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 treatment, the worst side effects of medications began to emerge. His complexion turned very dark, the leprosy micro escaped from his body by exploding through skin pores, forming carbuncles of pus.

Prednisone was added to his regimen until his face became moon-shaped. His legs increasingly got swollen.

"I'm going home," he tried to convince himself, after being further assured, again, that the side effects would soon vanish. His nose shrunk, his fingers became clawed, he lost feeling in both feet, a stocking form of numbness.

Guillermo reached the stage beyond Acute. He was transferred to Cottage B - the Sub-acute. In here, daily, religiously, he participated in all his rehab programs.

True to the promise of modern treatment, he was declared completely cured after one year. He was finally ready and safe to return home. But how did Guillermo Makalusong, patient # 20496 appeared in going home? His face was dark and round, in a place where once stood a prominent nose, there were merely two holes. His eyes didn't close completely, the eyelids lost their muscle power. His fingers were supported by splints and he limped due to foot-drop.

His family and his neighbors, who, thanks to God, were spared from getting infected by him, must be waiting for him.

He went home.

Two days later, he returned.

The bus dropped him at the station - he was pushed from the bus by the conductor, for being drunk. Guillermo Makalusong came to us crying. "My children fled upon seeing me, they called me a monster. My wife now lives with another man. What did I expect? I was absent the whole year and the government could not provide all their meals, they had to eat."

He was given residence in Cottage C - the Chronic Cottage. In here, Guillermo Makalusong was encouraged to start his life anew. He would commune with other recovering patients with similar plights. In here they' d learn to work more, fall in love even and build new homes and families and die in peace in their old age.

Guillermo Makalusong did not live up to expectations. He became sordid and frequently got drunk, how he found money to buy Ginebra gin was beyond me. I heard he sold his meals for a bottle. He lost weight, he spent his free time drawing his family on the walls of the Cottage. He wrote everyday to his wife but his letters were returned unopened. He composed songs and sang them nocturnally.

In a couple of weeks, we started receiving complaints about him. The few remaining student nurses reported they were harassed by him on their way to cottages to provide treatments. He was warned many times. It didn't work. Of course, we sought the services of the psychologist to help him cope, and naturally, he was found to be combative and aggressive.

The solution? He was transferred to Cottage D, the Desperados.

Patients here were restrained and kept away from the outside world. Entering this door, I had to pass through a series of wooden doors that were kept padlocked to keep the patients from harming outsiders and medical workers like me.

I visited Guillermo Makalusong, one day, in my attempt to help him.

Yet, instead of sympathy, I raised an accusing finger at him when I met him in his room, "Guillermo, we've provided the best treatment for you, what else do you want?"

"I want to go home," he said. "I want to go home."

I stared at him for a long long time.

Perhaps it was out of pity, or perhaps out of loneliness, that I started visiting Cottage D more frequently from then on. We talked, the Cottage D residents and I - about family and friends; about love, friendship and loneliness. Slowly I adopted them as my own family. I began spending my salaries in buying them a video cassette and stereo sound system. And magazines. And books. And cases of beer. We drank until midnights. We seemed to have formed a separate world.

The Nuns warned me about this. They said I must avoid getting emotionally attached to patients. They would later use me. To spoil them the way I was doing would lead to dangerous consequences. They must remain in isolation - to show them videos about outside world would only remind them of the reality they've been separated from. And that would hurt them even more. To play music for them, especially sad love songs would remind them of their lost loves. And to drink with them... was I out of my mind?

They also advised me to pull my few remaining Nursing students away from them. My activities were placing the students in Harm's Way. I didn't have to wait to see this happen, the remaining students, one by one, cancelled their affiliation to the Sanitarium.

They complained that their Clinical Instructor was getting out of hand.

I told the nuns and the administration that lepers should remain part of the world; we should at least simulate a normal social environment for them. They are still part of humanity. They are also children of God. They are not insane.......

I was thinking all these as I reached my office. I opened my drawer and pulled out the remaining test papers of students who would be my last batch to teach. I knew it was useless to do this. I was ready for the axe.

The following day, I brought the corpse of Guillermo inside the morgue. I also brought my students. They got excited - because I promised them to see an autopsy procedure. Guillermo's face was covered with a towel, and slowly, the procedure began...his chest was cut into shape Y and flaps were pulled out to reveal his internal anatomy. The Pathologist started picking and plucking and cutting and analyzing and measuring Guillermo's internal organs. I wrote the numbers, someone else took photographs for records. And then...

The corpse moved!

Initially, I shrugged it off as rigor mortis. But Guillermo Makalusong, the corpse, pulled the towel from his face and grinned at his audience. He sat up on the table and picked up his internal organs lying on the table. With these in hands and his torso open, he stood up and walked towards the students. He started saying, "Home... Home... Home..." He collapsed just before reaching the students. He was bathed in his own blood.

This event led into hysteria. The scream of the students was heard all over the compound of the Sanitarium.

The Sisters and the Monks came running, equally stupefied at the disarray in the morgue, a collapsed corpse in the center, and students screaming.

When the pandemonium finally settled down, with police and ambulances and priests and nuns around, the inquiry began.

"What happened?" asked sister Carmen, a Spanish nun. The students, though shocked were not out of wits. Their hatred to me had reached its peak. Who was I to subject them to this? They accused me of cavorting with the lepers. I, who was their clinical instructor, never taught anything right - that I did nothing but be in the company of lepers, drinking, singing, watching bad videos - that we disturbed the Angelus with our rowdiness - that I was so sick and gross - that I had no right to teach -that I had no right to live in the Philippines - that I forced them to treat people no one would dare to treat - what is the relevance of this affiliation to their nursing careers anyway? That I was the Devil weaving all this witchcraft over them. I stood there and refused to defend myself. I was too traumatized by the grotesquery.... I was immediately expelled from Palawan.

The memoir of Lazaro ended here ... because at this point, he was already in America. He was pulled back to reality as the stair of Dade Rest tunnel creaked upon his weight.

Jeff opened a door - it also creaked. There was a man lying on a bed in the middle of the room.

Lazaro sat beside the sick man. The man on the bed whispered, "Hello, I'm Bill. I'm dying of AIDS."

It's Guillermo Makalusong again, the same person, with a different face.

Chapter 8: THE SEXLESS ARCHANGEL OF NO NAME

The Dilemma of Sam Cold

...A vicious, almost pathological cycle, I would call upon God to protect me against the temptation of sex only succumb to it afterwards because sex is a biological need. And because I failed God I must punish myself by giving in to more sex. More sex would lead to more guilt; more guilt to more prayers; more prayers to more sex; more sex to more guilt; more guilt to more prayers and so on...

It took me five days to read One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Marquez. Another five days to resume writing The Visions of St. Lazarus. In between those times, I've made some self-introspection...lately, I seem to disintegrate in matters of day to day living. As many aspiring writers would be bound to admit, writing isn't as easy as it sounds. There is work to worry about, friends that barge in and out unannounced, attachments to nurture, responsibilities to fulfill. I lay down on my bed to figure out how to rid my life of useless nuisances and get more focused... I've lived a direction-less life, ruled by impulse and moved by desires. This needed to stop. I bought this organizer - I laugh in thinking of possessing an organizer - but take it or leave it, it works. Last night I got tired of moving from room to room in my apartment - composing this novel in one room, reading a book in another, and sleeping in yet another (my apartment is so large) - that I decided to huddle all my books and my computer in my bedroom and took to the task of completing this manuscript. Anyway... After reviewing the first seven chapters of this manuscript, I've discovered how loosely they are threaded. It's not exactly a well trimmed story, I find subtle and unclear and conflicting passages here and there. I've mentioned this to Lazaro and he just pooh-poohed my concerns. Our task is to synthesize thought and express feelings, he said. - If we start worrying about grammar and correct English, we will get stuck - that's the job of English majors - or those in possession of Creative Writing degrees. The reason why we Filipinos continue to fail in producing superior literature is because of an educational system that is more worried about structure and grammar than the the heart of composition. "Whatever..." I shrugged. So friends and dear readers, I'm back, unfettered by inconsistent tense and grammatical errors. We all know perfection is not important in fiction.

As I last narrated in the last Chapter before the Intermission, Lazaro found himself doing what his profession demanded of him. He was checking vitals, reviewing medication orders, changing beds, sitting patients up on wheelchairs, all the while pretending deaf to their moaning. Ah the moaning, medical workers can't ignore it - the sound of surrender. The cry that begs - "Let it be" - from a dying man. "Leave me alone, let me die." There's a lot of comfort in giving in to death - the bed is warm, the muscles are relaxed, if you're terminally ill, why would you give these up? Compare that to the struggle to live - to move - to eat - to shit - to pee - But live one must. If only to see another beauty of the night and splendor of sunrise. Lazaro took the patients off their beds and sat them up. They were weak. Their atrophied muscles depleted their limbs of strength and their skins were reddened by impending breakdowns. They have been bedridden for sometime. He and Jeff started wheeling their recliners and wheelchairs toward the veranda. As they were being moved however, they were transfiguring. This transfiguration became apparent as they reached the veranda facing the secret garden, which by now was no longer visible to Lazaro, he was given only one opportunity to see it, if I recall it right. In the veranda, the patients smiled and relaxed, took deep breaths like they never breathed before. And then, one spoke, "Open up the bottle of wine," his voice was full of delight.

Lazaro, once again, saw a mystery unfolding. Their chairs were arranged around a mahogany table, except for Sam Cold... more of him later.

Jeff went to the kitchen and came back with seven glasses, a bottle and a vase with flowers. He poured the wine...after drinking their glasses, the patients' emaciated bodies gathered mass, their cheeks became pink, their lips turned red and they gained eloquence.

From their mouths flew stories spoken in language they alone understood, as if all their sharing bore resemblance to everyone's experience.

Except for one patient, Sam Cold, who refused to sit with them. He sat in one corner far from them, his heart was breaking apart. This was one of those moments Sam Cold dreaded to encounter. And he had many moments similar to this. In gay crowds he would always end up in a desolate corner ... because... because despite having AIDS he knew very little about gay life, what could he share with them? In the gay world, Sam Cold always stood in isolation - because... because... He was afraid of losing God. Just like a priest who could not look at a woman because he might lose God. He vowed since his youth that he would live monastically and celibately. But he failed to spell this, his vow, among gay crowds. He also failed to keep it, because he was human. The result was great confusion, this was why he could not smile and relax like the rest anymore. In his exposure to the gay world, he found many surprising facts. No gay is similar to another. Just like the straights, there is one gay who celebrates sex, another who celebrates arts, another who celebrates sciences, another who celebrates humanity, another who celebrates leadership and politics. One gay would love to grow roses, another would love to map geography of wars. And he, he took the road less traveled by. He was Sam Cold, who wanted to celebrate God. But look - how could a gay man who is active sexually celebrate God? If he were straight he could solve his dilemma through the sanctity of marriage. But with gay sex, he was condemned to a vicious, almost pathological cycle: Sam Cold would call upon God to protect him against the temptation of sex only to succumb to it afterwards because sex is a biological need. And because he failed God, he must punish himself by giving in to more sex. More sex would lead to more guilt which would lead to more prayers which would lead to more sex which would lead to more guilt and so on. So that in the end, sex was no longer a source of pleasure for Sam Cold, it became an internal clash between good and evil. Sex became an enemy and to punish himself, he would end up in a strange bed without an idea who his bedfellow was... so he'd leave without a word, without saying goodbye.

Eventually religion for Sam Cold revolved around sex and this confused him more. He always felt standing on unstable ground. So much so that one gay simply told him to beat it -- "I pity you," said the gay, "You let this homophobic Religion and Church dominate you. You may call all the names of God, still, you'll find yourself kneeling before a man and sucking his cock." One night at one party, he met a sixty year old gay who said, "Enjoy it while you're young, beyond my age, they will be hard to come by." With these conflicting messages every so often, Sam Cold would retreat to the security of the icons he collected throughout his life - the icons of God... Rescue me, he would pray; Help me, he would beg. Yet after praying, he would indulge in sex all the more. At this moment, he was sitting in a corner, as I've previously mentioned, sweaty and confused as if tormented by the happiness of the gays around him. Why couldn't he be happy like them? The other six patients around the table were in a trance. All of them staring at an object which Lazaro could not see.

Lazaro was desperate, he turned his attention to Sam Cold instead.

"This is beautiful," a voice spoke, as the six patients became one face, like clones of one person. And then, a bright light, like a halo, descended upon them and when the voice spoke the second time, it was their one voice. It was a Star Trek-space-invader type of voice: "What is the use of gay life without wine and roses?" And they smiled as they turned synchronically to Sam Cold. Sam Cold spoke defensively. "I don't know," he said, "Everything around me is so strange. I'm sorry if I can't share your happiness but I don't feel what you feel. It's funny... I feel I belong yet I don't belong."

