Introduction

Already, one gay reader blasted this novel as a cheap shot, lazily written, pointless, boring, trying-hard, lecturing-sermonizing novel. Worse, it deals with religion and AIDS. I agree with this reader but I wrote this novel nearly 7 years ago, when AIDS was more of a struggle than a disease. I have to admit I used it as a vehicle for my testimony as Someone beset by severe internal conflict as gay and Christian. I wrote Visions of St. Lazarus at a time I was struggling with my homosexuality. To other people and other cultures, coming out and accepting one's sexuality is easy. To me, it was hard. I tried to justify my homosexuality in religious terms here. I wrote this without a plot - it was an explanation to myself - a justification of who I am before my God. I hope you'd understand.

Chapter 1 : Lazaro Sembrano

Will someone say, why, then, this
divine compassion extended even to
the ungodly and ungrateful? Why, but
because it was the mercy of him who
daily "maketh His sun to rise on the
evil and the good, and sendeth rain
on the just and the unjust."

(Mat 5,45)
St. Augustine, The City of God

I take the liberty of chronicling a Gay Sainthood foretold.

My friend, Lazaro Sembrano, was a sucker of tragedy; this he attributed to his mediocre looks and strict Catholic upbringing. As a product of Tarlac farmers, he was replete of superstitions. A mole on the side of his nose was a destiny to weep gallons of tears; his shoulder growth meant a lifetime cross to bear; his buttock birthmark supposedly spawned disasters. He blamed his misfortunes, earthquakes, typhoons, draught, floods, fires and volcanic eruptions to his bodily marks. Their house used to stand beside a cemetery. As a kid, he'd jump over the fence during the burial of anybody and join mourners just for the heck of it; when it was time to wail, he'd wail the loudest. Such nuisance! He said, "To cry for someone you don't know is the highest form of sympathy." He sure found tragedy everywhere.

During his residence in Murfreesboro Tennessee as a nurse, he learned through Discovery Channel that Marlon Brando championed Civil Rights and Native Americans. He wrote him a letter - addressed to Marlon Brando c/o Tahiti - "I'm rooting for you. Sincerely, Lazarus." Just one problem - Brando's activism occurred thirty years ago and was residing in California when my friend mailed him the letter. Worse, when Brando's son was charged for the murder of his half-sister's husband/lover and, when later, this half sister committed suicide for the same reason, Lazaro cried for days. He got hysterical in the middle of A Streetcar Named Desire, where Brando, his wet shirt torn, cried - "Stellaaaaa!" And I couldn't pacify him. His tears were carried-over Guys and Dolls, a comedy. More recently, he wept with Tom Cruise in Jerry McGuire. Which reminded me of his previous similar reactions to Kevin Costner's Field of Dreams, Mickey Rooney's BoysTown, Mel Gibson's Ransom. Judging from the looks of these actors you'd become suspicious. Suspicious or not, Lazarus also cried through The Sands of Iwo Jima, All Is Quiet in the Western Front, The Dead Poets' Society, Hamlet, Kiss of a Spiderwoman, Ten Commandments and Chariots of Fire. Nothing could beat the impact of Philadelphia though. On the scene where the young brother of Tom Hanks could no longer bear the dying Tom, I thought Lazarus would collapse!

Call his weeping multi-media. He burst into tears listening to Les Miserables and Miss Saigon, which I bought him for Christmas. He cried over the biography of Ernest Hemingway. I teased him all the time; I said, "Your favorite tree is weeping willow and passage from the Bible- Jesus wept." Lazaro I believe, was born with the largest lacrimal sacs in the world. Of course he is gay.

He'd find travesty in mundane things. I dragged him to a gay bar. When a go-go dancer mounted the stage and gyrated, Lazarus asked me, " What makes a man drop his pants for a few bucks? Is he hungry? Is someone in the family sick? Is his child needing milk?"

Goodness, where did he get these ideas?

When the rich Bill Gates was featured in C-SPAN, I said, "That Gates is one lucky guy." Lazarus murmured something like, "Sadness is written on his face. It is lonely to be at the top." To test him I asked him once, "Is this glass half full or half empty?" His answer was, "Do you realize how many people on earth need clean running water? How insensitive of you to even ask that."

Eventually I had to confront him about his miserable psyche. I commented to him one day, "What is disturbing about you Lazaro is that your love for tragedy is turning you tragic yourself." My question was ill-timed, he was reading Bothers Karamazov by Dostoyevsky. Right after finishing Servant of the Bones by Anne Rice. Which meant he was on the verge of tears. Again.

"I can't help it," he said. "I love tragedy because I'm gay."

"Excuse me. Say that again?" I asked.

"Are you blind? Gays like us are pressed down, buried under the feet of society. Teen-age gays have the highest suicide rate; gays are dying by the thousands because of AIDS; we are deprived of honorable positions, made fun in all forms of Art, condemned by religions, discriminated and deprived of happiness. Can you blame me if I find everything tragic?"

I stood there counting one to a hundred. Sheep. Telephone poles. I was really pissed. "So?" I said, smarting. Did he read something in the Servant of the Bones? When my counting reached fifty seven, I resumed the confrontation. "Stop this weeping now Lazaro, this stupid attachment to tragedy or else you'd join the long list of gay psychotics and eccentrics."

Wrong again, he had an immediate response - crisp, strong, full of conviction. "What else is new Mario? Aren't we considered abnormal now as we stand here?"

I surrendered.

My friendship with Lazarus was, to put it mildly, an act of charity. It began when one of the Filipino nurses in Tennessee tasked me to visit him. She said he was extremely depressed and homesick. I soon found him virtually dead. Socially. He limited his adventures to five places - the SNF where he worked, the Xanadu video store, Kroger Grocer, Texaco gas station, and the library. I beseeched him to come with me to Nashville Mall, hr declined my invite, preferring to mail order from International Male. On week-ends, he'd rent twenty videos and watch them in a row until his eyes hurt. He'd finish reading two novels a week until his vision became blurry.

After our confrontation, our friendship took a sharp turn. He did something unimaginable. My hermit friend who never ventured beyond the two mile periphery of his apartment suddenly turned into Houdini. He vanished.

Because he received his green card. Or so I thought.

That was three weeks ago, on the Feast Day of St. Augustine. In three weeks, he submitted his resignation, hoarded his little property to a Nashville Storage, packed up his duffel bag and drove all the way to Fort Lauderdale. He did these without telling anyone, including me. And I was supposedly his best friend. The rat.

And then, he called me.

"Mario," he said in a mild and nervous tone.

I blurted out my fears and anger. "What have you done? Where are you now? Are you okay? What happened?"

"Calm down," he answered. "I am safe here."

"In Florida?... Why did you do this shit Lazarus?"

"I was visited by St. Augustine."

Being a La Salle graduate, I have a low regard for Augustinians. I am Dominican bred. Besides being sociable, I am practical.

"Do you have a job there?"

"No."

Dammit! "Medical insurance?"

"No."

"Do you have money?"

"A little."

"Lazaro, Lazaro, why are you so impulsive? Do you know what you're doing?"

"Please understand Mario, I need to act upon my visions. They are gifts from God."

I had the urge to hang up the phone, guilty for what I suspect his mental deterioration. I should have done something. I was imagining a headline in Fort Lauderdale: A Homeless Filipino Nurse - Murdered.

And then, Lazaro narrated his visions, he talked as if I was not even in the other line:

LAZARO’S IMPOSSIBLE DREAM

St. Augustine came wearing a bishop's habit, stomped his staff on the floor three times and cried, "Lazarus, wake up." I raised my head and asked him what he wanted.

"How long will you remain dead?" His words made me tremble. I corrected him by saying I was alive.

He raised his staff and pointed it on my chest. "The world and time have passed while you lie in your tomb. Lazarus, the Saints and Angels in heaven are agitated, for lately, there are droves of souls knocking on our doors, crying out for justice. They died before their appointed times. This is unprecedented since the Black Death of 1346. You've seen them Lazarus."

I stared at him puzzled. He continued. "Have you closed your eyes so long you're blinded to them?" Saying this, thousands of spirits came to me like a tornado, encircling me. They were the faces people who died of AIDS. Arthur Ashe smiled.

But these souls did not know me at all. I was just an ordinary person. I shook my head.

The Saint's voice became threatening. "Don't make your resurrection too hard for me Lazarus. You don't want the Saints to get mad. During the Black Death, 16,000 Jews were murdered after being accused of starting it. Now, listen to the voice of times, there are hidden whispers blaming homosexuals for this new plague. If you do not act now, history will be repeated."

I told him to forget about it, who would listen to me, I am a homosexual myself. After I said this, a flash of lightning cut across his face, he released a thunderous cry, raised his staff again and struck me, yes, he hit me so hard I rolled in pain.

"From what measure do you judge yourself Lazarus?"

Well, who else but the modern moral crusaders, especially the Catholic Church.

"Stooop!" he cried. "I am not exactly proud of the Dark Ages. Who could have ever thought that the earth was round; that Joan of Arc was without guilt; that the sun was the center of the universe as Galileo claimed; that man would land upon the moon? And the gravest mistake of all, who could have ever thought that the Inquisition would imprison the great Cervantes? But Lazarus, who said that I, the scholarly Saint of Christendom would be free from mistakes?" He paused for a while, like he chewed his thoughts, and then continued. "Hear my confession. When I was your age, I lived in sin. I housed a woman who bore me a child. We were not even married! I continued living in the joys of flesh, torn apart by the good and evil within me. I was on the verge of suicide one day when I heard the voice of a child. He said, 'Take up and read. Take up and read.' I began my Confessions. Today it's a classic. Oh Lazarus, you are no worse than me."

Still, I argued, people listened to you because you are a solid heterosexual.

"Oh your affinity to self condemnation makes me sick," the Saint said.

I told him that nowadays, people categorize sins in a certain hierarchy, homosexuality being at the bottom of the totem pole.

"And you believe that rubbish?" He asked.

That's the Catholic tradition, I answered.

"No one can be blamed for that but the secular Dante. And he was not even a man of God. Listen to me my child, to our Lord and Master, a sin is a sin. There is no difference between a lie and a murder. That is written in the Bible."

That was new to me. So I expanded our discussion into some moralists' claims. Which was - homosexuality being responsible for the falls of Greek and Roman empires. And for the spread of AIDS. And for the moral decline of America.

St. Augustine seemed surprised.

"How wrong and pitiful. How odd. I thought the modern man have erased myths already. Listen, during my time, after the Goths sacked Rome, I believe it was in 410 AD, Christianity was considered the culprit. Otherwise, I would not have written the City of God in the defense of persecuted Christians. Lazarus, people will always find a scapegoat for their failures. Don't listen, look instead to the visions I am going to show you."

He raised his staff and two doves, carrying the Bible between them descended upon me. The Book opened before my eyes. A passage was marked, it was Romans 1,26: "Because they do this, God has given them to shameful passions. Even the women pervert the natural use of their sex by unnatural acts. In the same way, the men give up natural relations with women and burn with passion for each other. Men do shameful things with each other, and as a result, they bring upon themselves the punishment they deserve for their wrongdoing."

After reading the passage, one of the doves flapped its wings turning the pages, which stopped at another marked passage. It was Matthew 5, 27-28: "Do not commit adultery. But now, I tell you: Anyone who looks at a woman and wants to possess her is guilty of committing adultery in his heart."

The Book and the doves disappeared. I looked at Augustine, confused.

"Lazarus, God who condemned homosexuality is the same God who condemned a heterosexual fantasizing about a married woman. So stop condemning yourself. Look at this new vision."

Two men appeared.

One was in drag, swayed his hips, danced before a raucous crowd, he lip-synched Ertha Kitt, the audience was delirious with laughs. Naked dancers toured the tables, some of the men tipped them as they passed.

The other was married, I could tell by the wedding ring he wore. He came out of a motel with a woman, they furtively drove away. "That was his mistress," the Saint whispered.

Sunday came. The man in drag shed off his clothes, counted the money he earned from his show the previous night, kissed his lover goodbye, proceeded to Publix Supermarket, bought groceries, drove to his mother, laid the groceries on the table, cleaned the house. Then his mother came out of her room and shouted, "I don't need this! This comes from your sinful job! Get out of my house!" He left in pain, crying.

Then his mother changed into her Sunday's best clothes, proceeded to her local church and worshipped God with her preacher. The preacher was the man who the night before drove away with his mistress from the motel!

"Now tell me Lazarus, what is wrong with this vision?" St Augustine asked.

I was too shocked to say anything.

"What is the consequence of this vision?" St Augustine pressed on. "Look at what happens next."

