and disappearing into the camouflage of darkness. I remained where I was and just looked on as the cats disappeared. One cat stayed close by, hardly more than a kitten. It seemed to look at me, to watch me for a few seconds, then it walked away, alone, a young survivor in a hard and heartless world.

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The gift-giver (A Christmas story of a different sort)

(This was published in the December 7, 1989 issue of Prime Weekly under the column "Still Life." It's being republished here as a Christmas thought.--Jose Luis Tolentino)

He came only once a year, but every year he came, appearing in the run-down neighborhood of the city and bringing gifts to the occupants of a small apartment, a mother and her two sons. He was somewhere in his forties, distinguished in appearance and unmistakably wealthy. Exactly who he was, what he was to the family and why he brought them gifts, no one could say. The family volunteered no information. Every year, however, come December, he would bring gifts of ham and cheese and fruit, clothes, toys for the children whose eyes lit up every time he came. He would arrive on an evening close to Christmas Even, and in the small apartment they would celebrate the season. There would be good cheer and joyful times. Only once year, but he always came.

Of the family there was nothing special, nothing that made them any different than their neighbors. They were among the poor folk who often had to do without, the poor folk who watched with envy as the wealthy lived their easy and luxurious lives. Of course, just like her neighbors, the mother had led a hard life, a sad life. She had married when she was seventeen, and hers had been a stormy marriage, an unhappy one. Still she endured that marriage and focused her attention on the children. Then her husband passed away, meeting his end in a drunken brawl. Since then she had taken care of the children on her own.

Then the gift-giver came. He first appeared one afternoon and stayed for hours. The next time he was seen was in December, and every December after that.

In the neighborhood there was much curiosity about the gift-giver, about how he came to know the family. And in the neighborhood, perhaps, there was envy. When the gift-giver came the family of three would have a feast. Hard times or not, they would celebrate. The mother would smile--it was so seldom that she smiled--and the children's laughter would be hearty. They would have their fill of food, rich food--the feast of the wealthy, with still so much left over for the next few days. And in the small apartment the gift-giver would sing. The neighbors would hear his rendition of familiar songs and Christmas carols. Later on, with the gift-giver having already left, they would ask the mother about him.

"He is a friend," she would say, always.

"Could they be lovers?" it was asked.

Neither the mother nor the children would say. Anyway the mother was happy when he came, so were the children. Come December they would expect him, and always he would come. As he did just two days before Christmas.

It had been a particularly hard and trying year for the family of three, and the gifts he brought them were especially welcome. And like always, in a neighborhood where only the poor folks lived, the gift-giver and the family of three had the feast of kings. And the neighbors talked. They thought of the good food that the gift-giver brought. It had been a hard year for them, too, a bad year. How they envied the family of three, how they resented the mother and her two sons.

From their homes they listened as laughter sounded from the small apartment where the family of three lived. They listened to the gift-giver as he sang Christmas carols. Everything else seemed to have stilled as attention went to the small apartment, to thoughts of the kind of feast inside. It had been a bad year for all of them, yet...

"There, they dine like kings!"

The men smoked their cigarettes, shook their heads in disgust, spat on the ground. The women grunted. The resentment grew as the evening wore on.

"Are they any better?" it was asked.

It was nurtured, the envy and resentment.

Then finally, the gift-giver emerged from the small apartment. He was leaving. He said goodbye to the family of three--till next year, yes--then he started walking. For a few seconds all the neighbors did was watch him.

And us? And us?

Children went to him with their hands held out for anything that he could give. They, too, longed for good food, ham and cheese and fruit. Women went to him. It was Christmas time, but they had little for the family, for the children. The gift-giver continued walking, however slowly now as people stood in his way, as they tried to get something, anything from him. And the men went to him now. The good food and the cold beer, some scotch, perhaps some imported brandy. Could they have none of these?

The gift-giver seemed distressed, helpless. Still silent, he tried to walk on, but it became more and more difficult as the residents of the area fell upon him, asking, asking, asking. The gift-giver could only look at them, he had nothing to give. Still they surrounded him and kept him from going any farther. More and more of them came--children, men, women...

Asking...

Help us, they said. Give us a feast, a real feast. If just for tonight, one night. And sing your Christmas carols.

But the gift-giver's eyes contained only apology.