"We understand," the voice answered. "We are gays, don't you forget that. As gays, we can be as varied in opinions and beliefs as the rest of humanity. But...come here...sit beside us...lets reminisce the days of wine and roses. Tell us...what confuses you Sam Cold?"

"Forgive me my friends, but I can no longer call upon God for the strength that I desperately need." Sam covered his face with his hands. "I can no longer contain the sorrows of being gay. I am tired of trying to reconcile what we're going through to the justice of God. And I feel all defeated."

The voice - "You've chosen the right place Sam, to be with us, in here. You can pray all you want, crush gay love, ignore the reality or go to CNN to come out but still, you will seek our company. Why? Because we're the only ones who would not oppose or expel you. We'd never condemn or humiliate you because every gay, in one way or another, at one time or another, had gone through what you're going through. How many gays have tried to solve their sex dilemma but failed? How many gays have sought Christ and religion only to discover their estrangements from these? And because of those struggles, how many gays have cut themselves from other gays, yeah, condemn their fellow gays even, to prove they're stronger? Each gay in this world have been where you are now Sam. In that tiny little corner you hug yourself, comfort yourself, warm yourself - alone, tired, afraid and very very sad. Come here, come sit beside us - with AIDS or without AIDS, whatever color, creed or nationality, whatever station in life, whatever principle and theory adhered, listen to our voice and advice. God created gays because He wanted us to bring out the days of wine and roses. He wanted us to laugh for Him. So - Lets talk of good times. Let us remember who we were and who we are. Pour out the wine... smell the roses...look at the beauty of God's Creation. Don't make God weep anymore. You belong to Him and to us. You may avoid all the temptations of this earth, you may become a hermit in a far away cave, you may delete all the destructive weapons of war to usher in world peace, still, you belong to us. Stop Sam Cold. Stop your tears and remember our great men and women. "Think of the Father of Western civilization, Alexander the Great, who loved both men and women. Celebrate him."

From a distance, Sam Cold saw Alexander descend, astride a horse, in full warrior regalia, surrounded by the old Greek temples, he smiled and waved at Sam Cold.

"Think of Leonardo da Vinci and Michaelangelo, these two lovers of beauty and humanity in whatever sex. Celebrate them."

The two artists appeared, Michaelangelo was holding his sculptor's chisel, da Vinci his paint brush, they both nodded to Sam Cold.

"Lets pour out wine and gather roses for them. Claim their strengths and greatness. Smile and laugh."

With these words, a drum was heard beating, joined by trumpets then violins. The twelve monks appeared seated behind Sam Cold, they were playing different musical instruments. A guitar was strung. Then the souls of the six AIDS patients temporarily left their bodies. Their images turned into ballet dancers, suspended in mid-air. They started dancing gracefully before Sam Cold.

The music sounded familiar...it was... Malaguena. A harp -> guitar -> flute -> violin -> trumpet and the dance continued, it gained speed and then.... the spirit dancers soared up above the garden...

"Celebrate with us Sam Cold. Take the sadness away from your face. Remember the gays who made our civilization a little bit more beautiful, a bit more worthwhile to live in. "Remember the gay soldiers who perished in the line of fire, who saved the lives of their comrades as they defended freedom and democracy and peace around the world. "Remember our gay holy men who chose to serve God than become slaves of sins. "Dance with us, all of us, celebrate. Celebrate with the souls of thousands of gays who sit upon their quilts on AIDS Memorial Day. "Dance with their spirits."

Then the spirit dancers held hands together and began roll -calling the names of dead gays who came and descended upon the garden.

Unable to see all of it, Lazaro cried, "Oh God in heavens, let me see." The moment he uttered this, the heaven opened before his eyes. It was pink. The landscape in front was silvery white, flowers sprouted, gardens grew, gold butterflies wandered from lily to lily. Dragonflies with green eyes flew around Lazaro. Schools of birds perched upon trees twittered. Lazaro was delirious. And then the spirits turned into one wind, the same spirits he saw in his dream. Lazaro exclaimed: "This is marvelous! You are the spirits that knocked at the doors of heavens. You are the the ones who woke me up!" He saw the images as clear as a day. Then the wind broke into tiny brilliant specks, like falling stars landing upon earth. In landing, they metamorphosed into spirits the size of human beings. Some wore loin cloths of the African tribes, others in knights' armors, others in medieval garbs. There were some who wore Japanese kimonos and sarongs of Indonesia. There were souls in scientist's coat, in jackets, in astronaut's space suits. He saw a matador and a man holding a Mexican sombrero; he saw an Argentinean tango dancer, a Spanish flamenco dancer. There was an Australian cowboy. The rest strutted in fashions worn throughout human history. A group of gays wearing bell bottoms and sharply colored shirts reflective of the seventies clenched their fists and shouted, "Remember Stonewall!" And the AIDS victims of the 80's and 90's covered in shawls of quilts sat contemplatively like the eunuchs of ancient China. There were certain recognizable faces who made Lazaro jump with glee. "Isn't that Whitman rolling upon the grass, laughing like a child? Oh my God, that's Oscar Wilde! Darn, that must be EM Forster talking with Proust."

Oscar Wilde approached him. As usual, Wilde was in his old Irish self. "Look at those two queers," he said, pointing at EM Forster who sat regally under a park umbrella, his felt hat was well-contoured, his shoes impeccably shiny. At his feet, Proust lay reclined, he was covered with blankets, he had a French cap. "Atchooo!" he sneezed. "Dammit! These pollens will trigger my asthma again."

Lazaro couldn't help overhearing their conversation. "As I was saying Monsieur," said Proust, "'tis better for you to forget this English Maurice, he's already married and had forgotten you."

"Ha!" answered Forster. "Maurice will forget me? Let me tell you something girl, Maurice is somewhere roaming in this eternity looking for me. If you recall, at the end of my novel, I described him as an old man standing at the gate of his house, looking for me, remembering our Oxford days, anticipating my re-appearance. That's absolutely true. I beg to disagree with you Proust, Maurice is looking for me."

"Hey, you two homosexuals, will you get from your little nook there and speak to our friend here Lazaro?" Oscar Wilde called.

"For goodness sakes Oscar," EM Forster spoke in a beautiful English accent, "All he has to do is read our writings and he'll find out what we're saying."

"Get your ass off that chair. Now!"

EM Forster dragged his feet and seeing Lazaro, he beamed, "My oh my, where did this exotic boy come from?"

"The Philippines," replied Oscar Wilde.

"Oh," said EM Forster, "Tell me Lazaro, who is more popular in the Philippines, Oscar Wilde or moi?'

"Listen to you," said Oscar Wilde, "I am beyond compare."

"Oh hush. For all I know you were the first drag queen of the entire Western hemisphere."

"How so?' "In case you've forgotten, you were the first modern Salome."

"That was a play."

"It was a drag play."

"Oh I just want to strangulate you."

Lazaro was overwhelmed by this vision. The three great gay authors of their times were around him! His excitement compelled him to ask, "Mr. Wilde, Mr Forster, Mr. Proust, wouldn't it be nice for all of us to stay this way? Would it be possible for me to have the privilege of your company for the rest of eternity."

The three authors looked at him with regret. "Oh we wish the same thing Lazaro but the law of God prevails."

Saying this, the authors vanished and were replaced by Balanchine, followed by the famous designer Vercase, followed by Rock Hudson in his youthful glory...and...Liberace with all his jeweled garb. All of them were now floating in the air, forming a light that encircled Lazaro. Faces were now turning indistinct, one wind, one light; Lazaro found himself in the middle of a sea of tornados and lightning. In the center of the spiral wind-light, an angel appeared. Was it a man or a woman? Lazaro could not tell.

The angel spoke. "They return back to you Lazaro, the souls compressed in the bottle of your heart. They speak to you so you won't forget. Release the bottle of wind."

"Who are you?" asked Lazaro.

"I am the Archangel of No Name. I come to announce the awakening of gays' souls. They come to wipe the tears from your eyes. You will write my words: Gays will resume their proper place in the Creation of God. Gays will be accepted. Gays will no longer be marginalized. Gays will bring back their old glory."

The light of souls acquired a brightness that strained the eyes of Lazaro. Brighter than the sun.

"Look at this object, Lazaro."

The Archangel revealed a glass prism on his hand. The light of gay souls entered through the prism and came out in different hues - red, orange, green, blue, indigo, violet - the colors of the rainbow. "What is meant by this, Lazaro?"

"It's my highschool physics experiment."

"I know that! But what does it mean to you spiritually?"

Lazaro was tongue-tied.

The Angel continued. "This is the reality. The light is made up of a series of colors, just like the ground is made up of layers. Do you think that the space between heaven and earth is simple wind? The universe is made up of particles that constantly move and transfigure. Everything is a dance of God. This is the spiritual truth: The heart of humanity is not limited to ends and extremes, Lazaro, there is a world called In-Between. One person is not purely a man, neither purely a woman. One may be more manly than womanly, another maybe more womanly than manly, another may be equally womanly and manly- regardless of physical attributes- like a series of rainbow colors. It is a big mistake to classify humans according to penis and vagina and condemn those whose sex doesn't fit either one...

"Arise and listen to what I say. God doesn't care about your sexual orientation. Nature has only one law. Your physical bodies including your sex come from dust and to dust they will return. What God cares about is the spirit within the physical body, and how that spirit will come back to Him at the end of time. Look at all these spirits around you Lazaro and ask... Do you think we, the Spirits, care about sex? We are sexless in the company of God."

While the Angel spoke, one color of the rainbow gained prominence, shining brighter than the rest. It was red. In a few minutes, this color took over - the sky turned into the color of blood, the garden became a bonfire. The wind and light of souls started to moan. The ballet dancers returned back to their bodies. The seven AIDS patients, including Bill and Sam gradually lost the beauty they had just acquired. They were now reduced back to emaciation on their chairs and the music played by the monks became off-keyed. They too vanished. Shrieks and curses and bad words filled the veranda of Dade Rest.

Another Force emerged.

Lo and behold! the Devil with wings and tail of a penis appeared on top of the table, in recline, holding the empty bottle of champagne in his hand.

"And why must you listen to that Angel of No Name?" the Devil asked. "Why would you exchange the pleasures of your body with something as stupid as God? There is no Spirit, there is no God. Listen to what I say. You live only once and pleasure will be only once, enjoy it before the endless nothingness ensues. Life is ruled by sex, trust me, the bigger or the tighter, the better. He stood up and was transformed into a most dashing debonair man, naked and sexy, he had the longest penis Lazaro had ever seen. Worship me, he said, and you'll find the meaning of pleasure. And if people will hate you for this, be angry. Yes, I want you all to be angry, destroy with the wonders of lust and anger."

And it was probably this battle between the good and evil, the conflicting passions of these arch enemies since time immemorial, that Sam Cold, who by now was back on his wheelchair, all skin and bones, eyes bulging, fluid gushing out from his mouth, lips tremulous and arms like sticks - that prodded him to scream, "Fuck you all! Leave me alone!"

Lazaro bit his tongue. Jeff Kaploski's warning about the Forces in Dade Rest was not imaginary. Lazaro saw them many, many times already.

Chapter 9: BILL DOESN'T LIVE HERE ANYMORE

Bill's State of Terminal

No I can't be sick.
I'm young.
I still have a chance to live my life to its fullest.
This can't be happening to me!

DENIAL

My life is used to this:
Dramatic entrance and dramatic exit
Acting the role of unknown person
in unexpected plot, in unexpected climax
What is AIDS but another bump
on my head relieved by cold pack?
It won't hurt me, I will survive
I will forget if I fall in love
So I deny it, I have more things in mind
Forlorn face?
What is that?
I'll walk my path whistling in my heart
I'm young and I'll triumph

ANGER

What have I done to earn this?
To get a disease from unknown someone?
Tear this sickness away, oh angels of heaven
Or perhaps... there is a cruel God!
I'm angry at whoever made this happen
My parents who denied me true affection
Damn the man who laid on bed with me
Without telling the truth, let him go to hell
I am angry, that's the truth
Angry to infinity

BARGAINING

Perhaps if fall in love
If I act out and pour my heart
To the upliftment of God, perhaps
I'll be spared, He is just
He'll make me forget, heal my plight
If...
Perhaps I go to the corners of the world
Listen to wizards and healers by faith
Eat bitter melon, drink herbal concoctions
Perhaps I will be spared
Yet...
Would you believe my T -cell dropped?
I better find another laboratory center
to give me better readings, to assure me health
I better fire this doctor, be right, he can't
But...
This second doctor is just like the first

He won't reveal my good bill of health
I'll find another one, I'll bargain
Surely I will be spared
Perhaps...
If I rest;
if I pray;
if I quit smoking;
if I sleep more hours;
if I join retreats;
if I meditate;
ignore Christ;
pray to Buddha;
if I come out on CNN;
promise no sex - ever;
if I sell my soul to the Devil;
if I turn activist;
if I buy everyone gifts;
if I visit the sick;
if I fall in love;
if I...I'm out of my wits;
What else can I do?
I'm so tired

DEPRESSION

Darkness is what's left for me
Groping and feeling through the skin of my hands,
look at this body fighting emaciation
through anabolic steroids
it can't take any more
oh this self pity...why why oh why oh why
leave me alone,
leave it be
I need sympathy
but I can't face it,
oooooooooh
Don't listen to me
I need someone
to shut me up.