The man in drag appeared again, this time he was carrying a banner marked with symbols ACT-UP. With anger in his eyes he shouted. "We are queer, get used to us!"

On the side of the road, the preacher was holding a banner. On it were printed the Biblical passage Romans 1,26. He reacted to the shouts of the gay marchers: "Sinners you'll burn in Sodom and Gomorrah!"

St. Augustine stopped the vision. "Tell me Lazarus, who has the right to condemn the other?"

I was quick in my conclusion. No one Father, I said, both are sinners.

He raised his head toward the sky: "Let the man without sin cast the first stone. My child do not condemn yourself, for God lets the sun and rain fall on both the sinner and the good, the just and the unjust."

He stared into my eyes, full of gentleness and kindness. He said, "As for the falls and declines of empires, contrary to your beliefs, the cause was neither gender nor sex orientation. Look closely at the faces of the two men and you will see the real cause - the three faces of the Devil himself."

I looked and looked and looked at the faces. But I saw nothing.

St. Augustine quoted another passage from the Book. It was Mat 5,22: "But now I tell you: Whoever is angry with his brother will be brought to trial; whoever calls his brother 'You good for nothing' will be brought before the Council; and whoever calls his brother a worthless fool will be in danger of going to the fires of hell."

Hearing this, the three faces of the Devil on the two men were slowly revealed. Hatred, Intolerance and Deceit.

The Saint spoke once more. "Yes, these are the true faces of moral decline. But... Lazaro there is another evil face that I haven't shown you yet. It was the face that toppled the Greek empire. Before Greece fell, the people took upon themselves to live in pleasure and selfishness. Sometime after the death of Socrates and the Philosophers, they descended into the place of this evil face and in doing so, fell."

I want to see the fourth evil face my Saint, I pleaded.

"Before I reveal that, are you willing to come out of your hole to take the Cause of AIDS victims, those poor souls who are crying out in heavens?"

I am afraid. I am a foreigner, gay, poor - what can a lowly man like me do?

"If you won't heed me Lazaro, this final vision will happen."

The vision came to me, it was short and brutal, it was insensible. The man in drag was singing in the bar and four masked men barged into the door. One of them was the preacher. He shouted: "In the name of God, I'm going to kill all you faggots!" He raised his rifle and began shooting.

I broke down and shook. No. No. No. I knelt in front of the Saint. Don' t let this happen Father, I begged.

From his hand, the Saint brought out a mirror and placed it before my face. I looked at my reflection.

He spoke again. "That is the fourth face of the Devil. It is called fear."

I finally realized what he wanted. I asked him what I should do. He gave me this instruction: "Lazaro, Lazaro, rise up from the dead. Awaken your spirit and heart. There are many souls crying before the Council of Angels and Saints. Justice they ask. Reason, they call. Come out of your tomb Lazaro, roll the rock away from the door. Go to Miami and there your mission will begin."

So there! The first visions of my friend Lazaro which hastened his departure to South Florida. One rainy day, he unfolded his umbrella and drove to Coral Gables, knocked on the door of a building named Dade Rest and spoke with solemnity: "My name is Lazaro Sembrano. I am here to offer services to People With AIDS.

Thus began his crusade which I am about to foretell. He waged a holy war that led to healing and reconciliation in Miami.

And I thought all the while he was insane. And I hope he'd forgive me for calling him a Rat one time.

Chapter 2 : CONVERSATION AT THE DOOR

When Lazaro knocked at the door of Dade Rest, he was met by the AIDS Director who looked at him with distrust. "What made you decide to serve People With AIDS?"

"I... I am a nurse. I believe I'm qualified."

"Ha! Since when did a mere Nurse license become a qualification to serve People With AIDS?"

These sarcastic remarks made Lazaro feel uncomfortable. He could not help but wonder aloud, "Why, Sir, people like me seem to be not welcomed here."

The Director's voice tightened and Lazaro sensed the pain beneath them. "So many people like you have come here before. With guilt, they thought they'd be put right with their consciences by serving us. Others have come with curiosity, to fill a need for learning. A few have come to research us, like we are items to objectify and measure. Politicians and stars have posed with us in pictures to garner political points and popularity. How many people wear red ribbons on their lapels without knowing a single soul with AIDS? Or perhaps, you're one of the young men who come here to boast of their caring hearts! Please, leave us alone. We who stay in this house have already come to terms with our disease. We've already accepted the inevitability of death. Leave us in peace."

Hearing this, Lazaro became teary-eyed. "I have come all the way from Tennessee to Florida just to serve you. If you would not let me, tell me, where can I go? Tell me, where else can I find meaning in life?"

The Director poked his head further out of the door after hearing this dramatic response from Lazaro. Lazaro continued:

"Down in Tennessee, for three years, I isolated myself believing that this world was not meant for me. I am gay who never belonged, I thought that maybe I should have been born in a different time and age. But, St. Augustine appeared to me in a dream and bid me to come here and serve. I have other visions..."

The Director was now suspecting Lazaro as lunatic. Their conversation was stretched longer. The Director asked, "What are your qualifications outside your Nursing degree?"

Lazaro stared at the Director as if wondering why this question even popped up. Lazaro had this sureness about his calling. When called to serve by God, there should be no hurdles.

"I came to the US from Manila. What I bring with me are my years of search. As a kid, I longed to become a priest, but every Catholic Church rejected me because I am homosexual. That rejection failed to dampen my spirit, I took up Nursing to fulfill my destiny to serve mankind. Immediately after graduation, I joined the Missionaries of Mary; together, we took up residence in a hut in the middle of a Leper colony in the island of Palawan. I was proud of the work we did there, I'd never been so dedicated in my life. Yet, from the beginning, I had some reservations about the colony's leprosy treatment. Lepers were classified according to some stupid categories. The new and were least infected patients were assigned in one cottage called One. The ones who were on their way to healing were placed in another cottage called Two. Those who worsened because of complications were further re-located in cottage Three. Finally, there was cottage Four, a place for the desperados - I've always been against classifying people with diseases. Men and women who were completely healed were placed in this cottage, who had left for their homes and families but failed. They returned to the colony because of leprosy stigma. They became returnees devoid of hope. Forever lepers. They were the ones I served. Oh Sir, if you just saw them... when Christmas came and no one bothered to even send them a greeting card, some of them took their own lives. Every Christmas, I was surrounded by corpses lying on tables in the morgue. I joined the nuns in washing their bodies and sealing their coffins. Shipping the corpses out, I asked, what kind of world do I live in? To stop further suicides among the remaining few, I spent my salaries for their drinks and bought them videos and radios. The nuns got upset one day after we all became drunk and rowdy during the Rosary. I was driven out of the Missionaries' residence. I stayed in Manila for a while until I flew to America. I started to work in this country as a nurse and for three years, dedicated my life to the treatment of different diseases. But at nights, I lay awake asking myself, is this all I'm meant to be - to live as a lonely gay for the rest of my life, to come and go inside this apartment, with no friend, with nothing worthy to show? Surely, it was much better during my days in the Leprosy colony. In there, I served from my heart despite my homosexuality. In here, I serve for money... Of course I'm just an ordinary person who is destined to do ordinary things. But at the back of my mind I still ask, what is ordinary in being a homosexual? When I read the count of people dying of AIDS and the homosexuals involved, it becomes hard for me... How can I be ordinary in these extra ordinary times? I am here to continue the work I've started in Leprosy, this time, with AIDS."

"What if we rejected you?" The Director replied.

"I will wipe the dust off my feet and will never stand at this door again. If serving People with AIDS is not meant for me, I'll go on. Maybe somewhere, I'd find what I'm looking for."

"Do you have a job?"

"Yes, I am associated with Universal Nursing Home, I work for the elderly."

"There! You have a reason to serve! Isn't that enough?"

"But it is not the same! To take care of people who pay is one thing, to take care of people for free is another. What is the use of serving an ordinary population? It is just proper to take care of our elderly, because that is our moral obligation. The society is paying for that. People pay taxes for that. But with AIDS, there is no institutional support, morally and financially. To come and serve its sufferers is the true spirit of love and servitude. And that's what I want to do."

"How can you serve us when your time I'm sure will be preoccupied by your Nursing Home duties."

"I am planning to come here every night, and on weekends."

"Oh dear, you would not stop, would you? What about your social life? What about your love life?"

"I fell in love only once but my lover died. That one-time love affair was enough for me. Spending my nights in gay bars picking up men for fleeting sex is not my cup of tea."

"Lazaro... that is your name right? Listen to me. Give yourself sometime to think this over, you might just be acting on an impulse of charity. It will pass soon. You don't have to pity us. You don't have to be too patronizing. We will survive the way we survived before."

"I say this again. I am not acting on any impulse. I am acting on a calling. I have seen visions."

The Director released a big sigh. Lazaro would not buckle from where he stood. "Why don't we do it this way. Write a paper for us. Write all your knowledge and intentions in serving AIDS patients. If we find it sincere and beneficial, we will let you in."

"I am not doing this for you or anyone else but myself. I am doing this to fill a need to serve. If you would allow me, I'd be the happiest man on earth."

SAN LAZARO'S KAFKAESQUE PAPER

I woke up one day in a different form. I was a Lymphocyte. I tried to move on my bed but unlike the usual way, I was like a gelatin, sliding slowly. My ameboid body swam in an ocean of red, I wondered how I turned to be this way.

My Background

I was as ancient as the country, named Republic of Reynaldo, where I dwelt. I was spawned by its canal system, called Bone Marrow without a soul, a name, a self. I was swimming in this ocean of red when the voice of Destiny called me. It said, "I am making you a soldier, your role will be to defend Reynaldo against its enemies." An unknown force swept me toward a camp located on a mountain in the twin cities called Kidney, it was called Fort Thymus Gland. In this camp which was allotted for new recruits, I underwent rigorous training, was taught about weaponry, intelligence, logistics, discipline, military justice and comradeship. After my training, I was released from the camp and was re-assigned to another camp which was located close to the city of Throat, named Fort Lymph Node. Destiny's voice spoke to me again, "Wars will happen all the time in Reynaldo, invaders will always appear in the horizon, but don't lose heart, your strength can't be matched by these invading weaklings." I remained a Reserve in Camp Thymus, awaiting action in a yet unnamed war.

Our Military Organization

In Fort Lymph, I was introduced to Reynaldo's Defense Establishment. It was somewhat similar to the Armed Forces of the US - with its Navy, Marine and Air Force branches - though much simpler. It had only two branches, namely, Natural and Acquired Forces. The Natural Forces were also known as B-lymphocytes, we called them Born Killers, jokingly. No one knew where they came from, although they were believed to have come from a lake in the South called Fabriciusin the pre-historic times of Reynaldo.

If the B-lymphocytes were Born Killers, we, the Acquired Forces, also known as T-lymphocytes were Trained Killers (in reference to our training at Fort Thymus). The Born Killers were well tested in history - they defeated invaders that included Paralytic Viruses, Cholera, Plague, Distemper. We, the Trained Killers however, bragging aside, were the more superior, offered the best defense against more modern invaders. Our slogan: Name it, we kill it! was well known throughout the world. We killed Tumor, TB, Leprosy, Cold, Pneumonia, Flu...

(Since I didn't belong to the mysterious Born Killers, I would leave them alone and limit my description to myself and my kind - the Trained Killers.)

Millions of us trained in Fort Thymus. Fort Thymus was the place where we were expected to prove our meat. At the end of our military training, we were categorized into Ordinary and Superior soldiers. Ordinary soldiers like me ended up in two battalions - the battalion Antibody and the battalion Lymphocyte. The more Superior soldiers among us were promoted in ranks, called CD4 Masters, or Officers, to use modern military parlance. CD4 Masters were our battalion commanders.

This was how we worked: When an invader came into view, CD4 Master told us where, when, how, and with what we should fight. He never made a mistake, that's how good he was.

I've met all kinds of enemies in my years as a soldier. Some of these enemies were real, others were fake. The easier ones were the most fun to kill. They would be introduced to us through a military drill called Vaccination. Piece of cake! We would attack them until they all died. After their deaths, we'd study their corpses and attach their features and capabilities to our memories - so when the real ones would come, we'd be ready. Our victories were unmatched by our failures. We were the Undefeated soldiers of all time.

The Invasion of an Unknown Enemy called HIV

I couldn't fathom a strange event that occured in the past two decades. My world, so peaceful and strong, met an enemy like no any other in our history. This enemy, a soldier called HIV, infiltrated our military establishment through a unique maneuver, undecipherable, very potent and dangerous. It attacked the CD4 Masters, our batallion commanders! Any military expert knows this as a perfect recipe for a sure defeat. It's like waging a war to a nation by killing first its President and its Generals.