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The madman comes

Published in Prime Weekly under the column “Still Life,” April 27, 1989

He wasn’t anything at all like Nietzsche’s madman who rushed to the marketplace in the bright morning hours and proclaimed the death of God. Neither was he anything like those who roamed the city in tattered clothes, unwashed and apparently deranged. Rather, he seemed quite conventional. He had, I felt, the appearance of a fairly wealthy man, the air of a politician, the eyes of a philosopher. How could anyone, I asked, mistake him for a madman? That he was, however, so they insisted. The madman comes, they said, he comes. Even then they listened. From him, perhaps, they sought amusement.

At the park on a Sunday afternoon I saw this man, this madman. It was the first time I had ever seen him. At the park he attracted the attention of passers-by. There, by a small, curious crowd, he spoke.

“You call me mad,” he said, his eyes carrying an almost impressive fire. “But is my madness just the perception of your madness?”

He sighed with a weary breath, then he continued.

“My folks were mad,” he said. “I was their only child, and I was brilliant, the kind of child they had always dreamed of having. I topped my class, and they were proud of me for that. They showed me off, see our child, our brilliant child. I studied, read, memorized, learned. I grew wise, but my folks grew mad, day by day falling into lunacy. I saw reasons where they saw lunacy, order where they saw chaos, madness where they saw convention. As I grew wiser, they grew madder.

“Even as a child I was the only one who could see, the only one who could hear. I was educated by priests, and from them I learned science and mathematics, literature, the arts. I learned about faith and prayer, and I learned discipline. I guess they were good men, but I soon realized that they were mad. In their faith I saw contradictions. I entered the university when I was old enough and wise enough, and I stood in awe at the brilliance of worldly men with worldly notions, philosophers and statesmen, intellectuals, scientists. But they, too, were mad. Their principles were contradictions. I was educated by madmen, and when all that was over I worked with them, for them. I took their money and the recognition that they gave me. In madness I immersed myself.

“I rubbed elbows with men and women who sold their souls for comfort and prestige, artists of all kind who destroyed their lives for the chance to live forever. I mixed with intellectuals and scientists who enslaved themselves with the kind of work and ideas that would free humanity. Arts and sciences held my world. Philosophy held my thoughts, commerce held my life. I gave my time and my sweat, my toil. My very life was up for sale, and it was bought by madmen in a mad world. My very life was owned by them. We planned and dreamed, we toiled, we conspired. These were worldly men. I basked and delighted in their madness. Elsewhere were spiritual men. I took their faith and their philosophies and the rituals that would set them free, yet enslaved them.

“I then realized I had had enough. I was the only sane person among them.”

The madman stopped to catch his breath. No one was speaking now, no one was laughing. During the silence I kept my attention on this man, this paradox of brilliance and madness, insight and inanity.

“I just came from a gathering of wise men,” he continued. “Such wise men, I thought, such proud men who spoke before a crowd of simple folks. They didn’t just talk, no, they discoursed. I stood there with the simple folk and listened to these philosophers and intellectuals, the great thinkers of our time who sought their own place in eternity, their own contribution to the wealth of humanity’s ideas. They spoke of life and immortality, the nature of the universe, the destiny of humanity. They discussed the very meaning of life, these wise men. They debated politics, democracy and tyranny, the individual and the state, the endless isms that held us spellbound. Such wise men.

“They waxed with eloquence and brilliance, these proud men. Who could stand before them? Who among the simple folk could match them? They spoke of the hereafter, of the law and morality, of rebellion and the social contract, the social conscience, metaphysics, ideology, theology. One against the other, the arguments and insights of educated, brilliant men. They discussed the reasons for existence. They asked the timeless questions of humanity, and their audience listened in awe. The hungry, the sick, the homeless and the unemployed, how they all listened. Madmen making madmen of us all. I didn’t stay to see the end of it, I couldn’t.

“So I came here, seeking sanity. Tell me now, have I found it? Right here, right now, is there sanity?”

He turned silent and just observed the people who passed by and those who had gathered by him. He seemed tired, as if his talk had drained him of strength. Wearily, it seemed, he looked at each one of us as though he had the power to look into our souls. In our lives, perhaps, in our souls, he saw madness. He signed and looked down.

“I saw a child,” he said. “A beautiful child. How I felt for him, pitied him. The hope and the future of humanity, taught by madmen in a mad world.”