ACCEPTANCE

Lazaro, after pacifying the agitated Sam Cold had turned his attention to Bill, who upset by this phenomenon - the battle between the good and evil - smashed his glass against the wall. Bill joined Sam Cold in screaming, "Can't you leave us alone?"

The spirit of the Devil turned into his old ugly self and began taunting the Patients With AIDS. Lazaro tried to cajole Bill by massaging his back. "Shshsh...let go Bill. It's over." Bill's tears ran down his cheeks. The evil apparition disappeared. Bill started talking. Lazaro and the rest listened to Bill closely. These were Bill's words:

Five years, Matthew O'Sullivan, five years! How did we last that long? After five years I could no longer share my borrowed time with you! I was dropping the game I've played too long, I was tired of keeping up appearance! You said you love me despite my AIDS - Wasn't that soooo romantic? Ah bullshit! Let's face the truth Matthew! You loved me because I still looked good. Thanks to the anabolic steroids that are now smashing my liver and kidneys; thanks to my work-outs; thanks to my zeal to keep you safe from my disease. I was proud, I admit... obsessed with defying my disease. My life had been a daily quest to achieve beauty and love. Having someone to love me despite my AIDS was a source of pride for me. But time was running out Matthew. I had to go before I break apart. I didn't want you to see me dead. I wanted you to remember me as Bill the beautiful. Bill the strong. Bill the man. We both knew we'd later part. Who were we fooling in thinking otherwise? I would go to a decrepit unknown hospital bed, You'd probably go back to Alabama if things won't work out. Five years Matthew, we shared our lives together. During those five years, we insisted on standing on our ground even when the going got tough. Here in South Florida, we vowed to wait years for our elusive dreams. I hoped to become a theater director, you, a fashion designer. We laughed at our prospects, more so with mine because of AIDS. I'd probably have better chances of becoming a fashion designer than becoming a director. You'd probably have better chances becoming a director than becoming a fashion designer. Still we took our chances. I propositioned projects and scripts, submitted my acting background to all producers of anything theatrical...but no one hired me. And you chased the sun and worked-out hard, to keep yourself fit for your salesman's job at Sawgrass... while we waited and waited and waited. Damn! We've been doing the same routines for five years and the only things we've gained were our wrinkles and age. And then, I had constant fears. I was getting more tired form work. I have short days to live. And you... you were not without doubts too. You were no longer able to sculpt your body as easily as you used to. Your looks no longer bring the amount of clientele you used to have. The fear of failure kept us mum for days... to calm down our nerves, we'd drive to Key West, to temporarily escape it all. For how long could we keep this up Matthew? When you offered your fashion designs five years ago, you were told you were too young to claim a ramp; now you were too old. That was the most painful to hear wasn't it? You and I were getting old. But then, in America, life, it seems, is ruled by age and luck. We consoled ourselves by inventing lots of excuses. I needed to improvise on my theatrical skills I said. And you, you needed more sophistication to be taken seriously; you needed to reduce the Alabama accent a bit. In our attempt to escape the truth, our social life became virtually nil. When you brought some friends over, I hid from them. You hated me terribly for that. "What's this?" you blurted out when they were gone. "You don't have to act as if you're dead." I had no insurance to rely on. I was always under public aid. I did not want to be over-exposed to people, because...I could not afford to get an infection. How many time did I have to tell you I was dead man walking? Despite all these frequent clashes, we still stuck it out. Then one day I left you. Now, don't get upset, don't get too emotional like I always did... Matthew, there was beauty in leaving while we were both in love, there was a sense of sacrifice and martyrdom involved...I had to live up to my ideals as an actor in the theater, as an artist. I wanted to imagine how you would react upon my leaving. No, I did not want to see your reaction, I just wanted to imagine it. I wanted to play different scenes, different plots, different climaxes, different dramas over and over in my mind, all possibilities except the reality. I wanted to be poetic. I wanted to die dreaming of the best goodbye I could fantasize. Could you blame me? It was my last goodbye and I wanted it perfect! So on the morning of my departure, I watched you intently while you were sleeping... ... with a song in my mind...and don't puke now with my melodrama...here it goes... All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go...I stand right here outside our door... I hate to wake you up to say goodbye... Oh shit and more shit! I'm gonna cry now... but to hell with tears! I am entitled to be dramatic because I'm a terminal man! How simple we thought everything would gonna be! How secluded we were in our little world. We thought that because love is a gift, it is not something to be shared with others because in doing so it ceases to be a gift. But I thought, by keeping a-flame a love meant for doom; for you to watch me deteriorate; for you to go through the trauma of waiting with me in an unknown clinic; for you stay awake at nights to share my angst and fears; only so I would die; and upon my death for you to wear the veil of sorrows and look at roses for the dead...wasn't that being unfair to you? Damn, I didn't want you to associate roses with death. I wanted you to associate them with love and happiness. I tiptoed my way around the room, I picked up a few of my clothes, a pair of sneakers, a toothbrush, my watch, my wallet. It was three o clock in the morning. You turned on bed, to reveal your beautifully tanned skin, your face sleeping like an angel. I really wanted to kiss you for the last time but what was the use? I did not lie to you Matthew except today! When we met, I sat the cards. I had AIDS I told you. You said you worried about it but it should not hinder us from falling in love. Impossible? It took me days to weigh your words. Was it a pity, a condescending remark? Was it one of those useless rhetoric? Those 'I love you, you love we'll make a big happy family' tunes? You said No! You needed someone like me who needed you. Someone to love, someone you could go home to, someone to comfort you when treaded upon in your quest for your elusive dream. You liar! You're full of shit! You loved me because I was not the typical AIDS patient. When we met, I was at the prime of my acting career, I was well trimmed, buffed, butch, good looking. Hell, I could fall in love with myself by merely staring at the mirror! Get real! I remained standing this way as dawn approached. I looked at our bedroom for the last time. This bedroom had witnessed our thousands of love-makings -snide and derisions and all. We always joked nobody could find a single lubricant and condom in South Beach because we all stored them in our closet. This bedroom had seen us embrace; had heard us weep for our failures. This bedroom woke me up to see you standing at the mirror to check the new wrinkles forming on your face. I confess, I sometimes blamed myself for all your misfortunes. I nurtured this guilt complex - that my AIDS was the cause of it all. After five years the truth finally reached me. I was tired of this masquerade. I could no longer make-believe. For years I thought I won't get hurt...yet... the prospect of my future was fading, while yours, oh Mattew O' Sullivan was about to shine. I was hearing you speak in your sleep, naming names I didn't even recognize, a smile was on your lips. I could tell... I could tell something big was about to happen in your life. You were young and healthy and with consistency and single-mindedness, I knew you would succeed. That success would be swift - as long as your eyes were focused to it, as long as your purpose was intense, and as long as no blocks would hinder you. I was the block. I was the hindrance. Take or leave it - the bitch had to give way. My propensity to tragedy, to be delegated to sidelines while his lover conquers the world was what I wanted. No more no less. I guess I've watched "Beaches" so many times. Yeah... I've hummed "Wind Beneath My Wings" for countless fucking times. As Robert Frost had poetized once in his illustrious career, time will move forward - it never repeats itself - history may repeat itself - but it will have a new set of players. I looked at the road I was walking on and saw its terminal, unknowing whether it leads to a steep mountain full of treacherous tracks or uncharted terrain. And because I have AIDS I decided not to tag you, Matt O'Sullivan along with me. Why would I involve the man I love to my death? Wasn't it much more honorable to spare you of agony and grief? You had dreams to chase and other loves to pursue. Why should I snatch these away from you? If I could offer you one final gift, it was my unselfishness. I refused to disturb you, nor the arrangement of our room. I did not take a second look at the accumulated stuff I gathered through the five years of our togetherness. In leaving, I felt a real old man. It is said that monkeys when they reach their old age leave their tribe and go to the mountains to die alone. Yes, even monkeys know when the time is about to come. I am a monkey. Go on, call me other names : I will take them - I am stupid, I am a martyr, too self giving, too sentimental, too melodramatic... Are you happy now Mattew O' Sullivan that I am gone out of your life? Is he better looking than I am? Does he wake you up with breakfast on bed? Does he cook better than I do? My eyes are wide awake at nights in my solitary room dreaming of you, and hearing you opening and closing the bathroom door, whistling, peeing, flushing the toilet and turning on the shower. I remember the mornings when you'd gaze at the mirror, stare at me and imitate Robert de Niro : "You talkin' to me?" Yes, I'm talking to you, because every morning, you always looked so lovely fixing your tie, buttoning your immaculate white shirt, smiling, combing your hair. Trample me in your memory. Be mad. Say all bad words about me. Feel like an abandoned orphan. Find all the other loves you can find. Still, I have the better deal in the bargain, Matthew O' Sullivan. When I leave this earth, you will not see my dying face. You will not see me all skin and bones. You will not see me suffering. You will not pace the room weeping at the sight of any object that will remind you of me. When they ask you where your lover is, you will remember Bill the strong - Bill the beautiful - Bill the actor - who left you without goodbye. They will probably say I'm a cruel gay. I will love that. Because I will not be dead to you. I'm simply "Bill who doesn't live here anymore."

SONG OF BILL

A large and wide screen appeared behind Bill. On this screen he was a young boy full of life. He saw his mother having an affair with another man. He kept his mouth shut though, afraid to tell his father. He grew up with this shame until high-school. He worked at MacDonald's. He smiled. His smile? That smile - he looked like Valentino. Yes! Valentino!

Bill played his first stage act in senior high-school. His role was Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire. This was in Iowa.

Bill moved to New York to fulfill his ambition of becoming a legitimate actor. Ambitious he was. With only a hundred bucks in his pocket, he took odd jobs and supported his acting lessons. Life was difficult...there were times he hustled at 42nd Ave. to make ends meet. Until he luckily landed upon the major role of Juan Peron in the Broadway musical Evita. He danced his way through Chorus Line. There was no more turning back.

Bill was diagnosed with HIV.

Bill joined Phantom of the Opera in its tour. In Broward Performing Arts, he met Matt O' Sullivan.

Bill fell madly, deeply, intensely in love with Matt O'Sullivan. He declined Broadway's offer to play the role Marius in Les Miserables. Instead he took the classic role of Shakespeare's Othelo in a virtually unknown theater in Miami. This was followed by off beat roles in Neil Simon's plays in West Palm Beach. He started living in with Matt Sullivan.

Bill was hospitalized with pneumonia the first time. Matt Sullivan remained at his side. Realizing he did not have insurance to pay his hospital bills, Bill aimed for big money-making job as a stage director after recovering. He never landed on any assignment. Afraid of failing health, he started taking anabolic steroids and working out in the gym. The last time he learned that his T-cell count went down, he decided to leave Matt O'Sullivan and settled anonymously in Dade Rest.

Chapter 10: ENTERING THE SACRED ZONE

Go and find out what is meant by the
Scripture that says:
"It is kindness that I want, not animal sacrifices.
I have not come to call respectable people,
but outcasts."

He kissed Lazaro on the cheeks. They were standing alone in Bill's gloomy room, their eyes locked into each others. Bill was weakening like a leaf melting in autumn, he was very very calm now, his eyes were the only remaining reflection of his past glory.

Without AIDS, those eyes could have been somewhere, could have been celebrating, could have been sleeping in the arms of a lover. Now.

Lazaro assisted him to his bed. He scooted Bill's skeletal body up on the bed. Fixed the pillow under his head. Covered him with a blanket. He walked towards the dresser and blew off the candle standing on the top.

He opened the door.

Jeff was standing on the doorway. "You look exhausted, Lazaro," he said.

Lazaro's shirt was soaked in sweat. He bowed his head and walked past Jeff. "Lazaro?" Jeff called from behind.

"How are the others?" Lazaro asked without turning back.