But what's done was done. After their invasion, we became soldiers without commanders.

Unable to receive any commission, I decided to stay inside Fort Lymph hoping one day this war would cease. In my hiding place I managed to spy on the new HIV enemies, I observed how they fought. What I saw was unbelievable! These, let me warn you, were the ultimate fighting machines! Once they entered CD4 Master's body, they'd recreate themselves through chains made of proteins. The chains would then splice the internal organs of CD4 Masters. Succeeding in this, they would then release their own military codes, difficult codes, which in turn would permutate in billions of possible combinations. Once these combinations were completed they would form a long chain of body, sort of a baby soldier. And this was the wonder of all wonders - this baby soldier would cut itself into pieces, in a sort of hara-kiri ritual, each cut piece would in turn become a new mature, fighting HIV soldier. All these occurred inside the body of CD4!

I cried for help many, many times.

My country, the Republic of Reynaldo did not care about the tragedy that had befallen it. Instead, it introduced dope to its people to make them forget they were under siege. Against the advice of its neighboring countries, it suspended its state of emergency and allowed the people go in their own disorderly conducts. The population began partying all night long, smoking cigars, getting drunk, having more sex. Oh, our logic could sometimes be so pathetic.

The result was devastating. We, the soldiers had more jobs than we could handle. It never occurred to our people that when they smoked, we, the soldiers, were the ones who'd fight their nicotine cancerous elements stuck in the canals. When they spent sleepless nights, got drunk, or neglected their meals, guess who cleaned after their mess.

Due to these free-for-all vices, the whole country ended up in disarray. The engineers manning the water system called Heart began complaining of over-pumping more water to clear up the clogged canals due to the dirt left by the people. Further South, the plumbers of Twin cities Kidney said they couldn't handle any more impure fluids, they too were overworked and were threatening to strike. The other city, the rich Liver, was reporting that its chemists were suffering from constant cramps due to the load of canal chemicals they had to process. Due to these problems brought in by the vices, together with our Masters' impotence to fight HIV soldiers, in the western part of the country, the city of Lungs was being threatened by the reappearance of old enemies - parasites, fungi, viruses. In the east, the dykes of Lake Stomach were breaking in ulcerations, about to deluge the entire country with floods. Our coast was likewise agitated, cancerous men were sailing toward us. The Kaposis were arriving! And in the north, in the city of Brain, the University of Reynaldo agitated students were turning into a volcano about to explode, "We could not take this dirty water system anymore!" they shouted.

Ah, peace and order was all we needed but how could we provide that, the HIV soldiers have stripped us of our powers. We were all stymied.

Everyday, I've witnessed the deaths of my comrades, both belonging to the Antibody and Lymphocyte battalions. I had the unfortunate job of giving them decent burials. But these endless burials were taking a toll on me too.

Sometimes, I'd have this temporary jubilation after a CD4 Master, one of the remaining few, would call us to formation. As he prepared us for battle, he would suddenly get disoriented, and speak in garbles. We would stand in puzzlement. And then, his body would explode in front of us. From it would emerge ugly looking HIV soldiers, sneering at us. We would then run away as fast as we could. These soldiers would run after us, to penetrate us, to kill us. That's how my life was spent, always on the run, always hiding. The monsters were here to stay.

A few years ago, scientists from other countries provided us a solution against these enemies. It was called Reverse Transcriptonase. The original star of the lot, it was known by three initials, A Z T. It stood for Attack the enemy, Zip up its code, Tear it apart. What it did was render the HIV soldier impotent, preventing it from reproducing. I thought this solution was a miracle to us - only for a moment! It failed partly due to the undisciplined people in the Republic of Reynaldo. AZT would fight the HIV soldiers, provided, it was poured everyday without falter. But this advice did not register well to my countrymen who were always drunk. They missed their treatments more than once. On days when the solution was absent from our water system, The HIV swam freely and studied AZT analytically. One day, HIV soldiers just came up with a coat resistant to AZT. What resulted was an untouchable HIV soldier. Poor us! We got scared again and resumed our running and hiding.

The Battle Against the Clones

We, the soldiers of the Republic of Reynaldo began living an inconsistent existence. One day, we'd find ourselves in millions, in another, we could count ourselves with my fingers. Oh God, when would this end?

What we had in our hands was no longer a warfare of bows and arrows, of guns and knives, of missiles, aircrafts, or nuclear bombs - we were prepared for those. No! What we had was a battle against clones. The HIV was the enemy we were not prepared to meet. It emerged two decades ago, when a scientist in an island called Bubbles played with genetics. It produced the first lamb's clone. The formula of this scientific discovery ended up in the hands of a leader somewhere in the Biblical Desert. This leader began to use this genetic process in cloning his own soldiers. He succeeded in reproducing a self-containing cell that would attach itself to another soldier. Inside this other soldier, the cell would start growing until it takes over. What then emerged from this was a soldier without a soul, without a name, without a conscience, ready to annihilate everything on his path including himself. He didn't even know the difference between life and death. Many prophets of doom called the progenitor, the ruthless leader as the Anti-Christ, the one that was prophesied to usher Armageddon.

The country I was defending became weak, short of breath, always in hell. I could feel these even while I hid inside Fort Thymus. I saw so many other solutions coming in, called Steroids and Antibiotics - our new superiors - they replaced the CD 4 Masters in commanding us when and where to fight. But their knowledge was so limited! We followed regardless.

And then, I heard other wailing and cries at nights that I could not bear to listen. The plumbers of twin cities Kidney were weeping, "Please stop, let us rest. We could not process another impure fluid." The same was true with the chemists in the city Liver. They could not process another chemical. They were too overloaded. We were all tired, so tired to function effectively. When other bacteria, parasites, viruses, fungi, even cancer colonizers invaded our water system, we could no longer contain them. The Republic of Reynaldo was now a living corpse, kept alive by unending solutions of Steroids and Antibiotics and AZT now rendered useless. There was a time it had to live on IV drips! Who could survive that? I constantly heard the whole population, who were being systematically poisoned by our water, "Please God, let us die."

Years have passed and a few of us were still surviving in a futile war that spelt defeat. Some scientists had discovered a new way of killing the HIV enemy. A new solution called Protease Inhibitor was made available even without testing.

This new solution prevented the HIV soldiers from cloning themselves. How? It prevented their baby soldiers from committing hara-kiri, or cutting self into pieces. "How marvelous," my comrades breathed. Once again, we were able to produce our own lymphocyte and antibody and CD4 offspring. Yet, I wondered, how long would this last? To tell you the truth, in view of the character of the people of Republic of Reynaldo, I was no longer confident. Somewhere along the line, this potent soldier would find a way to resist this new solution, the way it did against AZT. I bid my time, waited for the ultimate defeat. Later on, scientists unveiled this idea that by combining the two solutions, the Reverse Transcriptonase or AZT who destroyed HIV coding and Protease Inhibitor, who prevented cloning, we might eventually regain control of the Republic of Reynaldo. They even gave this combination a name - Cocktail - how ironic! It sounded like wines. "Lets have a party, pour out your drinks. Over here is a cocktail of Antibiotics and Steroids; over there is a cocktail of AZT and Protease Inhibitors." Whatever, as long as we, the lymphocyte soldiers, could multiply and resume our fight with some dignity.

Because of the resurrection of hope to heal, the Republic of Reynaldo became alive, disciplined. Our masters, the CD4's increased in number, our numbers alone, the T-lymphocyte had shot up. Our enemies’ number, HIV load, dwindled. It was a good cocktail afterall.

Perhaps, I began to think, it was the beginning of new lives for all of us. But no...

One day, our country, the Republic of Reynaldo became nauseous and threw up. That was scary. Here's what happened: Its plumbers in the twin cities of Kidney and the chemists of Liver went on strike. They've had enough, they said. To appease them, scientists advised the Republic to stop its intake of Cocktail. It was too late.

Why do good things in life happen so goddamn late?

So here I am again, the lymphocyte of hopeless hope. Just like in the old days, my fellow combatants are again being swallowed by the HIV soldiers, which incidentally, are studying, again, the Cocktail and are about to produce a Super-resistant soldier - a soldier that can repel all the decoders and anti-cloning solutions all scientists could produce. Last month our T-lymphocyte number went down to ninety. Last week, we were barely ten. The Republic of Reynaldo is now by a ventilator, unable to fight the pneumonia that recently invaded it. Last night, I found that I was the only living lymphocyte remaining in this country. I finally decided to come out of my shell in Fort Thymus. I trembled upon seeing the country I am supposed to defend! All the workers of Kidney are lying lifeless on the streets. Poisoned! All the workers of Liver City are mummified. The water coming from the Heart is left unmanned, its water flows to all directions. The pump is barely pumping. Parasites are eating the corpses in Lake Stomach. In the University of Reynaldo, the radical students are all buried in graves they dug themselves. Nothing, not even a child, a woman, a man except me survived. Around me, billions of HIV clones are singing their Victory march. Ha! Their victory is their ultimate death. When I am gone, this country will go with me. And then, slowly but surely, denied of a country to sustain them, these stupid HIV soldiers will also die - clones of no minds, never knowing what life or death is. Goodbye now, I will close the last open door in this country. I am freeing the last breath, the last heart beat, the last tear, the last life in a country called Reynaldo. I am about to lay my body to sleep. Goodnight.

Chapter 3: A SENTIMENTAL CAMELOT

Lazaro remembered his days in Manila. Sitting in lotus posture on the shore of Miami Beach, watching pelicans sweep the ocean's surface, he thought, From Manila to Miami, how far is that?

Manila Bay.

He remembered the scattered rusting milk and sardines cans; sprouting lumps of grass; lonely coconut trees standing the batter of time; pink bougainvillea embracing the trunks of weeping willows; dirty boats and ships docking on the bay; water smelling of gasoline from cracked cargoes; an old man throwing a fish line; milk-fish no longer edible; giant jellyfish spreading like graceful umbrellas; the Manila air nipping the arid rays of summer moon. He remembered stretching his arms and legs and lying flat on the park. After five minutes, he stood up and sprinted as fast as he could in preparation for the Manila Marathon.

It was all a big joke.

He first ran as a teen after his mother ordered him to buy a dozen eggs in the village store, on his way he met the postman who handed him a letter. The letter informed him of his state scholarship at a top university in the Philippines. After university, he was offered a job in USA. He never returned to his mother with the dozen eggs. He had forgotten all about it as he ran and ran to Manila, to the university, to Manila Bay, to the anti-Marcos rebels, to the lepers, to the homeless children, to the airport, to Texas, to Tennessee, to North Carolina, to Miami, now to this shore.

Miami: Sexy bodies, tourists, wealth and fame, white boats, cruise liners, clear water, fashion, music, bars, gyms; his mind zoomed across the Atlantic ocean, settling on the land strip opposite, bearing colorful buildings, beaming with music. American music. Latin beats. And all in-betweens.

"This is beautiful," he whispered.

He breathed deeply. He never ran again since he sat foot in Miami, at least physically. But he keeps running anyway. Emotionally. He is always afraid. Besides, he now suffers from back pain. There are more responsibilities now. Odd.

It was getting dark.

He scooped a lump of sand and threw the ball to the sea. "I'm well settled now, why do I still feel like running away? Why do I keep saying goodbyes?"

A shadow emerged behind him, in a while, the source of the shadow took form. He was the Director who, just yesterday, was adamant in receiving him at Dade Rest. The Director's eyes were deep set, his blonde hair thinning, ecchymotic KS patches on his face were difficult to camouflage even in the dark. He stood like Rip Van Winkle, the closer his face, the more prominent were his wrinkles, under the yellow seams of lampposts from the distance, he appeared like a skeleton.

Seeing the man, Lazaro suddenly had the urge to run again. Away from this pity, this sadness, this ugliness, this smell of death, this hopelessness. He fought the urge. His eyes diverted their gaze to the gentle splash of sea, infinite lines of white cutting the shore in darkness.

The Director spoke: "Who are you Lazaro? Why did you break the spell of peace in our midst? When we held your AIDS paper, we initially surmised you as a messenger of hope - like an angel - to us... but as we read it, we became agitated. It was so tragic; it spelt a world devoid of hope, a world that's bound for defeat. And then, it frightened us... as you painted gays as undisciplined men without a care in the world... is that how you perceive us? What is the purpose of your visitation? Are you here to condemn us - come like a self righteous saviour? Or perhaps, you are one of those who come here out of self hate, to use us to relieve yourself of guilt. To cleanse yourself."

Lazaro kept his silence.

"Isn't it enough," the Director continued, "for straights to condemn us? Why you too...? So what's your next accusation? Are you going to remind us now of Sodom and Gomorrah?"