He said nothing more. The tears just started flowing from his weary eyes, and silently, we watched a madman weep.

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Mock the Executioner

Published in Prime Weekly under the column "Still Life," June 8, 1989

In a time of executioners, the executioner was faceless, nameless. He was the dispenser of justice in an intolerant society, the very sight of him and the mask that hid his face striking dread into the hearts of people. Only a few knew who he actually was. In this time of executioners, the executioner had taken many lives, some of which he felt were innocent. But then it was not for him to question or to argue or to judge, just to carry out the gruesome sentence. He had not the benefit of doubt that was thrown into modern executions. This was a time of executioners, and he was the executioner.

"It is my job," he often told himself. "It is what I do."

It was a secret that he shared with just a few others, a burden that he carried on his own.

When he had the time to spare and when the day was pleasant, the executioner took leisurely strolls just to pass the time away, to relax and to get his mind off the faces of people he had killed, the terrified looks of the condemned. He took those walks to mix with the ordinary folk, as though he were one of them.

One day while he was on a leisurely stroll, he came across a group of distinguished men and women, intellectuals, scientists and philosophers, statesmen, people from the university. There, at the square, as they carried on a lively discussion, the executioner stopped to listen. Some of the faces in the group were familiar. They were famous people, and their mere presence was enough to draw an audience. At the moment the discussion was being dominated by one man. A philosopher, another one of those famous and familiar faces.

He was rather elderly. He was thin and seemingly frail, but his very presence was impressive, carrying inner strength and conviction. The executioner knew this man; he had listened to this philosopher several times, and the executioner admired him, this wise and courageous man. That day, however, the executioner feared for him.

With impressive eloquence, the philosopher spoke of society, of its leaders and its institutions, of the government and the laws that were supposed to hold it together. He spoke of the moral decay and the crumbling conscience of the people and their leaders, and as he spoke of such things, his words carrying the force of his convictions and the outrage that he felt, the others listened. Now and then they nodded in agreement. Here was a wise man, a brave man, a true philosopher. The executioner looked on silently and listened. Here, he thought, was what the authorities would call a dangerous man.

Still he listened to this man as he went on, attacking the authority that held the land, the principles behind the laws, the institutions that yielded to corruption and decay. He attacked the very leaders of society; he denounced the greed and the corruption with such force that the others stood in awe of him. He spoke of change and revolution, of social upheaval. His words carried dire implications, but he seemed unafraid. His audience listened with awe, as did the executioner. But the executioner was well aware of the danger the philosopher was in. Sedition, they would say, rebellion, treason. Many times the executioner had seen it, and he feared for the philosopher. Still he kept silent. Perhaps the philosopher knew what he was doing.

The man himself showed no fear, and for some time his views went unchallenged. Then came those who questioned his assertions; finally they came forward to have their say, and a spirited debate ensued. Arguments were exchanged, and the philosopher defended his beliefs with the kind of eloquence and spirit that sometimes left his opponents speechless. He called for change, a real societal transformation, if by fire a purification of a society gone corrupt and decadent. He called for a tumbling of the pillars, a change in the institutions that had gone astray.

In the crowd there were those who nodded in agreement. Among the distinguished men and women there were those who agreed. From the philosopher's opponents came a tense, momentary silence. They stood there, faces flushed, their eyes filled with anger. The philosopher stood unwavering. Finally an official stepped forward.

"Men have died for less," he said.

And he warned the philosopher, stop this now. This was dangerous business.

The philosopher smiled. He grinned with sarcasm and eyed the official with disdain. He would stand by everything he had said, by his call for revolution and upheaval, for social transformation, however harsh. A purification, a cleansing of society. Once more the official warned him. Such treason, he said. The philosopher scoffed. Menacingly, the official pointed a finger at him.

"You shall meet the executioner," he said. "He shall have your head."

His voice said he meant it. Everyone was silent as he turned and walked away.

The silence continued as all attention fell upon the philosopher. After a while he smiled and looked at the distinguished faces in his audience.

"When that day comes," he said, "I shall spit at the executioner."

Again there was silence. And the executioner saw the man looking at him, as though the philosopher knew who he was. And as the scenes played in his mind, as he saw the philosopher coming before him on that fateful hour, the executioner stood there silently with the others, as though he were one of the ordinary folk, as though he were one of them.

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