"They're all settled in their rooms comfortably...thank you."

"Good." Lazaro's steps gained speed on the hallway of the tunnel. He climbed the stairs. He was dying to leave this place. He felt suffocated. His lungs wanted fresh air.

"Lazaro, what's wrong?" asked Jeff again. "Lazaro?"

Lazaro kicked open the front door of Dade Rest. He hurriedly descended the front steps away from the house. Jeff ran after him.

"Lazaro, do not think that Dade Rest will give you rest. In here, pain will persist no matter how hard you'd try to avoid it. No matter how much prayers you'd utter. Lazaro come back... in the name of God, come back..."

But Lazaro was already yards away. Running like he never ran before - past the cars, past the houses, past the darkened streets, past the hustlers, past the gay bars, past the x-rated store, past the happy crowds. He did not stop until he reached a palm tree in front of South Beach shore. He embraced the tree trunk as his knees buckled. He cried. Oh he wailed! His cry was carried by the wind over the entire city of Miami; it was brought across the Atlantic to Europe; it turned westward and northward all across the United States and Canada; southward to the Americas. Many days later, it was heard all over Africa and Asia including Australia. His mother sent him a letter, "Lazaro," she wrote, "I never taught you to cry that loud."

The Second Prayer of Lazaro

For Bill

My Lord,
I know I'll
never see
the day
when this
world would
take my prayer
seriously.
Because I'm gay. But I still pray
despite all my weaknesses. I'm not here to
defend myself or seek justice. I have understood
that this world would rather cover my face; would
rather mock me; would rather condemn me as hypocrite.
Yet...
Is it too
much to ask
if I can call
Your name?
Am I not
entitled
to seek
Your company?
Or am I
barred from
the steps
of Your House?
In
any
case,
at any rate,
if by any chance,
You have the heart,
Hear the prayer of the child
of a lesser man, of a lesser god.
I don't beg you anymore for a reason
for this suffering of my fellow gays
All I ask of You is to give us peace
To help us sleep, without the pains
inflicted by a disease called AIDS.
We can't give You a great Name.
We're prevented to build You a Temple.
No one would believe a miracle through us.
History has marked crimson Sin on our faces.
I'm no longer angry.
I'm no longer denying.
I'm no longer dealing.
I'm no longer depressed.
As gay I've learned to accept
the fact that right this very hour
somewhere on this earth,
a gay may be
closing his eyes for eternity
because of AIDS.
Is it too much to ask then
for You to give Your infinite Mercy
on him whose destiny
was to be born, nay, brought up,
nay, made the way he is
and then suffer from AIDS?
I am nothing but a small voice
yet I know there is another voice
Somewhere...praying this same
prayer I pray.
Is it too much to ask You
to listen to us?
I know You will
Knowing who You are.
You cannot betray your Kindness.

It took hours before Lazaro calmed down from hysteria. Good thing he was alone on the seashore. He did not want anybody to see him cry.

To whom would you cry afterall? Would you cry to your parents who would shut you up when you tell them you're gay? Would you cry to your God who is taught as Someone who hates the likes of you? Would you cry to your straight friends who would laugh and insult you? Would you cry to your gay friends who don't know whom to cry to themselves? No! You're gay and you don't cry. You stand alone and carry the weight of the gay world...then... this is what you do with your tears - You throw them to the sea and spread them to the winds. You are like the orphaned child who cries in an abandoned street yet no one picks you up. They ask why you can't have enough sense to die. Tears have a way of ending. You know that. So you raise your fingers to wipe them dry.

You stand up and pretend to be strong. Until you stumble again, fall again, be hurt again, somewhere, sometime.

Then one day, God will come to you. When the world has given you up, He'll come to you. The Supreme Being of all will come to you and ask: What's wrong my child?

And you will react in many ways: You'll curse Him and call Him names. Sometimes tears will blur your vision that you won't even recognize Him. Sometimes you're too tired to even raise your eyes. Sometimes you'd just tell Him to get off, it's too late. Yet... He, being That He is, will ignore whatever you do or say or think or feel or act.

Because...He'll take your hands and lead you to the Sacred Zone.

Chapter 11: THE PRIEST IN A BLACK ROBE

I cannot hate God because of men who falsely represent Him. I can only love Him more because He is a Lonely Misrepresented God. Gays' suffering does not come from God. It comes from men who think they are God for Reasons beyond Comprehension.

Lazaro saw a figure standing on the shore not far from him. The figure wore a black robe, beckoning him to come closer; it's face was hidden under a hood. "St Augustine? Is that you my Saint? Did you come back?" The figure did not respond. It turned away from Lazaro and began to be lifted in the air. It moved away without stepping or running or trotting. It flew ahead as straight as a statue. Lazaro followed.

Thinking it was St. Augustine, he shouted, "No you won't leave me alone this time St. Augustine. I'll never let you go." But the figure kept flying forward.

As if in a trance, Lazaro did not once blink his eyes, he first walked - then he walked faster running with his gaze fixed completely at the apparition in the sky. People who saw him were amused -"Somebody must have lost his marbles tonight. What else is new in Miami?"

Lazaro was numb, he did not feel his feet bumping the road humps, he stumbled over a road marker, hit a post, but he kept running - he ran past the happy crowds, past the x-rated video store, past gay bars, past hustlers, past darkened streets, past the houses, past the cars, past Dade Rest - taking the same route he took a while back.

Jeff, who by then was unrolling the curtains and closing the blinds of Dade Rest jumped upon seeing him. Alarmed, he unlocked the door and came out to run after Lazaro. His voice was frenzied: "For goodness sakes Lazaro, stop this lunacy and go home."

Lazaro was now running all over South Beach - the place famous for the movies Birdcage and True Lies - he ignored its sights, was deaf to its sounds, snubbed its honeymooners. Cars blew horns and high-beamed as he dangerously crossed their paths. Jewish and Cuban drivers screamed at him "Get out of the way. You are crazy!"" The immigrant pedestrians called him other names in their native tongues. He did not care. He bumped against three models who were strutting their lingerie around Lincoln. He stole the scene from Lucky Cheng's transvestite entertainers in the middle of Collins. He pushed to disarray the formation of sexy coeds of Miami University in skates gliding and milling on the sidewalk of Ocean Drive. He passed cafes occupied by tourists who shrugged him off and took him for another prankster, like one of them drag queens and tattooed punks, like Madonna topless, and teenagers of multi-dyed hairs. "Way to go man," shouted the Puerto Rican guitarists gathered around a palm tree. He jumped into the middle of the scene being shot for Wesley Snipe's 'Holyman' to the chagrin of the director who screamed "Cuuuuut!" He felled a homeless man pushing a Piggly Wiggly cart. Some young Southern boys waiting for a bus at a station sneered and applauded. "Wow! There's nothing like this down in Georgia!" one commented.

Lazaro was now breathless. The figure flying in the sky was getting brighter as the moon became full and stars began dotting the sky. A group of black Young Leaguers stopped to stare at him in bewilderment, to the consternation of their parents.

One tourist from Switzerland saw him; his Chinese tour guide explained, "Only in South Florida can you find these things Sir."

"Whatever," the Swiss answered. "I want to see whatever he sees."

"This man must have come from Calle Ocho."

The image stopped in front of a place Lazaro least expected to see in Miami. Like a flu, this serene place came with signs and symptoms - first was the rustlng of leaves, then the smell of air coming from its surrounding fishponds, pleasantly fishy. Then the sudden and abrupt tranquility that lures a sick man to sleep. Lazaro looked around...Could this be true?, he mumbled.

The houses beside him were of the Hilarios and Salazars. Look - the old photography studio of Morales still stood, its paint was dried and cracked. Nothing stirred inside the studio. The drugstore at the corner was now occupied by a mansion. The Dimson store was closed. The De Guzman store was reduced to a variety store. And the church - the San Agustin Church - magically appeared. Lazaro was back in the town he came from and never returned to since he left for the US.

He was magically transported to his birth place, a town called Lubao. St. Augustine's Chuch in Lubao is one of the oldest in the Philippines. It is four hundred twenty six years old. Lazaro read its stone marker:

Founded 1572 in barrio Sta. Catalina. Moved to this site (plaza) 30 years later due to floods. Architect Fr. Antonio Herrera, Augustinian, constructed this church 1614-1630 out of locally made bricks and sand mixed in egg albumin contributed by the people of Lubao (population then -2000). Occupied 1898 by the Revolutionists. Used as hospital 1899 by American Forces. Destroyed 1942 by Japanese shelling. Repaired 1949-1952 under the direction of Fr. Melencio Garcia and other priests.

Lazaro marveled at its blackened bricks, bricks that spoke the voice of his native people now lying in bliss inside tombs surrounding it. The bricks nurtured centuries-old green moss now turned into a mini jungle still defying the attempts of nature to re-claim it. This church baptized the first matinee idols of the Philippines - the mestizo brothers Rogelio and Jaime dela Rosa. It baptized the first Philippine President from Lubao, Diosdado Macapagal. It baptized one of the first Medicine graduates of the University of the Philippines, Wenceslao Tubig. It produced one of the first Philippine Cinema directors, Gregorio Fernandez. Bienvenido Santos' roots, the great Filipino author, originated from here.

What is more fascinating is the fact that these Philippine great men were best of friends. Jaime dela Rosa who visited Lubao in his old age said, "I can't believe that the gang in Calle Kuku (Cough Street) so named because when December comes, everyone coughs, would end up the way it did. I will never forget my barkada who talked of their dreams under an acacia tree, in the yard of San Agustin, all debonair and handsome, all intelligent. Lubao is a town of greatness."

Lazaro lingered outside for a while, he remembered a love story which he himself had witnessed as a boy. The man involved was Doctor Wenceslao Tubig, a second cousin of his grandmother. As a child, Lazaro heard the story of the great doctor. Wenceslao was a poor boy from Lubao who by mere struck of genius landed at the University of the Philippines, founded by Americans in 1908, now considered the premier university in the Philippines. When he graduated in Medicine in 1914, the gobernador of Pampanga, whose name Lazaro could now merely recall as Senor Arrivea got sick. He hired the services of different doctors from all over the land to no avail. His daughter, Margarita Arrivea, the first to be crowned Miss Pampanga, got so distressed by her father's sickness she announced that whoever healed her father would be rewarded by her loyalty and love. She offered her hand for marriage.

Doctors all the way from Americas and Spain descended from kalesas in Lubao intent on obtaining that reward. They all failed.

That was when the virtually unknown Wenceslao Tubig came along. This native who was barely 5'2" in height succeeded where others failed. Margarita, true to her word, married the Indio.

Their marriage reverberated all across the Philippines. It scandalized the Mestizos and Espanoles of the Americas and Spain. Margarita defended her marriage and angered by the prejudices of her relatives in Spain, vowed never to return to Spanish soil again even after the untimely death of her father. Their marriage produced six children. All these children were lured by their Spanish relatives back to Spain - without their parents. Suffice it to say that Wenceslao and Margarita ended up alone, taking care of the sick both in Lubao and Manila. They accumulated a lot of wealth. Theirs was the only mansion in Lubao with a fountain.

This was what Lazaro witnessed as a boy -

In her nineties, Margarita Tubig de Arrivea died of a heart attack. It was in San Agustin church where she received her final rites, as willed by her. It was also in this church, where, Wenceslao, took a handful of sleeping pills and collapsed over the casket of Margarita. They were buried together on the same day. .

Their common tomb was lying close to the church, together with the tomb of the eldest boy of the dela Rosa mestizo clan. It is said that this dela Rosa boy was so handsome even birds flocked to him. He died by falling from the belfry while loosening his kite that got entangled around its cross tower.

Thinking about this, Lazaro pushed the mahogany door open, it creaked. He inserted his fingers into the holes left by the bullets of the Revolutionists of Philippine-American War, and by the Philippine-Japanese-American World War 2. They were still there!

LUBAO LEGEND (As written in the memoir of Lazaro, with extra-dramatic flair, of course)

This is a church glued by egg white. That's the first statement from my mother that intrigued my growing up years. Four hundred twenty six years ago, the Augustinian friars encouraged the parishioners to bring all eggs they could find to mix the cement that would stick one brick to another. The people heeded this call for years and years and years, it took fifteen years to complete the church. The church is big, its walls are three feet thick. Labors at the time of its construction were amply supplied due to the mandatory obra or forced labor, a form of slavery from sixteen to sixty, exacted by the colonialists to the natives. They were paid only by a promise of heaven, or a soul released from purgatory for each egg they brought.