At this juncture, Lazaro stood up from his lotus posture and faced the Director.

"Hush my friend. Silence to your lips. I apologize if my paper broke the peace of your abode, if my visitation agitated your quiet existence. Forgive me if through my careless imaginings, I snatched away your leisurely road towards death. Are you really settled now, accepting of the inevitable, indifferent to the on-goings of the world? I agree, you are at peace, but at what expense Sir? Is shutting your self from the world worth the price of dying in peace? That's what gays have been doing all this time - licking their own wounds, tormented in the dark corners of their lonely apartments. Acquiescent in the name of peace. The society named them sinners so they threw religion out of their lives; their parents told them it's wrong to be gay so they cut themselves off their family trees; their peers ostracized them so they created their own separate worlds. Or maybe I am just talking for myself... Is this destiny for us eternal? Can't we fight, at least, before our bones get scattered on the ground? Being born, it is said, is the beginning of death, but hell, if we don't do anything now, we'll end up without having flowers on our graves."

The Director, this time, became excited, "And what do you propose for us to do? Do you honestly believe we are satisfied at this time of our lives? Oh you are so idealistic Lazaro, so unknowing of the real heart of the matter. Peace? What peace are you talking about? Look at me - look at my face! You dress me with gold and I am still deprived of energy to fight. Flowers? Do you think I still care about flowers now? Just to maintain my reason and sanity is enough! Just to see the sun rise at the break of the morning is enough to give me joy."

"I know how sad you are. I just want to make you happy..." Lazaro mumbled.

"Do you have a lover Lazaro?" the Director asked.

"No, I don't."

"Then you don't know true sorrow." The Director was by now losing his breath, he was panting for words. "You can talk of happiness only after you've fallen in love. And of sorrow after it vanished in your hands."

"What is gay love?" Lazaro asked.

"Gay love? He is the man who accidentally looks into our eyes for a brief moment and we fall for him right there and then. True love is a man whose name sends shivers in our spines. Just to hear his voice, just to feel the touch of his hand, just to be noticed by him, just to know he's alright - he is the one for whom we forsake everything when he bids us to follow, transforming us from humans to zombies or heroes. What is true love? He is the one we imagine standing alongside us in the middle of a beautiful garden in Italy. He doesn't speak, he is still, his hair is dancing with Meditteranean winds, staring into far distant spaces. He is the name we impulsively call in times of turbulence; the one we make sure is safe after a calamity, the one we pray for a happy life, with or without us. While we stare at a painting in Louvre, he is the one we imagine on the images; the hero of the movies we watch, the man we dream safari-ing in Africa, the cowboy in the prairies of Australia. If we found ourselves walking alone on Park Avenue and stumble at a face similar to his, we whisper to ourselves, "Surely, this face looks exactly the one I love." And we follow him until he disappears, leaving us the sensation of falling in love all over again. This true love, this man, is the concoction of our universe, the sediment of our tempestuous earth. We remember him when we wake up in all the mornings of the world, his every move as graceful as the Buddhist monks of Burma. His laughter as refreshing as the dews at the tips of grass blades. His language as nurturing as a mother's milk..."

Lazaro felt like crying, "And please do tell, what is gay sorrow?"

"I don't know Lazaro, all I know is my own ...You'll never encounter it until the man you love leaves you. Especially my Oscar, he was so fucking dramatic. My happiness with him began with poetry from his lips and my sorrow with a song in his eyes. We met in 1980, as Engineering majors at MIT. It was the beginning of Reagan era, when poverty was deleted from the list of our fears and the future assured us of abundance. Our youth was full of ambition - we talked of companies and management and low inflation and expansion overseas. Oscar, of Italian parentage was just like any Italian-American: emotional, boisterous, lovely. And by this time, there sprouted, around Boston, Poetry Pubs and we, as students, drained from the hubs of fraternities and parties and Physics and Calculus, explored these places, intent in re-charging our brains and brawn with beer and music. And then, in one impromptu poetry night, I heard him... Sitting on a stool with a bottle in one hand, he took the microphone and uttered:

"I love Engineering
It deals with my forte
Figures and Numbers
That of Women
And the times I fuck them.

"A furious lady threw her soda at him and challenged him. "You fucking animal," she said,

"Chauvinistic pig!" Boos and hoots enveloped the air. "Respect the ladies, faggot," a man joined in.

I still remember that moment, this lonely man standing in front of an angry crowd, his eyes widened with disbelief. At a loss with words, he was thrown by some burly football’s players out of the pub. And when he clang to his shattered composure outside, his eyes staring afar, lost and afraid, I knew then, that he belonged to me.

"Who is a man so careless with words? In a bar like this, men and women are focused to attracting one another words are the most measured things, for they are meant to attract the opposite sex, not to repel it.

"His words were confined to lockers, between real men, the place he thought would emulate him.

"Oscar was never found in a bar since then. He turned cold shoulders even with the fraternity he belonged to. I joined the fraternity but I found him nowhere. I was in desperate search that when I heard he joined the MIT Mountaineers, I snatched the opportunity, by joining myself, in anticipation of meeting him. By that time, I was already madly in love him.

"And we met. And we talked. And we became friends. And lovers.

"As our days passed into weeks into months into years, "I would never leave you," he would say in our anniversaries. In seven years of living together; our youthful dreams took twists and turns; our goals of abundance became struggles. As lovers, we faced very tough prospects. Many companies would not hire engineers who were gays. Life though comfortable was way, way off our expectations. But then, there was magic in knowing he was always there waiting for me at the end of each working day, when we did things together, I, content with the knowledge someone like him knew what I wanted or disliked. "I never belong to anyone else, " he would assure me, "Since that day I was thrown out of the pub, I knew I was destined to another lifestyle, another tribe, another friends, another kind of love. I would never leave you." He would utter this in different formats - in a note, in a card, in a wrapper, in a book, on the ref, on my computer... God he was so fucking dramatic."

"But tragedy as you see it now, Lazaro, had struck the gay community. Strange... your words are exactly his words, just like you, he sounded so rebellious and worse, so optimistic then. He was always on the edge every time we presented ourselves beside the death-bed of one of our friends. Oscar, to put it mildly, was so involved! I admit, quite shamefully, I was completely opposite him. I was devoid of sympathy. I helped my friends out of gratitude for being spared, it was them, not Us, who were dying. Ha, look at me now.

"In one solemn night, oh how I would ever forget it... when rains had just ushered in the beauty of Spring in Virginia, when drops fell so gracefully on our misty windows, while we sat quietly before the fireplace, Oscar whispered, "Seasons have changed in our lives and I always promised to never leave you..." Those words... those words were like a sword piercing my heart, heralding the end of my existence. I thought he was leaving me... But his confession was worse than a thousand swords I feared, worse than a million furnaces, "I am dying of AIDS."

"He broke his promise.

"His leaving was the meaning of gay sorrow, Lazaro.

"Before he was transferred to ICU, he made me bring a CD player into his hospital room and asked me to play Camelot - the Broadway version. He told me to ignore the rest of his body and just stare into his blue eyes... oh Lazaro, Lazaro, I can't bear this memory... I know there are so many versions of parting between gay lovers but Oscar chose one that had a sentimental flair. We held hands and in his dying breath he said, "Remember our past." As words left him, as reason vanished, I played Camelot. We stared at each other for what seemed forever, I didn't blink a second, and remembered his blue eyes in our college years in Boston, our canoeing in Tennessee, our rock climbing in Arizona, our love-making, our readings before surrendering to slumber... those same blue eyes gliding in the air of North Carolina, the same blue eyes staring at me at the break of each morning. I had lost my meaning in life since then."

Chapter 4 : DODONG

Finishing his story, the Director stood up and wiped the tears from his eyes. "I'm so lonely ...and guilty, Lazaro." He wobbled, nearly falling on the sand but Lazaro was quick to him. They walked together under the darkened sky, the waves and breeze from the ocean were getting cold. After a few yards, the Director regained his strength, he gave his name, "I am Jeff Koplaski."

Lazaro, oblivious to his surrounding, paid no attention, lost in the thought of his own story, attached to the edge of sadness Jeff had just shared. The summer winds were now saying goodbye, tomorrow was the start of Fall. He silently walked away, bent down and scooped another lump of sand, threw the ball to the ocean. It was his ritual of throwing things away - of the painful stories he had heard countless of times or the weight of his own sorrow and lamentation which he refused to describe. They made it to Dade Rest.

"Why not come inside?" Jeff offered.

Lazaro attempted to resist but could not. He wanted to stop at the mahogany door of the house that was as black as the ghost of old Florida. He turned his eyes around the vicinity - padlocked bars and railings, rusty wires and iron sheets baring graffiti, advertising the frustration of the city folk. Which made the trees and shrubs around appear like aliens from unknown planets. The door deflected the breeze brushing against it, which, to Lazaro, sounded like echoes of wailing ocean waves, like that of a lover whining for its love's death...

For Miami was like that - nowadays - the calm of the ocean contradicted by the bars and cafes and malls; bright lights taking over the natural light of the gray clouds and moon. Yeah, the old romance in Florida was now lost forever. And this Dade Rest, which was nothing more than a prison cell for terminal AIDS patients, the way Lazaro saw it - sealed it.

They entered Dade Rest lounge which was filled with beautiful flowers, a coffee table was surrounded by neatly arranged chairs, magazine racks carried the latest titles and newspapers, the walls were elaborately decorated with paintings, the entire room was dimly lit by a wall light. It was the time for sleep among the residents, and Lazaro, feeling respectful, kept his silence.

Jeff pulled a flashlight out of his pocket and led Lazaro beyond the lounge. As they walked toward Jeff's room, Lazaro was surprised to discover that the house was not constructed the way it appeared from outside. A door led to another door, they descended underground on a steep stairway that led to another door and when they entered the tunnel beyond this door, the wooden walls were replaced by cold barren bricks of an eerie hallway which had a series of closed rooms, on their way, Lazaro heard a snore, a cry, a meditation om sound, a low volume stereo, and candles, candles in each of the rooms. By the time they reached Jeff's door, Lazaro had passed through a series of labyrinth passageways, a maze from which he could not tell how to return back. "This house is far more extensive than the way it appeared."

Jeff unlocked his door and turned off his flashlight, now lighted by the glimmer of moon's rays, the room was empty, save for a single bed. The whole room, to Lazaro's thinking, was monastically spartan. A far more sinister metaphor came into his mind - a tomb. He turned his head to look back before entering, and heard a faint wheeze coming from the tunnel they've been through, the brick stones to him whispered Death.

Jeff sat down on his bed. "That's the nice thing about this house. It has an extensive underground. Nobody suspected, even the realtor who sold it. Late one night, a crack was found on the flooring by one of the residents. This crack led into these amazing tunnels and rooms and hallways. They say this house was built by a couple centuries ago with no hint of these underground structures. These structures were built by Old Spanish monks who settled here during the early times of Spanish colonization, when Florida was still lumped with Havana. Those Spanish monks, incapable of fighting or killing the native Indians, constructed these tunnels for their hiding when small incidents of Indian-Colonizer wars occurred. After the Spaniards lost in the Spanish American war, the monks were said to have disappeared. The mysterious thing about them was... they simply vanished and no one could trace their destinations. "How prophetic their vision was. It seemed they anticipated that hundreds of years later, these same tunnels will become the hiding place of people like us - AIDS patients. Isn't it amazing? Look Lazaro..."

Lazaro stared at the direction of Jeff's eyes that were fixed at the door where they entered. The door was merely a couple of yards away from Jeff's room. One hallway. Without the tunnels, this place was nothing but an ordinary house.

Jeff lighted a candle. "We found a gold mine. Nobody knows the underground structures except us, and now... you. There is only one thing I ask of you, keep this secret a secret. There is a Force in here, ready to strike if someone exposes his underground secrets. You've probably heard of the Skull murders?"

Lazaro became nervous. "Do the skull murders have any relation to Dade Rest?" The murder of two men, in their twenties, was one of the most puzzling and brutal crimes committed in Miami in recent years. They were called skull because of the symbol left on the victims' foreheads. This was but two weeks ago, before Lazaro moved to Fort Lauderdale.

Jeff gazed intently on the flickering candle. "It so happened that one of the victims worked here. No one knows exactly... but Antonio, the Puerto Rican victim, the one who worked here, stepped over the line when he ventured into the conclaves of this house. If only he kept the secret to himself... but he failed and shared it with a friend. The two of them got murdered."

"What did the police say?"

"We didn't report the possible connection of the Force to the murders. They called the murders 'being at the wrong place at the wrong time.' "

"And what will they squeeze out of a few emaciated men who can barely walk, lest kill? And how many police officers would come here and investigate, most of them avoid us like plague? And how many of us, who are bound to respect the secrecy of the house would venture to tell tales? We can't afford to shorten our few days left."