The church nowadays offers a testimony to the hands and lives offered to build it. Their names are marked in gravestones surrounding the church - at Camposantos Sto. Tomas and San Nicolas. These cemeteries were not only witnesses of the sacrifice and suffering given to build it, they also served as its fence - that's probably why it withstood the ravage of time - it defied both nature and wars.

I entered the church and passed among the saints lining the walls on my way to the altar. Gold and diamonds are sprinkled on these saints, no one, throughout its nearly five centuries of existence, attempted to desecrate this church. Even the Americans protected it during the Philippine Insurrecciones, only the Japanese destroyed it, in fact, when the first atomic bombs were dropped in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the townspeople attributed the twin catastrophes to the wrath of San Agustin. Its history alone dissuaded would-be robbers and thieves, Mang Tirso for example, who in his drunkenness stole a gold earring from St. Veronica got admitted in a mental ward later on.

It is strange to find myself inside this church again, while I live in Miami of all places! The chandeliers are dimly lit this early evening.

There are only two of us - the priest in a black robe and I. On its mahogany doors ten feet tall, my fingers ran on the surface searching for familiar holes I touched in my childhood. The bullet holes, ah, they are still there. My youth and my past and history are still there. In my childhood, I was so enamored with this church I visited it almost everyday, then five times a week, then three times, then twice, then only on Sundays... Now, it's been eight years since I last saw it. The older I get, the more beautiful it appears to my eyes. Throughout its history, this church had become a seat of power, a hospital, a school, an evacuation center. Different nationalities had called it their homes. This church was strict - it demanded that women wear veils even when the Vatican okayed them without it - it still held Latin services long after the Vatican ruled otherwise. I've seen in my lifetime, priests who tried to transform it to their whims, to the chagrin of its people and Pampanga Archbishop. There was a time when Father Balustre erased its wall frescoes, what was he thinking in erasing its five century-old frescoes? He was immediately transferred by the Archbishop let he'd be attacked by the loyal parishioners.

This church and its parishioners welcomed additions but refused replacements.

The line of saints was headed by the black St. Augustine. Its confessionals stood where they stood since its construction in 1614, still standing elegantly, still shining with varnish coating, smelling of sampaguitas.

I wonder how many confessions and admissions were heard in those booths. Just the mere thought of entering these tiny enclosures and releasing your sins to a priest you hardly know - blurting out your life mistakes in five to twenty minutes - and getting absolved by five Hail Marys and one Our Father - made me cringe. Once I got so nervous during the confession I passed gas. The church goers nearly killed me.

The framed portraits of the fourteen stations of the cross were so poignant to me as a child, even now. There were also hidden statues - Christ dead, The Santo Entierro, Christ being flogged, their features were very frightening - I used to close my eyes when I kissed them as a child. They bore distorted Spanish features!

This church once condemned me. Father Balustre, that cruel priest - upon hearing my admission to my sexual orientation told me: Leave this church. Leave this town. Just leave. Leave. Leave. And don't come back anymore. I was gone for a long long time now. My return to this place even within this dreamlike apparition still gives me the goose-bumps. Father Balustre's voice still echoes - Leave. Leave. And don't come back anymore.

Who is this priest now, this priest in a black robe? Why did he bring me back? I started trembling.

"Why are you trembling Lazaro?" the voice from within my brain asked.

"I am afraid..."

"Afraid of what?"

"I was told not to come inside this church eight years ago."

"Why do you go to a church?"

"To worship and pray to God."

"Did God tell you to leave?"

"No."

"Then stare at God and don't listen to men. Stay!"

Chapter 12: THE CASTRATED MONK

There was a story circulating in Lubao, about the priest who founded its church. Alonzo, that Augustinian Lubao-founder was a monk steered by tales of Don Quixote and the Crusades. For him, Don Quixote was real. The Crusaders were the inspiration of his missionary zeal.

Background:

Spain agreed with Portugal to divide the world between themselves for purposes of discovery and colonization through the mediation of Pope Alexander VI on May 4, 1493. The discovery of the Philippines by Magellan in 1521 led to his death by the chief of Mactan Lapu-lapu. The full colonization of the Philippines was spearheaded by the expedition of Miguel Lopez de Legazpi in 1565. Alonzo the Augustinian came with Legazpi. In 1572, Alonzo founded the Lubao Augustinian Church.

This was the legend:

In 1572, Alonzo the Monk arrived in a place in Luzon carrying a gray bundle and wooden cross. The natives that populated this place called it Pampang, so called because of its location beside the Great River. They were perplexed by the looks of this lonely traveler. Alonzo was in his thirties, wore a beard, had a sure gait, had solemn blue eyes and quiet countenance, very much unlike the other strangers they had a fierce battle with recently. He wore a black robe, a sharp difference from the helmeted others who carried decorated brass shields and iron swords

Was he perhaps the god of these strangers?, the natives wondered. In arriving, the first thing he asked for was water to drink. He gesticulated his request and questions since no native had yet heard of the Castillan language. He did not have an interpreter with him. Reading the meaning of his gesture, the curious natives hurriedly scooped water from their earthen jars using coconut shell cups. After drinking and expressing gratitude, he inquired about the name of the place where they stood.

"Pampang," the natives answered.

"Pampang," he repeated.

He raised his eyes to the far horizon and saw the sun about to set. He was amazed at the beauty of the sight: vast tracts of jungle forests, with interspersed grassy swamps and rice fields. Tributaries of the Great River Pampang led to fishponds and small nipa huts perched upon trees. Men garbed in simple loin clothes, with bamboo matted bundles hanging from their backs kept a distance from him. Their skins were covered by tattoes, they were chewing betel nuts. They carried spears to catch fish. They had bancas to transport them from place to place. The women's breasts were exposed, they had long dark hairs and their bodies were decorated with gold jewelry. Their infants were bundled behind them. The other children were either laying or playing on the brown earth.

Far beyond this place, there was a barren tract of land, it was dirty, isolated, untouched, low, it appeared like a dumping ground. Alonzo gesticulated for its name. Hearing him, the natives started laughing, prancing about, baring teeth reddened by betel nuts. Children giggled. One of the old men gesticulated that the land was a lowland, always flooded, the bottom of a basin, avoided.... Alonzo could not shift his eyes from this piece of land, it was speaking to him, it was embracing him.

"Barren land," he whispered, "We are the same; you are barren of life, I am barren of happiness." Then, he added, "We are both rejected..."

He squatted and scooped a handful soil in his hand and slowly released it to let the river wind fly its dust where it wanted. It went to the direction of the barren land, the lowland.

"Lo bajo," he said. The Low.

The natives heard him, they looked toward the sight he was looking at and pointing to it, they imitated him, "Lubao," they said. They looked at each others and started nodding their heads, "Lubao," they repeated.

Alonzo the Monk walked toward the barren land and beside the fishponds, he spread his blanket, staked a wooden cross to the ground and offered mass using a cup of water as wine and a piece of bayabas fruit as bread.

When night approached he sat upon a rock and watched the stars in the sky. He was filled with melancholy. He remembered his past, his monastic life, there in Sevilla. He closed his eyes and thought of wide alleys of gardens and retreats of solitude, the echoes of choir voices and Latin prayers. In Sevilla, he claimed humility as a responsibility, not something to boast of. He remembered his loneliness and isolation, relieved only by the constant company of God - he dedicated his life to scholarly pursuits, remaining true to the scholasticism of St. Augustine, his patron saint.

How he became a monk was due to his mother's vow.

"The beloved Saint saved your life," he recalled his mother as saying. "You were a sickly infant until I dedicated you to St. Augustine. I'm glad you became his priest."

He carried this covenant, this pact between his mother and the Saint in his growing years. He believed he lived a borrowed life and this brought him closer to the cloister. At fourteen, he experienced his first spiritual ecstasy - that all-embracing sensation, like a vacuum being filled by God. Once this vacuum got filled, there was no more turning back. He stripped himself of the vestiges of this world, forsook his family, pride, comfort, security, lust, greed, pride. He guarded his anonymity with his own blood, truthful to being a nobody among the crowds of monks. He read and read as if there was no tomorrow. And because he refused to talk, his heart got filled with thoughts that needed to be spilled out, this he did by writing and publishing a manual entitled "The Monastic Way". This manual detailed the manner by which a monk should live, a supplement to the Benedictine and Cluny guides. This book also promoted the holy mission of spreading Christianity all over the world, including the East Indies which was recently discovered and was popular all over Europe. But this book contained articles which also scandalized the monastic world - its idealism was extreme.

A monk, according to the manual, once sent to another land to preach the Word, should not expect to return back to where he came from. The ultimate test of dedication to God is offering one's life for Him. It also condemned the ritualistic Catholic mass and the emerging friar abuses that were being felt in the Americas. He insisted that friars should neither own a thing, nor influence the state affairs. The monk's job was to take care of the spiritual needs of the natives, and once this was achieved, he should leave the world like a poor man. The manual said, You were born naked, then die naked. The manual's soft stance on the concept of love was the most scandalous, "Love," he wrote, "regardless of who gets involved, whether between women and men or men and men or women and women... regardless of its object... is still love. It's a gift from God."

The congregation, upon reading this, released an animosity he could not bear to recollect. His manual, though published anonymously, did not prevent the abbot from finding out who the real author was. He confronted and accused Alonzo the Monk of perversion and sodomy.

"Be real," he said, "For us to deny the existence of love between two men is hypocritical in light of the love we profess to Christ, Himself being a man."

The abbot pounded the table with his fists. "But Christ is not a man! He is God!"

"He is God who created us in His image," he countered. "Who gave us the notion that loving another man makes us less men? This hypocrisy is causing so much perdition in this world. Wars and colonization are turning men into beasts. Is this the kind of man we want to promote, an unfeeling man, a murderer, a man who does not love his fellow man? Is that the will of God?"

"Are you saying that man should start bedding other men?"

Alonzo was shocked by what he heard. "Who says love involves bedding each others? I believe we don't understand each other, Father. Sex may be an expression of love but true love, true love in its purest form is laying down one's life for another. Love is a cleaving, one completing another. It is expressed not by sex but by friendship, respect, acceptance, understanding, helping another. I'm talking of love, not perversion - don't put insinuations into my mouth."

The night after the confrontation with the monastery's superiors, Alonzo retired to his cell and started to pray as had been his routine all his monastic life. He loosened the cord around his waist, hung it on the head bolster of the bed. He pulled out the rosary that was hooked to his cord, knelt and began the Sorrowful Mysteries. Someone knocked on his door. Alonzo quickly made the sign of the cross and stood up and opened the door. It was Giovanni, a bulky monk, pink on the face and perspiring.

"Good evening," Giovanni whispered.

Alonzo nodded his head.

They as monks were made to know, since their apprenticeships, to adopt the vow of silence and avoid these furtive meetings in the cloister. Giovanni used their finger language to which Alonzo responded. Giovanni sat on Alonzo's bed. With finger codes, Giovanni communicated to Alonzo that everyone was aware, even updated, with Alonzo's recent confrontation with the abbot. He assured Alonzo that he was behind him all throughout. To this, Alonzo expressed his surprise. Privacy, he gestured, was one of the tenets of monastic life. Issues like the ones he espouses, were supposedly confined between God, the superiors and the abbot, and him. "No, no, no, " Giovanni shook his head. "I understand what you're going through and all the circumstances that compelled you to think the way you think." Alonzo looked at his companion closely. Giovanni was more sweaty by now. His habit was moistened over his chest. It was not even summer. "I... I prefer not to talk about matters like these," Alonzo turned his back. "Please...Please..." Giovanni intoned. His fat rosy cheeks shone in the candlelight, his breathing was getting shorter. Alonzo realized it only too late when Giovanni, standing behind him, embraced him and kissed him on the nape. Alonzo trembled. This was not what he meant by love between two men. He stood frozen, feeling the hardness of Giovanni behind him. He closed his eyes. "God, please wake me up from this nightmare," he prayed. He felt the hands of Giovanni exploring him, groping him, his tongue licking his ears. Alonzo felt pity for his companion. "What do you want from me?" he asked. "I want to suck your penis. I want to make love with you." Alonzo turned around, Giovanni knelt in front of him, lifting his sutana, opening his undergarment.

Alonzo grasped Giovanni's hands tightly, locked his eyes with his. Firmly. Full of compassion. Full of understanding. "This must be very very hard for you to bear," he uttered. "Tomorrow..." Alonzo whispered as he pulled the kneeling Giovanni up, turned him around and pushed him toward the door. Alonzo then locked the door. He prayed deeply.

At midnight, three hours before the morning mass, a scream was heard in the room of Giovanni. Giovanni woke up with a plate placed on his bedside table. On the plate was the bloody penis of Alonzo.

The monks got agitated by the screams and quickly ran towards Giovanni's room. Shocked, Giovanni would not stop screaming, "Alonzo! Alonzo!", he perseverated.