"For Chrissakes, two murders might have been connected to this house and its secret. And you kept your mouths shut?"

"Oh call the police if you wish, open this house to public and find out what I mean. Lazaro, the Force is much stronger! Just to contemplate the thought of revealing its secrets is enough to get killed!"

"Where did you get this knowledge, is this Force some kind of spirit or something that warned you of these?"

"Not really, not until you find the scattered bones in the crematorium down the basement."

"Crematorium? Jeff, I'm not enjoying this talk. These things about secrets, skull murders, supernatural ghosts, now, a crematorium." Lazaro released a nervous laugh. "You're just pulling my leg."

"Come, let me show it to you."

"Nooo." Lazaro nearly jumped. "I don't want to hear and see any more secrets. If what you're telling me is true, I don't wanna take part in it."

"It's up to you. You can change your mind. But I warn you. The secret is to be kept."

"How can I believe you? Haven't you betrayed it now yourself since you've told it to me? I am a stranger. An outsider."

"I thought you're planning to work for us?"

"Yes."

"Well then, you are a part of us. You will be with us for good. Perhaps for the rest of your life."

"What about the others who came here... who had the same intentions as I."

"They remained outside. Only a certain type of person is allowed the secrets."

"And I am that type?"

"Yes. Your appearance to Dade Rest yesterday coincided with the anniversary of the vanishing of monks. That was a sign. It is believed on this day, more than a hundred years ago, they all jumped into the crematorium to be burned alive."

"Why?"

"That, I won't tell, Lazaro. You will find it out as the days go by." A sudden scream was heard from the tunnel.

"What is that?" asked Lazaro.

"One of the dying patients downstairs."

"Who are the people downstairs?"

"You were not listening Lazaro! Except for you and a few helpers, we are all People With AIDS. Who are we? We are doctors and nurses and lawyers and priests and engineers and fashion designers and street sweepers and teachers, name it. We have them all here. We are bound together by a common bond - we all renounced the world. This world has nothing to do with us. We are condemned. There is no cure for us. We all refuse to see the world again. All we do is to get in touch with our own spirits and commune with God and nature. We're here to die." Jeff kicked open another door in his room.

Lazaro suddenly felt a gush of cold wind, like a shawl for a dead person. He found himself standing on a veranda that led to a dark secret garden, fenced in by thick and high walls. Lazaro saw the silhouettes of statues and angels, a cottage surrounded by the thick foliage of palm trees and a landscape of flowers and Bermuda grass. He saw the shadows of wide leaves, smelled the fragrance of gardenias and newly mowed lawn. "This is awesome."

Jeff's candle was blown off by the wind. He smiled. "Believe me, when a person seeks a hiding place and fails to find it, he will devise means to create it. As I told you, we have landscapers and architects and interior designers and gardeners in our group. The garden in front of you is a marvel from the best minds in America. All deprived to pursue their creative wills because of AIDS."

Jeff pulled two rattan chairs. They sat together facing the garden, Lazaro thought the place as the most beautiful place he had yet seen in Miami, tomorrow, he would go back to this garden.

As if reading his mind, Jeff said, "Lazaro, you can't come back here during the day. This place is exclusively for patients and no one else. This is our place to commune with God and we don't show this to anyone except certain persons like you. This is the only beauty left for us. Outside of this, there is nothing but pain and ugliness. And that is my only request from you. Enjoy it this one time because you will never see it again. And just as I told you... keep the underground and this secret garden only to yourself, we don't want people prying into our tormented lives again."

"How can you keep this garden away from prying eyes when it is out in the open, save for the high walls. I'm sure someone out there could have been peeking into this walled garden. Even if the passersby would be blocked by the walls, what about the traffic officers flying in their helicopters?"

"Lazaro, I said this once and say it again one last time. We live under the wings of a Force. A Force that can render this invisible during the day. This garden is a marvel and a magic."

Lazaro finally quit inquiring, he felt he could no longer debate using reason against the mysterious and metaphysical. Whatever these patients were up to, he began not to mind. The beauty of the garden had cast its spell on him, he began to nod his head slowly. Silently. Oh how he wanted to return to this place. After a while, he heard the voice of Jeff, it acquired a hypnotic grace.

"Now tell me Lazaro, tell me your story."

And as if compelled by a mysterious Force, Lazaro spoke: "Jeff, I am always running, running from things I can't handle. When our town priest told me that homosexuality was sinful, I ran away. When I topped my class and was pressured to bring the most beautiful girl to the Prom, I ran away. When I went to college and played basketball and couldn't shoot in fear of getting out-ed with my pliant wrists, I ran away. When my girlfriend asked me to make love with her, I ran away. I ran on pavements and parks and yards and fields of crops, along shores of bays and seas and oceans and rivers and waterfalls, on stairs and ramps and uneven terrain, on carpets and rocks and mountains and hills and tips of volcanoes; I ran away from friends who couldn't understand why I kept running. I even ran when they understood... because I was ashamed. I ran away from the tanks of Marcos while carrying the injured victims in Manila protests. I ran when my friends got killed. I ran away from the beauty of this world. In running I've seen so many visions in small flashes, I, pausing to absorb them before resuming my run. I'm tired now. I want to stop running.

"You were right Jeff when you called me an idealist. Yes, I'm too optimistic. But perhaps, this is the only way for me to forget my misfortunes in life, my misery, my sufferings and pains. To survive in a quagmire, there must be something to hope for, something to look forward to. To hope is to live, remember that. Let me continue my life story by posing a question: Have you ever held something so dear in your life, like a diamond, only to learn later it doesn't belong to you? Pardon my redundancy...I believe I've mentioned this to you yesterday... In my youth, the only thing that mattered to me as far as I can remember was to serve God. I prayed daily, I read the Bible. I prepared myself for a life of servitude. I dreamt of becoming a missionary somewhere in the remotest parts of the world, to heal the sick, to feed the hungry, to strengthen the weak, to repair what has been destroyed. While growing up however, another desire was blooming inside me, a thorn on my side that I found abominable because that was how my father described it. I tried to suppress this desire. Oh how I tried. In doing so, I lost myself. I lost my face. I began wearing a mask. I ended up with countless masks. I lived a life of falsehood, every waking day, I felt like a fool. I pretended to be a man of God hoping that in doing so, He would eventually change me. For years, I waited and anticipated. But like the portrait of Dorian Gray, my masks became uglier and uglier instead. There was a time I could not utter a single word to any human being. Every time I see a man, I found him as sparkling as a diamond, I, a decaying rust. I lost confidence. One day, I stopped reading the Bible. Because it hurts to know that my Creator would create me only to condemn me. Why I have to hide my face form my God? Only a sadistic God will do that. How can I call Him God of love, how can I kneel in front of Christ who says, "I die for all my people except gays. I saved everyone except gays?" Where am I fitted under his beautiful creation? One night, unable to bear my torment, I screamed: Enough is enough! I threw away the diamond I held dear all my life. I began running since then. "One night, I heard a voice in my dream, "Why did you give me up that easily without a fight? "I trembled upon hearing that voice... I was standing in nothingness, I had no point of reference, there was no time or space, no east, west, south or north. There was no movement or stillness. There was no beginning or end. "The voice went further, "Why did you judge me easily as your Judge instead of your friend? Why did you listen to men who claim to be me instead of Me?"

""Who are you?" I asked. "There was no answer.

""Please do tell, who are you?"

""I am not a WHO, I am WHAT I am. I am the alpha and omega, the creator of fullness and nothingness. I am your point of reference."

""Are you God?"

"There was silence. At that precise moment, I woke from my dream - all sweaty and shaky. I thought I lost my mind, what was that vision all about? Was it the voice of God or Devil? "

I immediately got up from my bed and opened my drawer, pulled out my Bible. And when I turned the pages, a passage struck my eyes, it was the incident before Sodom and Gomorrah. Through all this time, I avoided the Sodom passage because this was what all men say: Sodom and Gomorrah was the case of God against homosexuals. With pain in my heart. I read it. And then re-read it over and over again. This is what is written:

God's Bargain With Abraham Before Sodom

Abraham approached the Lord and asked, "Are you really going to destroy the innocent with the guilty? If there are fifty innocent people in the city, will you destroy the whole city? Won't you spare it in order to save the fifty? Surely, you won't kill the innocent with the guilty. That's impossible! You can't do that. If you did, the innocent would be punished along with the guilty. That is impossible. The judge of all the earth has to act just." The Lord answered, "If I find fifty innocent people in Sodom, I will spare the whole city for their sake." Abraham spoke again: Please forgive my boldness in continuing to speak to you, Lord. I am only a man and have no right to say anything. But perhaps there will be only forty-five innocent people instead of fifty. Will you destroy the whole city because there are five too few?" The Lord answered, "I will not destroy the city if I find forty-five innocent people." Abraham spoke again, "Perhaps there will be only forty." He replied, "I will not destroy it if there are forty." Abraham said, "Please don't be angry, my Lord, but I must speak again. What if there are only thirty?" He said, "I will not do it if I find thirty." Abraham said, "Please forgive my boldness in continuing to speak to you, Lord. Suppose that only twenty are found?" He said "I will not destroy the city if I find twenty." Abraham said, "Please don't be angry, Lord, and I will speak only once more. What if only ten are found?" He said, "I will not destroy it if there are ten." After he had finished speaking with Abraham, the Lord went away, and Abraham returned home.

I started weeping. Imagine this Jeff, if you were God who created all the things around you only to find no one willing to give you credit for it, lest thank you for what you've done, how would you feel?

At that exact instant, I saw a God as sad as I was. He wanted only ten friends in the entire city of Sodom, no one, save Lot, came. "And this is my real intention in serving this house. I am here to plead for a few holy men. From this reference point, I will travel far and wide to find what Abraham failed to deliver. I will find them."

Jeff released a sigh. "Good luck Lazaro. I wish you the best...you may be surprised that the time of Abraham is no different from ours."

Lazaro ignored Jeff's comment. "In my search, first, I have to hide my face, I have to cover my ears, I have to maintain my silence. Finding holy men is like searching for gold, you go to lowly places, walk on roads not treaded even by angels. Gold is dug from the bowels of the earth, not on its surface inhabited by the evil, the materialists, the sexually driven and self righteous men. I want to be deaf, blind and mute to the devil himself. I will not raise my case to the theological scholars of any religious creed. I am not to debate with some Christians who are as hateful, as persecuting, as bigoted, as closed minded as the people who crucified the man they worship. I will not even raise my eyes to those Christians who enrich themselves in the name of a poor child born on a manger... ah let me stop here, I don't intend to evangalize. It's not my gift. I don't want to clash anymore with other men in the name of religion and God. I'm tired of that. All I care now is to find the ten holy men."

"My crusade began in my country, the Philippines. I walked around the city of Manila in search for my first holy man. I ended up joining the idealistic young students of Manila who wanted to transform the country for good. Among these students, I found Dodong, the first holy one.

"From Dodong, I learned to cherish the good and evil out of good, evil and good out of evil. Let me explain. Marcos, according to Dodong was a good man initially, but out of greed he took power too much for him to handle. And because of its weight, he distributed it to his cronies. Those cronies took this power just as hungrily until Marcos became powerless to contain them. I pity Marcos, at the end of his might, he was punished so severely that he literally begged to be freed from the shackle of his powerful cronies. Just like Faustus, he sold his soul to the devil. What is the use of billions of dollars in your coffers if you rot in a makeshift hospital room in your own palace, while the maggots fought over the spoils of your loot? Ah those maggots, they are still around, ready to scavenge another potential Marcos... Any leader in the Philippines should understand this: To be imprisoned by power is to become a cadaver feed to the maggots. They will consume you, for they are the angels of Satan himself. They are still there, believe me... they are still there... with their mouths spewing incantations to hypnotize you, and when you give in, they lash you out with their tongues full of slimy fluids, seeping through the pores of your skin, and like leeches, suck out your blood, and consume your flesh. Once full they'd leave you for another victim.

"Dodong introduced me to the world of politics and power, to ideologies enwrapping the activists of our decade eighties. I remember the many -isms during those times. Capitalism, Communism, Feudalism... Classmates disappearing in the night, yes, salvaged with the hope of a big change, the Great Reckoning. Dodong introduced me to the homeless children of Manila. He gave all he got to the beggars and prostitutes, and finally committed the greatest Christian act of all: He gave his life for what he believed in! Oh, Jeff, why has all this misfortune invaded my life? What sins have I committed to lose so many of my friends? I watched Dodong die in my arms. I watched him being lowered down to his grave. And he was the only best friend I had... After his death I felt so alone and confused, it was the year 1986. In the same year, the rupture of my people occurred. It was the People Power Revolt. I watched them rip off the house of Malacanang, celebrate like anarchists. With this catastrophe in my right hand and the death of Dodong in my left, I stood upon a rock, clenched my fists towards the sky and uttered my first prayer. My prayer of pain:

DODONG



My Lord, You tested me in the River of Meribah
Had grind me 'till I turned into a blade of gold
Wailed 'till my voice replaced the utterance of Angels
Prayed 'till I acquired the laughter of Saints
Hear me -
The souls of my friends ascend
The vast darkness making appointments with You
Ahead of their times
Their skins intact but hung loose
Upon their naked skulls
Their skeletons carry guns pulling IV lines
Dead and alone in some garbage pile of poisonous
Air left by polluted morals
Listen to me
I am their night Watchman
Flashing my lamp for their departures
I have seen them sell sperm cells
For one half fertilized duck eggs, seen them
Dig their graves in makeshift cemeteries
As fly-by-night corpses, when season
Marched from dry to wet, Nature dug them -
Mouths wide gaped, handcuffed with barbed wires
Screaming Freedom!
The politician whores of my time worry only
Of the next vote or next victim of
Their fiery mouths
To claim the high seat of the land
Who can't face the camera
Without make-up on, a-harpin' lies and
Tales of fake progress
They make my country a laughing stock
Where out of seventy million
Twenty want to be the next president
Twenty thousand want to kidnap
The wealthiest twenty percent
Twenty million want to be slaves of other lands
The rest? Oh, they just want to die
My friends turn in their graves
Screaming Freedom!
In the name of god Politics and Machiavelli
They turn blind eyes to Filipino suffering
Promise bridges out of jueteng dreams
Tell me my Lord,
Will that feed the mouths of dying babies?
Will that mend my land of broken dreams?
Will that purify a Filipina prostitute in Tokyo?
Will that redeem the pride of a DH in Hongkong?
Cronies whose only wish is to be the next billionaire
In Fortune 500 don't give a damn
By hook or crook they'd get the next dollar
And leave to the hands of God the Negros kids
Dying of starvation. While the country falls apart
They stuff their refrigerators with cow meat
And bananas from Banana Republics
Throw left-overs to environment friendly bins
And condemn their hungry fellows for eating dogs
Sometimes I envy my friends lying in bliss
Jose Rizal nothing has changed
The god of Politics still holds the helm
'Tis better to have Mabuhay satellite drop us in Mars
To proselyte to the dead children of Rebecca
Than these politicians and cronies
Hear our plea

Chapter 5: ST. AUGUSTINE'S FOLLOW-UP

Someone will ask, "How can the dead be
raised to life? What kinds of body will they
have?" You fool! When you plant a seed
in the ground, it does not sprout to life
unless it dies. 1Cor. 15:35-36

Lazaro, after telling his story, suddenly turned quiet, embarrassed and puzzled about his openness...he released a personal story he'd never dare tell to any stranger...something in the house seemed to have forced this out of him. Something in the house have bred a high degree of melancholy in his heart which he mustered to control before. And Jeff... Jeff was different since they entered this house. He sounded inquisitive, dominant, quite different from the Jeff he met on the seashore. It seemed as if a Force laid down the cards on the table by releasing the contents of their hearts. And now, as if exhausted, both stared at the garden and neither spoke for a long long time.

Glancing at his watch, Lazaro finally made his leave, "I'm going home, give me a call when you need me."

Jeff smiled - a smile that gave Lazaro a glimpse of how Jeff could have looked like before AIDS. Jeff was a very handsome man. Lazaro was led to the door. "Please accept my heartfelt gratitude for listening and sharing," Jeff said. "I'm glad to hear about your mission in life, I don't exactly agree with its grandiosity but hey, who knows, I respect it for what it's worth."

Lazaro tried to speak, but he failed to release his voice - an image swept before his eyes. An image of Jeff and his dead lover - their love story about departing and being left behind, the living agonizing over the dying's impending death, the dying trying to pacify the living. There was no hysteria or scream, just plain acceptance of fate. Look at Jeff now, he was smiling. A survivor.

Lazaro waved goodbye and proceeded back to the beach where they previously met. It was almost morning but the shore remained dark. Lazaro could not stem the surging tide of confusion in his heart. As he walked along the shore, his old suspicions were resuscitated. Love, anger, fear, mystery in Dade Rest - for all he knew, his mind might have just been playing tricks with him. Could he be hallucinating? Or perhaps a person by the name of Jeff was playing games with him. He stopped. These stories about murder, the magic garden, the underground tunnels and crematorium. Could all these be true? Or were all these parts of a fertile imagination? And then, there was the memory of Dodong...he'd forgotten Dodong for years now, rekindling the death of their friendship brought tears in his eyes.

He sensed footsteps behind him. He got frightened.

He turned around. A dark figure emerged from the tall reeds lining the shore, a figure very familiar to him.

St. Augustine materialized beside him.

"Are you chickening out?" St Augustine asked, taunting - like.

"No I'm not, " Lazaro lied.

"Liar!"

"But my dear Saint, how do you expect me to react with the things I just saw? I'm not a part of Jeff's world...and I have the right to refuse, haven't I? I have a choice. Choice is a gift from God. Am I really my brother's keeper? Besides...I sensed another Presence in that house...It's a strong Presence my Saint...It's like the Devil himself. His Force is so strong I don't think I can match It."

"Keep on babbling...talk your way out of this mission."

Lazaro began choking, he could not utter a word further. Something was blocking his throat. He could not breathe. He grabbed the Saint's habit, "Saint...Saint... Augus..." Lazaro vomitted an egg.

St Lazaro spoke once more, "Being a chicken, you're entitled to lay an egg.. I can assure you, if you keep on acting like a frightened chicken, roosters will flock to you, and you know what roosters do to their hens."

"St. Augustine!" Exclaimed the shocked Lazaro, crushing the egg under his foot, "What good could I possibly offer them?"

"Oh shut up! One minute you're talking about your life's mission with Jeff Kaploski, the next minute you're as frightened as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs with me. Will you make up your mind? I'll ask you one question - What can a Nurse of your experience do to People With AIDS?"

Lazaro was mum.

"Lazaro, tell me, what is the worst thing that can possibly happen to you if you serve Dade Rest?"

"I might contract the AIDS virus myself... I might get murdered ala Skull Murder... I would die, I'm sure."

"If you die, what will happen to you?" "I... I will...." at this point, it dawned upon Lazaro that the man he was talking to was a dead Saint. For Chrissakes, a dead debating Saint that just made him vomit an egg. St. Augustine did not mince words. "Okay, lets terminate this discussion about your fears, so much work is waiting for us. Come follow me." St. Augustine picked up his staff and began walking ahead of Lazaro. The breeze of Miami Beach blew his long gray hair and beard, his soutana, made of very primitive wool, flowed. Lazaro kept pinching himself, to make sure he was not dreaming. Realizing he was awake, he hastened his steps after the Saint. "St. Augustine, " he nearly shouted from behind, "Why did God send AIDS to man?" St Augustine stopped, turned and struck Lazaro with his staff. "Stop, you blasphemer!"

"Aray ku po!" yelled Lazaro. "St. Augustine, you're becoming violent with that weapon in your hand."

"It is because your words are sacrilegious. Do not even think that God gave this suffering to man. It is man who brought this pestilence upon himself. Look around you - what do you see?"

"I see condominiums, cafes, parking lots, bars, and this shore. I hear Disco music."

"Are these God-made or man-made?"

"Well... man-made, but still, the raw materials are from God, aren't they?"

"Precisely. Man was given a choice to do whatever he wants with God's creation. Look what he did. This is the reason why there's so much suffering Lazaro. See what people have done with air, fire, water, earth including the organisms therein. Look at what geneticists have done since the time of Darwin. Man has made the simple acts of God so complicated. Come here."

The Saint pulled Lazaro to the sea. "Cup out water from the sea with your hands."

Lazaro followed as was told.

"Now, drink it."

Lazaro looked at the muddy liquid. "No I cant."

"Why?"

"Because this is dirty water."

"What makes it dirty?"

"Pollutants, chemicals, assorted people swim here, you don't know what they carry with them."

Saint Augustine began swinging his head side to side, "Blah blah blah here, blah blah blah there...excuses, excuses, reasons, reasons, man has made so many complicated non-sense out of his own doing...When God created the sea, He had only one reason why man can't drink from it."

"And what is that, my Saint?" Lazaro inquired.

"Why - because he's not a fish! You fool!"

Saint Augustine pulled Lazaro back. "Lets not tarry any longer. Time is running out."

"Why?"

"For goodness sakes Lazaro, don't make me regret your return to life. Haven't you heard yourself a while back? You are looking for the Ten Holy Men, aren't you? What are you waiting for?"

After St. Augustine disappeared from his vision, Lazaro took his car and drove home. The extra ordinary events surrounding his life left him with more questions than answers. Could there be a pathological instability in his brain? Was he bordering on lunacy? Any contemporary psychologist would find a name for his condition. What could it be - hallucination? Illusion or delusion? Oh he needed to put a stop to these. To vomit an egg and be struck by a dead Saint's staff twice was NOT normal. Could he be sleepwalking?

He finally went to sleep for two hours and worked in the Universal Nursing Home for the next eight hours.

When he went home after work, he checked his answering machine and heard no message from Dade Rest. They probably didn't need him yet. So, as was his habit, he listened to Puccini's Madame Butterfly. When Kiri Te Kanawa's angelic voice beamed from his CD player singing "Echo! Son giunte al sommo del pendio...Spura sul mare" (that's what's written in the CD cover - Butterfly's Entrance) Lazaro's body went as limp as a jell-o. How could music render one's soul so tranquil? He sat on his sofa, stared at the imitation paintings he bought from WalMart. There's Degas' Blue Dancer and Renoir's Dance In The City. Staring thus with Madame Butterfly's tunes, his mind began soaring around that honorable woman in Japan, immortalized by Puccini - a woman who killed herself for a lover and a son, out of love. Any normal person today would judge that act crazy! There are certain mysteries in human heart that defy normal.

As the opera progressed, Lazaro became sadder. His mind was now thinking of Miss Saigon - he watched this play in Broadway once - about another Asian woman whose love was elevated to an art form. Love? He began wishing he fell as madly in love as these two Asian women. Yes, madly, he won't mind becoming mad - as long as he was in love. Love? Funny, he never could claim it in all his life. Kiri Te Kanawa was now singing a tune from Aida - the story of an African woman in love.This was followed by Turandot. And then Tosca. Love! Love! Love!

He was so carried away that the next thing he knew it was already dark outside and he missed cooking his dinner.

He moved fast. The good thing about living alone and independently was - the art of cooking and eating becomes so easy to do.

In thirty minutes, he was done eating.

He was sitting on the sofa again, this time, reading the poetry of Whitman and Frost, alternately.

Reading Frost, he felt restless. Blame it on Madame Butterfly and Miss Saigon, he felt angry at himself. The question of love always left a deep indentation in his heart. He was missing it, and he was missing it a lot. It was like a devil inside him, growing, wanting to get out, screaming for its release. He must do something about it.

He went out in the dark.

As he walked along Ocean Drive, he met a lot of straight lovers strolling on the shore. Lazaro got envious and soooo alone.

He suddenly arrived at a ludicrous conclusion. He thought, the reason why he was seeing visions was probably because he needed love and romance.

He took his car and parked in the premier gay bar Warsaw. Tonight he would not be alone... at least for tonight, he would escape his visions... he'd fish for love. Upon entrance at the bar, he was met by strippers strutting on the stage, every eye stared at him, some briefly, some prolonged. He ordered a drink and settled in a dark corner of the bar. Someone tapped his shoulder.

"I haven't seen you in a while," one of the strippers whispered to him, (the liar, Lazaro thought), the stripper forced his lips into a fake smile. Lazaro felt pity for the stripper, he appeared too sick and tired of what he was doing.

"What's your name?" Lazaro asked.

"Michael," the stripper started rubbing his crotch against Lazaro's thigh. Absent-mindedly. Or ritually.

"How long you've been dancing here?"

The stripper moved a little distance from Lazaro, "Are you a cop?" he asked.

"Nope." Lazaro smiled.

Unconvinced, the stripper danced away from Lazaro.

In a few minutes, a gentleman sat beside him. The man had an accent.

"I'm from Cuba," the man introduced himself, "You're from... I can't figure out."

Lazaro was tempted to say Tennessee but that was an outright lie. "Guess," he said.

"I can't decide between Japan and Mexico."

They both laughed.