The monks ran to Alonzo's room. He was not inside. They followed a trail of blood on the floor that went past the room, to the hallway, on the steps, to the tunnel leading to the church. Inside the church, Alonzo was kneeling on a pool of blood, his own blood, praying and holding a rosary with one hand, and beating himself with the cord with the other...

He was dismissed as lunatic since then... in fact, he thought of himself as lunatic. He did not mention to his fellow monks the event that transpired between him and Giovanni in his cell the night before, for fear Giovanni might get expelled. He had to respect Giovanni's secret weakness. He did not want Giovanni to be condemned for his sexual orientation... After Giovanni left, he asked God what to do. St. Lucia appeared before him, she, the saint who plucked her own eyes out of their sockets and offered them to a suitor who loved her for her eyes - showed him the way.

THE CASTRATI (Spoken by Alonzo the Monk)

"I was banished from my monastery in Sevilla as lunatic. I was shipped with the mariners to the islands in the Pacific. And because I was castrated, the mariners began making fun of me - I...I was raped many times over. As many times as I attempted to end my life by jumping off the ship. But they always managed to fish me back. "Sacrosanct, I could have been but I became a molested man. In the islands I made up my mind to start all over again.

"I found myself walking along the shore of Manila Bay. For the first time in my life I wanted to talk with someone but no one was there. Who would listen and understand? Maybe God.

"I wondered if I was indeed a homosexual. I adored man, I loved man... the rumors about monasteries in Europe during my time did not escape my ears; about monks bedding other monks. I wondered about that...Yet...Nothing! No lust surged inside me. I was unfeeling!"

LAZARO CONTINUES ALONZO'S STORY

Now, he was living in a beautiful land with strange people.

"Love," he softly muttered, "to love this land and these natives is what is left for me." He stared at the moon that peeked among coconut palm trees and raised a tune to the stars. He was free now, again, free to pursue what he wanted to pursue.

The following day, he went into the woods, gathered fallen twigs, tree trunks, rocks, and palm leaves. He was to build the House of God. The natives, sensing his good intention began gathering around him. In no time, he was supervising them in constructing the second oldest Catholic church in the Philippines. After finishing the structure within one month, he baptized the hospitable natives. That month was August. By September the monsoon rains started. Alonzo saw the raindrops fall gracefully upon leaves, upon the river, watched the geese swim and dance, fish jumped, but the monsoon didn't stop. He finally came to realize that tropical rain can both cause pleasure and anxiety. The Pampang River overflowed and Lubao, as was expected, was suddenly underwater. The flood flowed in currents toward the river. The natives ran to the high plains as their nipa huts broke into pieces with the currents.

And then the church began disintegrating: the palm leaves floated, the weak banana trunk strips loosened their hold between bamboo slabs, the wooden cross swam. Alonzo stood in the waist deep flood and followed the way where the cross led. On a certain spot, the cross stopped. Once it stopped, the monsoon subsided. Alonzo the Monk took this as a sign from God. He picked up the cross and staked it on the muddy spot again.

"This is where the Spirit of Christ wants to reside."

By this time however, the colonization of the Philippines was in its full gear. Fresh from Mexico, Spaniards undertook the naming of towns and provinces and assigned political heads. The encomienda system began, so did taxation and slavery. Alonzo's work in Lubao did not miss the ears of the monks in Sevilla. Still considering him a lunatic, they wanted him to be replaced immediately, he could not handle this grand task of building Augustinian missions in the Far East. They came, they settled, they ruled, they built. The Lubao Augustinian Church was deemed to become a symbol of Christianity in the Orient.

Slowly, slowly, Friar ascendancy poked its ugly head in Lubao - all colonizers intended to own a piece of it. The soil was found to be volcanic and fertile; with ample water, fishponds could be expanded. The natives began to suffer their cruelty.

Alonzo the Monk made his final cry to the friars: "You won't do this to this town while I am alive!" His screams unfortunately, landed on deaf ears. Later on Alonzo disappeared. His disappearance was mourned by the natives, he was the only kind Espanol they knew of. It was also filled with mystery and rumors. If he went to another town, city, or country, they whispered among themselves, his possessions should have left with him. Yet, not a single robe nor fork vanished. If he were murdered, his body should be found, yet no one saw any sign of it. His last words, according to the old native who took care of him were, ""I will be back to make things right." Alonzo's name was never spoken of again.

Chapter 13: THE MEETING BETWEEN LAZARO AND ALONZO

I would like you to listen to me. There is a gay Saint - I've seen him before and I will see him again. If you think that all gays live, love, desire, act and talk the same, think again! Take everything away from a gay saint, and he will laugh to your face! Why? Because he has so little to lose. He had already lost everything the moment he admitted to being gay. And when he loses everything, he becomes a child again: Pure, innocent, sincere, trusting, hopeful, uninhibited, curious, questioning; he forgets himself; he suddenly looks at everyone as his father, his mother, his big brother, his big sister. He starts believing that people are there to protect him. He makes us start believing we know more than him. He is there...and you won't even notice because his love for God prevents him from revealing himself... ...because love for God is something shared privately, it's not trumpeted about...and most of all... because he acquires the madness of Saints (Lazaro's words over the phone)

"I was recollecting this tale about Alonzo the monk, the priest in a black robe, as I put my steps inside the church. The air inside zoomed in echoes carrying the songs of twittering birds jumping among its balustrades and marble-stony saints. I was very much impressed by its cleanliness. Not a single soul save me and the black robed priest were inside.

"I was about to ask who he was when this strange sensation passed from the tip of my toes to the tip of my tongue - like a bolt of lightning. Reminding myself this was all a dream I decided to zip my mouth. I didn't have any control...

"Something akin to speech - quite sepulchral in tone - penetrated my ears. The priest in black spoke to my mind without batting an arm nor breathing air.

"You are inside a sacred place."

"Immediately, Moses of Ten Commandments came to my mind... There was a scene where the voice of the burning bush instructed Moses to take off his shoes because he was standing on a sacred ground. I bent forward to untie the laces of my sneakers. The voice stopped me. "There is no need to do that."

"I raised my head and curiously stretched out my neck side to side to seek his identity, to no avail. He continued, " This is the house of God. Your eyes should be fixated upon God and nothing else. Bear in mind that monks like us are nobodies. We are mere spaces. Take the tapestry off the missal table and cover your head with it. Bow your head and stare at the ground. Think you're worth is like that of the ground you tread. Take away your sense of being. Think of nothing. Empty your mind and be one with God.

"His words puzzled me...Us? We? Monks? Since when did I become a monk? Again, I barricaded my lips. I stood and slowly gathered in my hand the tapestry that was made of soft lace, white in color. I placed it over my head. It covered me with the smell of the table's fresh varnish coating. My downcast eyes stared at the floor that reflected my hooded face. We remained seated silently for a long time. My mind was spinning. I was again in the middle of something...I did not understand yet I understood... Slowly, an image invaded my vision: I saw my companion, him, the man in a black robe, astride a horse, descending the peak of a mountain against the background of a moon the size of man, pulling out an arrow and shooting an acacia tree. It struck. It was a solemn and symbolic act.

"He spoke: "I am returning because it is time. It is the heavens that's crying out to my soul. I slept for 426 years and I'm awakened to the cries of a boy from Lubao, the town I founded. This won't be easy for both of us Lazaro. I am bringing you to a world full of pains and sacrifice. Through a great purgation, you'll forget yourself, you'll empty your mind. Through a spiritual ecstasy, tantamount to psychosis, you'll read the mind of God. Before the night is over, your soul will undergo its deepest darkness, after that, in three days, you will witness a great miracle of God.

"What was this stranger telling me? Was he...? I could not complete my question.

"I started seeing the moon falling from the sky, atomic explosions and meteors were hitting the earth, I saw the sun dying, I saw the cosmos reaching its end. The thermodynamic principle of cosmic crunch was invading my vision. In this vision, the arrow of time was reversing, life was backtracking.

"I threw the veil from my head, I started sweating, suffocated within the church. My palms were damp, to my eyes, the marble saints moved, all ministering to me in a multitude of incomprehensible words.

"The priest in a black robe rose from his seat and turned back, I still did not see his face.

""Are you sent by St. Augustine?" I asked

""No. I come to you in my own volition."

""Please Sir, kindly explain all these to me. Am I crazy?"

""No."

""For goodness sakes, tell me what's going on!"

""Are you still the doubting Thomas after all the things you saw?"

""Just answer this one question. Are you Alonzo the monk?

""Yes I am.

"I clenched my fists and prepared to run out of the church. But I...I turned into an immobile statue. He addressed me one more time: "Let go Lazaro. Let go. You cannot fathom the depths of purgation, it comes to anyone who considers God seriously. Let go of all your Jungian and Freudian philosophy because there are things on earth that are beyond explanation. Do not over-analyze your visions...do not try to suppress them. It's up to you to believe them or not. God will not force-feed you. You will never understand why I, after 426 years have returned. It is like explaining the Law of Probability in Quantum Physics. God says He is light but light has its own speed. The star that you see now may have released its light billions of years ago. You won't ever know what's going on in that star this exact instant. Or think of our sun, even if it collapses now it would still take a full eight minutes before we would realize its demise. Time is relative Lazaro. What happened in the past may be happening now, in a parallel world. Christ maybe dead to you for two thousand years, yet somewhere, He is alive doing what He did two thousand years ago. It goes without saying that there are certain people like me who live forever. I live because I think I am alive. I have returned Lazaro to fulfill my promise long time ago. I have returned many times before but people failed to notice me. My reappearances had crossed ages and world boundaries, searching for those who belonged to the ancient order of the Desert Fathers. Who are we? We are called by God even before our births. We seek solitude. We live alone. We escape from gatherings. We are unknowns. We are the original contemplatives. Youth will make you explore the world, partake even of its sins...but the time has come Lazaro, from within you, the spirit of the Desert Fathers will bloom. You will not comprehend this at first but as days turn into years and you mature, you will understand and seek our company more and more. And you will find us in abandoned houses and jungles and solitary islands. We come when called... Augustine opened the door of your heart to allow the rest of the saints enter into your soul. We will let you see the beauty of us - ignore the sights and sounds of Miami, block you nostalgic Manila - these things are all temporal. What is permanent is the memory of history. Your memory will reveal to you our past in the deserts of Egypt and Arabia, in the oceans of Polynesia, in the tropical mountains of Colombia, Amazon jungles of Brazil, in the rubbles of old Ireland. You will see how we encountered death only to live again in another time and place, with another name. Look deep inside you and you will find in the recesses of your mind who I am. As a young boy you saw me. A garden was apple green and flowers were fragrant and wide open under the sun...

The First Memory

"Upon hearing this, the backward arrow of time brought me to my earliest memory as a child. I was a boy barely 5 years old holding a ball. I remembered a place vividly, a garden where on its side stood a marvelous beauty. How could I forget it? A large house, a most beautiful house had a series of rooms, its walls were covered by creeping weeds, on its hall I saw priests in black robes walking silently, in a line, singing a tune- it was the most peaceful tune I've ever heard.

"One of the priests turned his head to me; he pulled off his hood, looked like a foreigner with beard and fair complexion. His eyes were blue. For a brief moment, he smiled at me and waved before resuming his walk.

""Remember," Alonzo spoke again, "when your brother was sick."

The Second Memory

"How will I forget that moment? I was seven years old. I heard my mother praying. "Dear God, take care of my child. Don't let him suffer like this." I didn't know what ailed him but I knew it was bad.

"My brother was lying on bed, his eyes were tightly closed, his lips were tremulous. "Mother, help me," he cried. I watched with fear. I realized then that dying was terrible. That sight alone made me decide I'd work with the sick when I grew up. Unable to bear this torment, I uttered a prayer, "God, heal my brother."

"I saw the priest in the black robe taking the place of my brother, my brother turned into a man with beard and fair complexion. For a brief second, I watched this priest suffer in place of my brother. When he disappeared, my brother opened his eyes and smiled as if nothing had happened. He immediately got up and started pacing the room. I knew since then that miracles could happen.

"Alonzo stopped my recollection for the third time. "Remember the vision you saw beside Manila Bay."

The Third Memory

""So...So it's you! You were the One I kept seeing beside the Bay! You were the reason why I kept returning to Manila Bay while I was in college. I thought I ran because I wanted to forget, to resume what I put on hold, to recover my dying self -esteem. I thought its magical waters preserved and re-charged me. I ran for you! Because I saw and felt you over and over again, watching me, pushing me. It was you who I saw in a rare moment of trance Alonzo, the man walking along the shore in an ancient time, when Manila Bay was still a shore, bereft of skyline and seawall. In that shore you envisioned a Catholic country...