"How about the Philippines?" Lazaro said.

"Filipino!" exclaimed the Cuban with a voice of gladness. "Hablas Espanol eh? Tell me, you speak Spanish, right?"

"We used to," Lazaro found his new company very attractive - his features were Spanish- thick eyebrows, brown eyes, trimmed mustache and beard - very yuppy clothes. Feeling comfortable, he started talking about the Philippine Spanish heritage, excited in sharing this to a fellow ex-Spanish-colonial.

Midway his long monologue, which sounded more like history lecture, the Cuban began yawning.

Lazaro sensed this, "Am I boring you?"

The Cuban, with open mouth and wet eyes, nodded his head in the affirmative. They both burst laughing. Then, the Cuban made direct remarks - simple and to the point - "I haven't made love to a Filipino before...Your chest is great...Your skin is smooth...Tell me, what's the size of your load?..."

In an instant, Lazaro felt being stabbed. He was hoping for love - tonight - he wished this dialogue could be postponed until later. For him, real love begins with something less sexual - true love is about friendship, arts, nobility, culture, history, about the state of gay affairs in today's world and maybe, a romantic bed. Later...Unable to elicit these from his new found companion, he began blaming himself: What made him think he'd be able to find these things in a gay bar?

"Your place or mine?" asked his companion.

Oh the man was such a seductive person but...Lazaro felt embarrassed, he bowed his head. He did not have enough libido to play sex. Not yet. He turned his eyes around... at the stage, strippers continued dancing, some of the audience who were seated at the bar watched intently, some paced the bar like hunters looking for preys in a jungle, touching each others, winking, kissing, caressing. The dancers were now approaching the audience, offering their bodies (and services) like mendicants of a new god called the Dollar. Lazaro stared at the burning candle in front of him, thinking, If they just knew the greatness of George Washington, they would probably feel guilty in slipping his face inside g-strings.

"What do you say, mi amigo, desea un fun tonight?" he heard his companion again.

He stared at his handsome companion who by now was showing signs of impatience. He could not understand why he couldn't give in. He suddenly wished he never entered this bar. Gay bars, such as this one, have already established within their walls, certain traditions and rituals and dialogues and expectations and habits among their inhabitants and guests. The trouble was, he did not know how to play along. He did not want to sound confused but he was! He did not want to be prudish but he was! He did not want to appear amateurish but he was! Worse, something terrible was rising inside him. Because he could not earn the love he was seeking, he was turning into a rebel. A rebellious emotion was now taking the place of love inside him, wanting to jump out of its shell, take center stage and pick up blankets to wrap around the nearly naked dancers, an urge to tap each of the audience on the shoulder and scream : Stop this please. Lets fall in love! Where did love go?

But that's another lunacy brewing in his brain. He had to leave before he'd regret his impending actions.

While staring at the candle in front of him, a vision descended upon its tiny light - a vision of how some of the men in this bar looked like in their old age. His handsome companion was an old wretched man in his vision, who failed to partake in the normal flow of society and history because of the habits he mastered in gay bars, who was unable to accept the inevitability of old age and fading beauty, still searching for love that's past his season.

And two of the strippers - one fell in love - so madly in love in fact that he eventually quit strip dancing. With the amount of money he saved, he started curving his own future - this he did to please his lover. Both of them grew in love together. He became a lawyer. They adopted kids and became celebrated activists of gay marriage movement. This strip dancer achieved greatness because of love.

Alas, the same did not apply for the other dancer who used his nightly dancing as a vehicle for good times. Refusing to commit himself to love, he lived night by night with a different partner... and his end was tragic.

The visions stopped. "I've got to go," Lazaro said to his companion. "The night is young," the other teased.

"I need sleep badly," Lazaro said.

"As what they say in America - You snooze, you lose."

Lazaro wondered as to whom between the two of them was this saying more applicable.

Chapter 6 : THE CONFLICT

We are often troubled, but
not crushed; sometimes in doubt
but never in despair; there are
many enemies, but we are never
without a friend; and though badly
hurt at times, we are not destroyed.

2 Cor.4:8-9

L azaro walked out of the bar. Outside, a mix of bums and hustlers and drunkards congregated under the bar's sign post. A stooped bearded old man ambulated on the sidewalk, talked by himself, eyes intent on the ground, he leaned forward to pick up a half-smoked cigarette - smoked it - savored its discarded flavor. Two or three men leaning on posts observed Lazaro, not seductively, but beggingly, to take them home. Yeah sure! He turned his eyes away. Crumpled plastic wrappers and paper and styrofoam cups were swept by the air, momentarily pausing under the yellow light of lamppost. The air smelled of Miami night: sea and beer and human sweat. The sound of the bar faded as he walked farther. He needed to walk for a while. He was a little tipsy.

Sadness kept bugging him. How many more nights will he be this way? How long will he remain awake? Why is he in the middle of the night walking to fight drunkenness? While majority of straights are sleeping in the company of their families, in the security of their homes? What makes him think he is immune from fatigue? Why is he anticipating some unfathomable action? It's definitely not sex - but what is it?

He turned toward the shore, took off his shoes, his feet felt good upon striking the sugar-fine sand. His steps got faster and faster and faster.

And then, he ran.

He slowed down after a mile or two. He took a few deep breaths. That felt good.

He took off his shirt, his pants, his underwear and swam into the tepid water. He was alone and free in the dark.

"Sir," a voice called.

Someone else was present!

"No swimming is allowed at this time of the night. Put on your clothes Sir. Nude swimming is against the law." Lazaro apologized to the man in front of him. This man was a fox! Wearing a blue uniform and shorts that revealed full and muscular hairy legs; the man's chest was well shaped, his arms were double those of Lazaro's in size. Lazaro, who, a minute ago was libido-less suddenly felt a strong urge to jump into the arms of the man. His eyes got focused on the man's bulge. Shamelessly, Lazaro came out of the sea and exposed his hardening crotch. He picked up his clothes, which were lying not far from where the man stood. Their arms rubbed briefly.

"I...I'm sorry," the man said.

"It's alright."

The man extended a handshake...their hands locked for a long long time...and then...without words...they started breathing deep and labored.

The Miami heat inside them sparked a conflagration. In an instant, they started kissing passionately, Lazaro began tearing the man's blue uniform , they fell on the sand... in Lazaro's mind, Gloria Estefan was singing.

And then...

"Aaaay! Dios por Santo!" Lazaro screamed when he opened his eyes. St. Augustine was sitting beside them, sobbing. What a bummer!

"St. Augustine!!!!"

The uniformed man atop Lazaro started to laugh loud, he turned on his back. Right before Lazaro's eyes, the man's eyes turned fiery red, his canine teeth got sharper, and horns sprouted from his skull. His penis got elongated to form a long hairy tail.

"I don't fucking believe this," was all Lazaro could say.

The Angel of Darkness stood up and stared down on St. Augustine who would not stop crying. The Devil kicked the Saint who fell on the ground with a big thud. Lazaro couldn't bear this. "Wait a minute..." he tried to shield the Saint from the Devil's fury to no avail.

"Don't speak!" the Saint wailed, addressing Lazaro. "Don't protect me. He has the upper hand now and I must bear this." The Devil gave the prostrated Saint another kick. When the Saint tried to stand, he received a big upper-cut. Lazaro thought the Saint's jaws got displaced.

"Fight back, my Saint," Lazaro begged.

St. Augustine appeared deaf, his eyes refused to stare at Lazaro, who remained naked. Kneeling on the shore, St. Augustine cupped out sand with his hands and began showering himself with it. While doing this, he lamented:

"I have lost. You gave yourself to the Devil. How can you be so fickle Lazaro? Don't you know that everytime you give in to the Devil, you hurt one Saint in heaven?"

"But, dear Saint..."

"Don't speak. And put your clothes on."

The Devil by now had grown feathers on both his arms, forming wings. He turned around to urinate through his long tail. He made a little shake when done, his feathers sort of wiggled. "Hah, haaaah," the Devil said. "It's good to pee again after so many centuries." He flapped his wings then released a booming hurray before flying up to the sky.

"This is all unfair, St. Augustine, " Lazaro complained. "Who asked the two of you to come fight over me like a price in a boxing match? I'm the one committing this mistake, I'm the one who needs to get punished... not you. Please..."

The Saint fell on the sand.

This alarmed Lazaro. He checked the Saint's pulse, listened to his heart flutters, scrutinized his opened but non-reactive eyes, turned his ears to the Saint's nose and mouth for signs of respiration. Lazaro sensed nothing.

"Oh God, my God," Lazaro cried. "I just saw the Devil pee and flee and now, a dead Saint died again in my arms." Lazaro pounded on the sand with grief. "Why am I being bombarded with these visions and guilt? Why can't you, oh Spirits, just let things be the way they are. If I deserve hell let it be so. Please, leave me alone."

The supposedly dead Saint's hand moved abruptly and slapped Lazaro's face. "Get your face off me you drunk little devil!"

"How in the world... how... I thought you were dead there for a moment. Whew!"

"I have been dead for more than seventeen hundred years, idiot!" St. Augustine moved his head in different directions, his spine crepitated. He clumsily stood up, checked his legs, felt his body, and sat down again facing the shore, crossing his legs.

"So...So you've heard what I just said?"

"I've heard what you've said, what you're saying, what you're not saying, and what you're about to say. I'm a Saint don't you forget that, imbecile."

"Why can't I be left alone then?"

"Ha! You want to be left alone? Fine! I'll leave you alone. But before I disappear from your sight, let me ask you this question: If you were not here right this moment, where would you be?"

Lazaro had to think hard before answering. For a loner like him, who had no friends, no vices, no lover or any attachment, no major cause to fight for, (why, even this service to AIDS patients wasn't as smooth-going as he thought) he really had nothing else left but...

"I would probably be sleeping, my Saint."

"Tomorrow, where would you be at this time of the night?"

"Well. I don't know... I might be asleep too."

"You know, when I was your age, I was also a loner. Yet, in order not to get lonely, I chose to be a monk and surrounded myself with fellow monks. In our Society, we were all loners but never lonely. Lazaro, I'm nearly 1,800 years old, and I've never seen a lousier loner than you. God gave you legs to walk, mouth to speak, hands to write and work, mind to think and a heart to love... it's a pity if all you could do with these gifts is be confined inside the four walls of your apartment and sleep."

"But it's unfair! Don't I deserve peace of mind? Why am I singled out among millions of gays around the globe?"

"And how many among those millions would like to see the things you are seeing now Lazaro? You disappoint me my child. You've said you wanted God more than anything else, He's a diamond you lost. Now you found Him and you complain. You of a weak soul! Do you think God comes to man holding a bouquet of flowers? To meet Him, you've got to be holy, for He is holy. Remember His command to Moses atop Mount Sinai! His path is narrow - it would be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle. Oh... why am I proselyte-ing to you - you knew this since you were a child."

St. Augustine picked up his staff and started walking away. He nearly limped and became short of breath. Lazaro sensed the pain brewing in the Saint's heart.

"All I'm saying is," Lazaro mumbled, his pants in his hand, keeping up with the pace of the old man, "All I'm saying is, can't I meet God without these trials and tribulations? Can't I meet Him in an atmosphere of calm? Can't I..."

St. Augustine's apparition vanished.

Lazaro got frightened. He started shaking. He turned his eyes in different directions, searched all over the shore in panic. He checked the interiors of palm groves and lumps of reeds and found nothing. What he sensed were discordant voices emanating from the city. Dawn was breaking. He kept calling the Saint's name and there was no response. In trepidation, he started crying.

A beach custodian pushing a garbage bin saw Lazaro this way, he gave Lazaro an odd look. Afterall, Lazaro was wearing only a shirt, his underwear was now claimed by the Atlantic ocean, his pants rolled against his crotch. Thinking he was drunk, the man ordered Lazaro to leave.

Without turning his head, Lazaro pulled up his pants and ran toward his car.

He needed to sleep. God, how he wanted to sleep. Why is he still awake?

Upon his return to his apartment, the alarm clock on his dresser read 6 o' clock AM. No way could he manage to work today. He quickly jumped into shower and sat on the sofa. He still felt drunk. He fixed himself a cup of Cappuccino. Sipping the coffee, he wondered what to do next. He picked up the telephone and called in sick. He was not lying. He was deprived of energy after his dream-like adventures through the night.

Still, doubt was in his mind. St. Augustine and the Devil fighting over his soul was within the realm of fantasy, Get a grip! Things like these belong to the Dark ages, not to this day and age.

He crawled on his bed, felt the fluffy pillows and closed his eyes. Everything turned black.

At 5 o' clock PM he was awakened by the telephone ring.

"Please come to Dade Rest," Jeff Kaploski's voice was urgent. "Please come here quick."

On a dark night, Kindled in love with yearnings -
oh happy chance! -
I went forth without being observed, My house
being now at rest.
In darkness and secure, By the secret ladder, disguised -
oh happy chance! -
In darkness and in concealment, My house
being now at rest.
In the happy night, In secret, when no one saw me
Nor I beheld aught, Without light or guide,
Save that which burned in my heart....

Lazaro did not comprehend the meaning of those words initially.

"It was probably the full moon that caused this outbreak among the residents of Dade Rest." It took only a few seconds for Lazaro to get the entire picture.

As described by Jeff - at four o' clock in the morning, which was roughly the moment after St. Augustine and the Devil wrestled on the shore of Miami Beach, residents woke up complaining of dizzyness, lightheadedness and nausea. A few began vomitting, others had diarrhea. These symptoms never occured among the entire resident population of Dade Rest before. They suspected a stomach virus; they tried to determine the culprit. They weren't able to. For in Dade Rest, food was cooked in the most sanitized manner and only the freshest vegetables and meats and sea food and ingredients were used, afterall, most of the patients did the cooking themselves. They checked the entire house, including the tunnels, for some signs of decay - insects or dirt somewhere that were accidentally missed, but then again, residents cleaned the house by themselves, and gays could never be doubted when it comes to cleanliness.

This sudden outburst of symptoms in nearly epidemic proportions drove some residents out of their rooms. They spent the entire day outside or in the lounge. What appeared to be an ordinary house the previous night looked like a hospital now. As the day dragged on, the symptoms got so severe that many decided to have their primary and private physicians.

Now, here they were, residents lying side by side on plastic cots, some on chairs and recliners, chatting and embroidering and drawing sketches, listening to music, composing poems. The ones who were too sick to do anything were moaning, wet towels were spread over their foreheads, chilling. Doctors were coming and going, nurses setting up IV's, taking vitals.

Lazaro sat watching - he realized that not all gays with AIDS looked bad, here was a congregation as terribly good looking as the Hollywood hunks, looking like models for GQ magazine.

"What are you doing there?" Jeff asked when he saw Lazaro doing nothing. "I didn't ask you to come here just to watch..."

"Well, these patients, I mean residents... majority of these residents don't need any help," Lazaro replied.

"You're here not for these people Lazaro." He moved his lips to Lazaro's ear and whispered, "There are people downstairs... you know."

Lazaro remembered. The tunnels, the residents downstairs. How could he have forgotten!

Jeff carried boxes of medicines and other supplies, the two of them descended the dark underground.

In descending, Lazaro remembered a time he stepped on a similar stair nearly ten years ago. In the leprosy sanitorium in Palawan. The memory of that place became alive in his mind. Once more.

Chapter 7: THE CREEP OF PALAWAN

I cannot just throw the past into oblivion - it made me, it was the summary of me, it molded my mind - it was me. So I won't forget Palawan and its lepers (properly called Hansenites) whom I worked with.

On our way there, I won't forget the turbulent South China Sea that nearly capsized our boat against the sharp edges of rocks and sea caves and beautiful seascape designed by corals; I won't forget the multi-colored schools of fish dancing in unison, to the drums of sea winds and bursts of waves forming circles and curves and lines; I won't forget the striped sea snakes and birds mate-dancing in the air, the crocodiles yawning with tears, the nido hidden beneath caves, caves occupied by millions of bats...at nights.

At nights...I won't forget the dangerous cliffs beside the roads our van drove onto and on through; the thick jungles that played the music of the earth.

In Palawan, I stooped to catch a glimpse of sea cucumbers and starfishes. I raised my head to witness monkeys eaten by eagles. I won't forget my purple solitude under century-old trees and their thick foliage, beside the cool waterfalls, amidst the steam emanating from hot springs.

I lived in an isolated sanitarium in the middle of a solitary woodland, in this solitary island stretched like an arm among the Philippine's seven thousand one hundred and seven islands.

The water was blue like the sky; and bright, as bright as the billions of stars hanging low from the same sky that turned gray at nights... especially when the moon was round. The moon at nights communed with the sea, both casting their reflections upon the mountains, only parting when the sun from the east took over at dawn..

I lived there and served there. My job was to treat lepers in a hospital and series of cottages where medicine was scarce and supplies had to be dropped from air by planes because there were no strips to land. We lived far away from the world.

The night I remember now was a night without power, yes, it was another one of those brown-out nights, so common in the country during those days, I was carrying a candle to illumine the work of the Sisters of Mary as they tossed the corpse of Guillermo Makalusong who died on Christmas Eve.

With bare hands, the Sisters washed the body with sulphur soap (our supply of gloves was long gone) and swept his blood to the side gutters of a metallic bed, the blood dripped to a waiting bucket. Guillermo Makalusong stabbed his neck five times. He was drunk when he committed suicide.

"Hurry up Sisters," I said impatiently, "I have test papers to check."

I had two jobs in the sanitarium: as the Nun's Assistant and as a Nurse Clinical Instructor to Nursing students affiliated with us, I managed their internship. Our hands were always full - there were the living to take care of and corpses that needed to be washed and shipped. We also sent out solicitation letters all over the world, begged for medicine, taught patients technical skills so they could be useful. We produced stuffed dolls shipped to -------; molded ceramic figurines shipped to ------- and assembled simple tools like hammers and mallets shipped to -------. Despite all these, money was always in short supply.

Because - you see - lepers were not automatons. They needed food, shelter, clothes and water besides medicine. They also fell in love like everyone else, and being Catholics, were never allowed abortions or contraceptives. Emotions flared up, and voices took sharp tones every time the Sisters heard of anything related to family planning. So when babies were born from leprotic parents, it meant more milk and diapers to buy, new cribs to assemble, and new baby sitters to hire. We always took the babies away from their mothers for the first couple of years; being defenseless in immunity, we could not risk the infants' lives by exposing them to their disease infected parents. We were not exactly emotional about this. We've taken these babies against the wishes of their parents no matter how much howling we've heard.

Additionally, I had the responsibilty of welcoming young budding Nurses direct from Manila universities and mind you, they were not exactly happy about joining us. They said, "We're here to fulfill an academic requirement - we're telling you now - we don't like it here."

With this in mind, I was always apologetic, grateful for their presence. I would stand by the podium and begin my lecture, "Leprosy or Hansen's Disease is found only in man, caused by Mycobacterium leprae, treatable now with a combination of drugs: Lamprene, Rifampicin, and Dapsone."

While I lectured, one student would file her nails, another would fix her make-up, color her lips with a lipstick, and another would bring out a pen to compose a long love letter to her boyfriend in Manila. They were very disinterested.

I got fed up after six months of doing this. I got tired of their lack of commitment, this utter disrespect, this cruel contempt for the work which I considered honorable and decent. I decided to teach them what a real Nurse aught to be.

First, I met with their department heads and stated categorically that from now on, I will upgrade the passing score in my exams and anyone who fails must repeat the entire course.

Second, I will grade their clinical performance using patients' comments as a key. Third, I will require them to know how the food is cooked and served, how surgeries even autopsies are done, how medical supplies are inventoried, how technical skills are taught and how to baby-sit once in a while.

Upon learning about my new policies, they began calling me all sorts of names. The Nursing students who were children of well-heeled politicians pulled themselves out of the affiliation through political contacts. Children of military brass and of business men succeeded in by-passing the affiliation after their parents threatened to cut-off their charity contributions to our sanitarium. And those that remained, those who were powerless to get pulled out of the affiliation called me the Creep of Palawan behind my back.

Initially, the management of the Sanitarium wanted to fire me. Who was I to change the whole program by myself? I fired back saying that in Health Care, one cannot afford to choose whom to treat - whether the patient is a stroke or a leper or AIDS victim. When a person's life is at stake, one cannot just use politics or the military or business to avoid it. If you do then, you have no business in taking care of the sick.

What really prevented them from firing me was this: the remaining few students started studying harder - for my exams weren't exactly easy - and the patients they were treating started voicing satisfaction. The management had to re-think its position towards me.

I was thinking all of these on my way out of the morgue, the candle was still in my hand. The Nuns by now were about to retire to the convent after covering Guillermo Makalusong's corpse with a white sheet. In two days, his body will be shipped back to...where...where did I see Guillermo first?

I blew off my candle. I stood outside the hospital. On my way to my office, I couldn't help but sense the prevailing silence and loneliness in this isolated compound. I felt the gush of cold December wind. The San Francisco chapel was still lighted albeit dimly, and I could hear the humming of the Franciscan monks. Tonight they were offering vespers for Guillermo.

I heard the rooster crow its midnight crow. I heard a baby burst into cries, it quickly subsided with a babysitter's soothing voice... Shhhhhh. On my approach, a dog stood up, stared at me with raised ears, after it recognized me, it sat back to resume its slumber.

The events that took place on the day we took Guillermo to the sanitarium were still vivid in my mind. He resisted, how he tried. Was that in Legazpi? Yes it was in Legazpi. How could I forget it? I remembered the sight of Mt. Mayon's perfect cone in Legazpi, against this background was the remnant of a devastated city after Mayon's catastrophic explosion, the only structure that survived was its Catholic belfry.

I remembered Guillermo.

We knocked at his door. It was close to midnight, it was the best time to take a patient from his home. It would not create too much excitement in the neighborhood. We did not warn him of this unexpected visit, fearing he might run away. When he saw us, he denied who he was. "You've got the wrong man," he lied. But we already knew, his profile was in our hands. When he realized there was no way of talking his way out, he tried to run, he jumped out of the window. But we were quick and too strong for him. He turned into an animal trapped in a net. "Get away from me!" he cried.

Dr. Montes was firm. "Look Guillermo," his voice was authoritative. "It's against the law to mingle with people in your community if you have an active leprosy. You're a threat to the health of your children and wife and friends."

Guillermo's wife sat in a corner of the room, wide-eyed, shaking. She was hugging their children who started crying hysterically after seeing their father being cornered by the likes of me in white smocks and gloves.

His eyes remained closed, he tried to free his arms and body from our grips, tried to reason out - how could we do this to him in front of his children and wife? Who gave us the right to capture him like a wild beast? Since when did contracting an infectious disease unknowingly become a crime? The hell would he know where or from whom he got it.

"Get off me, you sons of bitches!" he cussed.

"Now, now," Dr. Montes tried to sound condescendingly. "It will just take you a couple of months treatment, the longest would be two years. All you need is rest and proper medications. Come along now."

Being new in my job and wanting to impress my boss, I joined Dr. Montes in pacifying Guillermo. "Yes, you'll join your family soon."

Guillermo's leprosy began with a singular numb patch. A single coin-shaped whitening on his brown skin. He ignored it, in fact, it was diagnosed as leprosy only when he brought his son Jimmy to the local Doctor for immunization. He casually mentioned the spot - and what followed was a rapid succession of event after event. The Doctor panicked, the village panicked, everyone that had direct contact with him were all monitored and tested. He was castigated by his parents, was suspected of dallying with prostitutes in Red Moon bar outside of town. His drinking buddies condemned him, and disappeared one by one. The local office of the Department of Health interrogated him, tried to squeeze out from him the identity of the person who might have possibly infected him. But how could he tell? He was a carpenter - he moved where work was available - from village to village. How could he know?

The culmination of these events turned him into something of a villain. "As God is my witness, I didn't do this," he pleaded. His children cried more hysterically.

Ah the drama of life. How many incidents like these did I participate in? Countless! Wasn't there a way to treat these patients decently, without being ostracized, without turning into exiles in their own country, without the fanfare? Where was the right to privacy?

Guillermo was admitted into this sanitarium and began his treatment: the psychologist diagnosed him as mentally stable; the Social Service worker promised the well being of his family ("Thanks to Marcos government," he fuckingly reasoned out.) The Physical Therapist evaluated him for potential deformities and contractures; the Vocational Therapist started him working at the foundry and general metal shop (To get occupied and forget sorrow," oh Please...)

All said and done, Guillermo Makalusong was officially recorded as patient number 20496 in Cottage A in the Sanitarium, destined for Acute care - where Nurses like me acted more like wardens in a jail instead of Florence Nightangle. We ordered - "Take your medicine Guillermo."; "It's 9 o' clock go to the vocational shop."; "It's 1 o clock pm, time for Physical Therapy."; And because meager water was rationed, "It's 3 o clock am, take your shower Guillermo."

His resistance turned into acceptance only after being daily assured, at least for a week, that Lamprene, Dapsone and Rifampicin would bring him back home in six months.

But just like any other disease, his indeterminate lesion turned out to be of the leprotic type - the worst type of leprosy. After a month of treatmen