The Final Revelation

"Alonzo turned to face me one last time...he slowly pulled the dark hood off his head...and I saw the face of a Saint. He was exactly the man I saw...

""I was with you even before you were born. In the other life, we were the best of friends. I never left you though I..."

""Who was I in the other life?"

""Giovanni...Giovanni..."

"He gave me this final admonition on my way out of the church: "Let the modern man give me a name; let them diagnose my mind. But listen to what I'm going to say - When you fall in love with anything, whether it's a mission, a woman, a friend, a man, a pet - love him/her as a whole, not in parts. Love not a man because of his eyes, or his hair, or his physique or his youth or age. Love him for everything he is, his history, his character, his creed, his faults, his strengths and idiosyncrasies. Love his skin pore as much as you love his skin.

"The church and Alonzo disappeared instantly."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- So, my friends, I, the narrator, would continue the events that transpired afterwards.

Lazaro found himself kneeling alone in Victoria Park in Fort Lauderdale. He felt like waking up from a dream, and he was used to this by now though his knees were hurting. Ants were running along his legs. Red ants. His skin was covered with ecchymotic patches. He felt itchy and burning.

The picture of reality got clearer after a few seconds. A jolt of shame passed through him. People were gathered around him - what could he have been doing while in trance? For all he knew - he could have been kneeling and crying and praying and talking to self in the middle of the park - he must have been quite a spectacle for people to gather around him like this. They carried an amused look. Good thing they haven't called a police to lock him up in a mental ward. Yet.

He bowed his head and closed his eyes.

"What are you doing there, man?" one of the spectators asked him.

Unable to find and impromptu alibi, he said, "I saw something."

One geriatric woman quipped, "Looks like you saw the Virgin there."

He stared at the woman for the longest time. Caught and unable to find a way out, he said, "Yes."

To his surprise, the woman repeatedly made the sign of the cross. "The Virgin! He saw the Virgin!" she was now addressing the gathered crowd.

From sneer, the people beamed in wonderment, they became suddenly serious.

Another old woman, obviously a tourist, started taking pictures of Lazaro who covered his face as quickly. They closed in around him, someone held him by the shoulders to prevent him from falling. His knees were really painful. More so as he attempted to stand.

What remained of the church and Alonzo was a mound which was nothing but a fallen tree covered with green moss. It was lying on the dirty part of the park, that border that proceeds from well-manicured lawn to a jungle, a natural forest. Embarrassment overwhelmed him.

"What did the Virgin say?" The woman inquired again. Her face was solemn, she knelt beside him, raising her eyeglasses, staring at the view in front of Lazaro, as if searching. This was getting worse. He lied about seeing the Virgin and gullible people were now starting to get as crazy as he was. He couldn't afford to be a hoax. There is a law against that. He thought.

He stood up and ignoring his painful knees began running away. Someone pulled him by the sleeve, but he managed to free himself. He was full of adrenalin.

So he ran and ran and ran until reaching the shore of Miami. He now considered himself certifiably confused. "God," he intoned, "If you're kind enough, please bring me back to reality."

But the reality was far more painful than his knees. And to be like this, alone in Miami was risky! Where in the world did he park his car? He retreated farther, away from Miami skyline, northward. There were night walkers along the shore but as he got closer to Hallandale, they were reduced into trickle.

He probably needed help. But...no way Jose. He won't let his record be smeared by something like...psychosis. He was taking care of mentally deranged people himself to know what it was to be psychotic. Or... what is the medical term? Altered Mental State.

He saw them in the Nursing Home. They were diagnosed with Confusion, Depression, Alzheimer's, Dementia - they would start talking by themselves, embracing and kissing the air. As if...someone was there in front of them. Were they truly crazy? Which is real anyway - the reality you create in your mind or the reality which people create for you?

When a terminally ill old woman says to you she'd just been to Bloomingdale's of New York with her Papa and smiles like she had just really been there, would you smash all that happiness by telling her the reality? Would you tell her - No you are in a Nursing Home with cancer and are surrounded by these people who are suffering? Which between the two of you is telling the truth in the first place? What if what she's telling you is her history, a fact that happened 50 years ago - would you call that fact an illusion or hallucination? You would probably name it disorientation to time...but still, it is reality. Would you lead her back to painful present just to orient her to correct date?

Would you call it abnormal or unhealthy - when an old person who, after sensing his impending death, turns into a most peaceful and quiet person in his imaginary world? Why would you deprive him of that imaginary world?

Imagine if you were one of these people - Who, after nurturing kids are suddenly deprived of your home and properties and imprisoned inside a barren room - Your house becomes a single bedroom with a little closet and a little bathroom - And your only means of communication is a call bell - Would you call yourself crazy if in this pit of pain, you revert back to being a child? If you start thinking of me as your father, mother, brother, sister?

Would you call a ninety year old demented woman crazy if she wakes up one day thinking that she has to cook dinner, her children are on their way back from school? Is she crazy if she starts opening her drawers looking for her wedding band?

Most probably you will! You come to them and hit them with what you perceive is reality and they turn combative and irritable. And if some of them completely block you off their minds, you, after being trained by an educational system that has a name for everything, would bombard their medical charts with mental diagnoses as long as a mile.

Do they care? In one final moment they start laughing again, telling you about their childhoods, about their old romances, about their very young children. And...on the final hour, they tell you their father bought them presents...how their mother took care of their bruises... Mama, Papa, Mama, Papa they whisper...what do you do? You shrug them off as senile.

Lazaro once asked a Doctor how this is so...how in that final moment a person starts roll-calling people he recognized as a child.

"Enkephalins," the Doctor said matter-of-factly. "He starts releasing enkephalins and these give him hallucinations."

"Why?"

"Because...the reality is very painful...the body has to find ways to relieve it of pain."

"So there is nothing out there? All this post-mortem tunnel of light is brought by enkephalins?"

"The real question is...who put all those enkephalins in one's brain?"

Chapter 14 : THE SQUIRT AND SPRAY LADY

At that very instant, out of nowhere, a woman came rushing in, out of breath. "Gentlemen," she approached, "Would you give this tired woman a lift?" Her hair was dyed blond, its black roots were sprouting by a quarter inch . Her eyes were large and brown, her lips thickened with lipstick. She was chewing gum. She appeared to be in her thirties though Lazarus could well figure she was way past her thirties, her fake youthfulness was camouflaged by beautiful legs in a black mini matched by an expansive bosom. The companion of Lazaro beamed in a wide grin in seeing her. He became animated by her perfume and sexuality. "Why not," he said, "Till this dickhead finds his car."

"Okay," she said, "I'll go with the one who has a car."

"This dickhead is a faggot," the man, pointing at Lazaro, said to the woman. Insultingly. "Though he's got a car," he sneered. Lazaro was slightly offended by the comment but he kept his mouth shut. He was now desperate to get rid of his companion.

"You mean gay? All the better," the woman said, grabbing the hand of Lazaro, squeezing it like she was conveying a message. Lazaro looked at her helplessly and passively. All he wanted was to get away. Away from this mistake. He knew the kind of person he was with by now - he'd indulged in Manila wild life for too long in his college years that it'd be impossible for him not to know this. His lust was already replaced by panic. He was actually afraid of both the man and the woman. What if...what if...they were in cohort? Was he dealing with criminals? Thieves? The woman squeezed his hand some more. "Well, we will decide once we find the car. Let's go," she said, without losing hold of him.

...It was her eyes... They were soft and gentle - like the eyes of Alonzo and Augustine. They carried a resemblance to the eyes of the Archangel of No Name. They seemed to assure him...

Emboldened by her tagging and the firmness of her grip, he started walking fast with her, away from the man.

"Hey! Hey! Hey!Why are you two walking away from me?" the young man called, he was unable to keep pace with them. "Slow down you bitches!"

But Lazaro and the woman were now yards away from him, they both didn't look back. "Just keep on walking," the woman said to Lazaro, her speed reaching his. Lazaro became a zombie now walking without any particular direction, without any particualr destination.

The woman turned her head toward the young man behind them. "Just beat it!" she yelled at him. "Go away!"

"You don't think you'd get away from me eh? Give me your fucking keys! Son of a bitch! You fucking faggot...I'd kill you!", his eyes were a- flame looking at Lazaro.He pulled out his knife, but he was too drunk to catch up, and Lazaro was athletically fast. "Where the hell you think you're going?" the man kept on yelling as he stumbled on the sand and then sprang up again and ran after Lazaro and the woman.

"Don't look back," the woman said to Lazaro, "I'll take care of him." She released the hand of Lazaro and turned around. Lazaro stopped for a moment, scared yet embarrassed - who was this fortyish woman sallying forth out of nowhere to save him.What for?

The woman kept on waving him to keep walking away.

"No," he said, "That drunkard is dangerous Ma'am. I think I can get away now. He won't reach me. But please come with me."

"Run away!" the woman screamed as she ran back to meet the man head on. Lazaro was overwhelmed by guilt. Damn, if he did not give in to this stupid temptation, this won't happen.

He found himself back to the crowded street of Collins. By the time he took a turn at Washington, he regained his bearing. He was perplexed by these events - not by their dreamlike quality - he had accepted all these already - but by their endless critical flow. He felt like moving from one dream and crisis to another without any pause.

The woman met him again in Collins, "He went back to sleep. I told him you're not into sex," she said. "Lazaro you were really close to big trouble there..."

Another seer? Gosh, who are these people meeting him? "How did you know my name?"

"I know everything."

"Thanks," Lazaro sighed. "How did you know I was in trouble?"

"First," she said, "I saw the glint of a knife in your companion's back pocket. Second, your face was telling it all."

"I don't know how to re-pay you...do you want coffee or something?"

"Forget about the coffee but I really need the ride," she said.

Lazaro scrutinized the woman, and began to notice details unnoticeable at first impression: her black unironed mini had a loose thread under the armpit, her hair needed washing, her make-up seemed to be on top of previous one. And she was carrying the most wonderful perfume Lazaro had ever smelled.

"May I know your name and what you do?"

"I'm Magda - the squirt and spray lady."

Well, Magda - she used to work at Macy's and Bloomingdales; in Neiman-Marcus and Sears too. And Burdine's. Later on she worked in JC Penney here in Miami. A perfume saleslady. These were her words:

Chapter 15 : THE STORY OF MAGDA

"I was once a prostitute, but do not think I am a loose woman, don't be misled by my appearance. I've been there, sure, and I've done it all, that's true, yet, this battered, over-used woman still has pride left. Contrary to what you're probably thinking now, I no longer offer sex to any man for money. Listen to my story before forming any opinion about me. I was born and raised by well-off parents, they were the kindest parents one could ever have. But misfortune upon misfortune came knocking at our door since my birth. My brother, my poor, poor brother was diagnosed with leukemia and in search for his cure, our family's resources got depleted. After his death, my parents got divorced owing to the poverty we were suddenly relegated into. My father soon succumbed to alcohol. I, being a young girl then, grew up with his bitterness. My mother moved as far away from me and my Dad as she could. My father later committed suicide. I moved with my mother, only to discover she had multiple lovers.



"At thirteen I lost my virginity.

"At sixteen, I had my first child.

"At twenty, I was a mother of three.

"Three children from three fathers, all unable to provide child support! What would a young stupid mother of three do, she, without education, without money, with three mouths to feed? I relied on a paltry welfare check and was so ashamed I chose to do my groceries in Albertson's at midnights. In one of those nights, a man proposed sex-for-pay to me. For one hundred bucks, I offered it inside his car."

Lazaro turned his eyes left and right, in every direction, really, away from Magda's eyes because he was uncomfortable hearing this frank confession. Ah, the story of a woman like this is often heard in so many other tales. But a story is a story, no matter how painful it was to hear it. Lazaro, despite his being gay, felt pity towards her.

Magda continued: "I lived as a streetwalker since then. I beautified myself and became an expert in the application of perfumes. With varying perfume combinations, I turned men into either beasts or angels. Hardly my night passed by without a taker as I made sure he's got his money's worth.

"Yet, all the way from California to New York to Florida, my profession was not without a fault or a heartbreak.

"It was very very sad...Young men, the milk of their mothers I could still taste, proposed marriage to me, some of them used their school allowances to pay me for a night of sex. Oh, men can lose their minds in lust, believe you me. Because of me, marriages got wrecked. Decent men who paid me later turned into crooks and streetwalkers themselves! I turned rich men into paupers.

"All these for what? Money earned the way I earned it was always quick to disappear. Despite the thousands that came my way, I lost it as easily to pimps and doctors. My children frequently got sick. Should I be surprised? - I was out at nights and asleep during the days - they had to fend for themselves - what did I expect?

"I thought that with the money I earned from the streets, I'd feel good...but... despite all the amenities I added to my aprtment - a walk-in closet, a washer and drier - I barely saw and used them. I remained struggling.

"Everyday I felt degraded, feeling worse than a criminal, maligned and mocked at...do you think it is easy to become a prostitute? Try passing by a street and have some drunk stranger tap your buns. Try walking beside a group of men and hear them talk to you - dirty words, malicious words - ignore them and they'd loudly cuss you with bitch, slut, whore - try that!

"It is not easy Lazaro, to poke your head into a stranger's car without knowing if you'd get decapitated or shot or hit. You give your full trust, hoping your lucky stars would be perfectly aligned for you, to protect you. Yet...deep inside your heart, you know you don't have a protector...not God, not angels, not spiritual rulers, not even your pimps - how can they protect you in your sins? In this profession, you're on your own.

"Many women hated me! Anyone in this profession becomes the enemy of every woman who believes in the integrity and loyalty of her husband - in the stability of her home.

"Two years ago, during the political campaign season, and you know what elections are, especially in California - the voice of hypocritic morality rose. Voices from different quarters articulated their condemnation of meat markets found on the streets.

"One night, as I was walking down the street of Santa Monica, a car stopped me, its occupant rolled down its window and asked, "How much?"

"My price had never gone above a hundred bucks to remain competitive. I mentioned it.

"The man said, "For five hundred bucks, hop in."

"I was surprised by the amount offered. I hopped in quickly. Inside the car I was asked to participate in all forms of sexual acts...I did everything written down in the book. It was five hundred bucks afterall.

"And then...three flashes, like lightning, beamed at us, taking us by surprise. Three flashes from a papparazi camera.

"My client was starled. "Who is that?" he asked. "What is that?" he thundered.

"I shrugged my shoulders.

"Who is that?" he repeated in a frenzy, like a rabid dog. He opened the car door. In the dark, his eyes caught a paparazzi running away, holding a precious camera.

"My client stood frozen for a while, naked beside the car, his hands covering his limped groin. . I suddenly had the feeling something bad was going to happen. I had this urge to get away as fast as I could. I put on my panty.

"Emerging from his shock, he started throwing out obscenities at me. Really heavy cusswords. And then, probably remembering his nakedness, he quickly slid into the car and sat beside me and stared at me for a long long time. He spoke, his words were now slow and clear, almost deprecating, supplicating, begging, "Please, I beg you, do not destroy me. I am a father, a judge, I am running for Councilman."

"I stared at him mute. I wanted to say reassuring words but which were the right words? I was a hapless woman. I wanted to help him I swear, for despite all the things he forced me to do, he was a gentle man - he said his over religious wife forced him to seek passion from another woman, she was as frigid as a rock and he was full of stress at work. He was doing this to preserve himself. Truly Lazaro, he was a child hurting. I held his head with both my hands and staring at him, I gently spoke, "It's not what you think it is. Don't worry about things that aren't there."

"In a flash, he threw my hands aside. His eyes were ferocious. "Tell the truth," he hissed, "Who is that man?"

"The intensity of his passion and anger frightened me, I thought of the possibility of my death. That's how beastly he looked like. He yelled, "How much do you want for those pictures Slut?"

"I was shaking my head. My eyes were closed tightly. "I don't know what you're talking about!" I yelled back.

"He slapped me on my face repeatedly...I was facing a man about to fall, a man who was hanging for his dear life on a thin thread...a man becoming brute. He lunged and punched me in the stomach, I thought my liver burst. I was too shocked even to scream. The pictures of my children as orphans flashed in my mind.

"You slut! Whore of pigs! Bitch!" he kept on cussing.

"I was shaking my head in tears.

"Not contented, he kicked me. Grabbing my hair, he banged my head against the car window, such was the violence he showed. I gave up on my life. I became delirious . My world started whirling.

""Tell the truth, " he shouted. "Tell the truth!"

"All I could do was to shake my head, I was totally shocked.

"Then, probably realizing his brute force and the prospect of killing me, which was far worse than the scandal the papparazi pictures would do to him, he put on his underwear and got off the car. He grabbed my hair once more and dragged me out. I laid sprawled on the pavement as he continued pounding me with his legs. "I'm ruined! I'm ruined!" he cried.

"Now a mad man, he went back into his car, cranked it and threw all my clothes to me.

"Left alone with my clothes, I did not go to the hospital, I crawled back to my home, to my sleeping kids. I did not wake them up. I took a shower and put on a thick make-up and poured all the perfume I could pour on me.

"My pictures with him graced all the tablods of California the following day. My privates were covered with blobs; my brutal client was on top of me. Indeed, he was running for mayor.

"I immediately grabbed all the things I could grab and drove all the way from California to New York. With my kids. I didn't tell them the reason for our sudden move...

"With the scandal behind me in California, I started my life anew in the streets of New York.

"If there was a God, I found Him in Mahattan. His name was Alonzo - he was the General Manager of Macy's Perfume Department."

Chapter 16 : RESTORATION

"It was a solemn night, winter, and snow added gloom to my miserable life. What does a mother like me think on a night like this? What do I care about while walking the streets of 42nd Avenue? Do not think that what all prostitutes care about are sex and money. I was thinking about my kitchen, counting in my head the remaining sausages and hotdogs and milk I left for the kids, worried about my infant left in the care of my eldest son who was barely ten years old. When my infant would cry, would my boy be able to prepare the bottle and sing her a lullaby? In case of fire...ah I wished I could forget all my fears. I wished for only a man who would pick me up early so I could come home early...

""Where are you headed to?" A male voice asked me from behind. Since the incident in California I became suspicious of voices rising up behind me. I became paranoid - what if - what if - the politician who got destroyed by dallying with me exacted revenge? I, a poor prostitute was an easy target, in fact a very cheap target. I could be condemned as an unfit mother, my chidren would be scattered to foster homes.

"I could not bear the thought of that. I turned to look at the man who asked me from behind. I smiled at him the usual way, gave my best Bette Davis eyes and Veronica Lake voice. "Wanna have a good time?" I wanted to skip the preambles and introductions quick.

"The man did not flinch. He was calm and contained - no savage look, no lusty desire, no shallow breath. He stood staring at me, with eyes that belonged to a hypnotist, this somewhat made me nervous.

"We struck a quick deal. We walked. His name was Alonzo: roughly in mid-sixties, very sure of gait, unswerving, unhesitating.

"When we reached his apartment, I became more convinced that he was decent. He possessed an expensive unit in 77th Park Avenue, it contained medieval furnishings. He was wealthy.

"I was so impressed by what I saw that I immediately unzippd my dress...Alonzo stopped me from doing so. He said, "I'm sorry, I am interested in another matter about you. Please Madam, zip back your dress."

"I suddenly felt embarrassed, thoughts moved in circles in my mind. Was he gay? Was he up to something different? I asked him if was one of them New York politicians...just to play safe... He burst into laughter. No one could blame me for asking a stupid question like this, especially after the incident in California.

"We spent the night together like father and daughter, very tame, to say the least. Alonzo preferred conversation more than anything else. As the night deepened I fell closer to sleep, in that moment between alertness and drowsiness, I heard a most wonderful story..."

Magda retold Alonzo's story, exactly the same story that had been recorded in this manuscript. The version differed only in terms of locations. Alonzo told Magda that he was a Jesuit who built schools in South America. How he ended up as Macy's Department head was merely coincidental, he re-appeared from his vanishing to save her.

Magda continued: "I never encountered a castratti before. When he admitted to his self mutilation, I became doubtful. To prove his story, he unhesitatingly pulled down his pants and I was stunned at first but later on, I could not stop laughing.

"As the night drifted to dawn, I became convinced he was not of this age, he was a ghost of time past. Recollecting his story now, I just couldn't imagine the pains he went through. His personal testimony, at the least, had strengthened me, he lightened my burden.

"Finally, he revealed to me his intention in taking me up to his place. He saw me, he said, from a long time ago, through an adulteress condemend at the time of Christ, the one for whom He adressed the crowd, "Let the one without sin cast the first stone." The same adulteress who washed His feet with the most expensive perfume.

"He said to me, "Both you and the adulteress have the same vanity and skills, and I want you to nurture those things for the good of all." I was elated by that comparison, a felt a little cleaner. He went straight into the business of the moment. He said he has a job for me - if I would like to - I could forsake my streetwalking to become a saleslady in the Perfume department of Macy's.

"For the first time in my life, a new door opened. I took his offer and became what I am now.

"As to why I am here asking you to give me a ride, well...

"I came to Florida a few months ago, lured by the prospect of building my own business. At Macy's, I did my job well, my employers became so impressed I was voted Employee of the Year within a year. But the pay wasn't enough and the only way I could improve my lot was by venturing futher up or out. This was with the blessing of Alonzo He said I was blessed with a gift, the gift of selling and good sense of smell. I can mix up perfume concoctions that could play with people's emotions. With this gift, he assured me I could go places.

"So I decided to build my own perfume sales business. Starting this wasn't easy, at least not as easy as streetwalking. I still walk the streets...in the usual fashion...but this time, I am selling perfume to department stores and people. I'm not making enough money, I still have to work up to midnights just to make ends meet. Yet, I can look at my face in the mirror every morning and feel decent and respectable. At least with this job, I can pray to God and hope for something good. I know He'd help me someday.

"In my new enterprise, I don't stop selling, delivering, marketing. I am my own woman and I intend to succeed.

"I won't hide the fact that I hardly sleep, I hardly meet the rent and my daily needs. Worse, my '73 Pontiac broke down.

"But at thirty seven, I am still strong. Don't laugh now...but look in here... I have a bag full of samples. I knock door to door. Today for example, I sold five bottles of Chanel #5. That's not bad at all...I was ready to either walk it home when I saw you with the young man. I observed both of you - it was easy for me to spot two people striking a deal for sex. Trust me, I know those things. He was a streetwalker, I knew that because it takes one to know one.. But I looked again, to clarify certain suspicions. That young man swayed, his eyes were restless, looking around, as if checking if anyone was looking.

"I saw two faces in him. When you looked at him, he became angelic. When you stared away, he became devilish. Then the glint of a knife flashed from his backpocket.

"I had to rescue you. If there is one thing a woman of sin can at least offer to her fellowman, it is the act of kindness.

"Miami, just like any other big city has its share of bad elements. And if you, and forgive me for saying so, act stupidly, and exhibit yourself vulnerable and gullible, you can can get killed.

"I know what a gay man goes through, especially a closeted gay like you Lazaro. You move unknown among men...the sad truth is, some people won't bother if you get victimized because you're gay. All they'd say is it's your own doing. I saw male prostitutes who out of desperation robbed and killed.

"...And once you experience a man pulling a knife or a gun or a fist at you, even if you manage to escape undamaged, chance is, the experience will leave an indelible trauma in your brain, leading you to fear, and this fear will pull you farther and farther away from your community. And the worst virtue will become part of you - it is called distrust. Without trust of people around you, you'd start confining yourself inside your room until you realize you're too old and it's too late to enjoy life.

"...You discover you're alive yet you're dead. You start living inside the tomb of loneliness and abandonment.

"Noli Me Tangere," you say to everyone. "Touch Me Not for I am afraid."

Lazaro was too affected by Magda's words he wasn't able to utter a single word.

"So..." Magda changed her tone, "Where the fuck is your car?"

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They were driving along Washington, taking a right to Lincoln. Magda, was sorting out the content of her bag. She pulled out a bottle of perfume, raised it in front of her and beamed, "This is my magic potion." Lazaro smiled.

"Let me squeeze it on you," Magda sprayed two squirts on the sleeves of Lazaro. It smelled different.

"And now," Magda rolled down the window, "Let Magdalene spray her magic potion all over Miami." She became like a little girl, her hair blowing in the wind, squeezing her perfume in the air. The perfume became stronger the more she squeezed. Even when they reached her destination, and they said goodbyes, the perfume was still in Miami air.

"Well baby," Magda said, "Follow what I told you. Come out. Fall in love. Be a useful member of the community. Reach out and touch..." she flew him a kiss and waved as she turned away.

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The following day, Miami Herald carried a headline entitled "The Virgin and Magic Fragrance." It reported, among other things, that tourists have reported seeing what appeared to be a deranged young man kneeling in front of Victoria Park. He claimed to have seen the apparition of the Virgin. The young man was spotted by many witnesses later on running all over the city from the dusk up to around ten in the evening.

This incident could easily be dismissed as a hoax, reported The Herald, but at midnight, an unusual fragrance swept Miami. This never happened before. Those who were outside by this time and who smelled it began dancing to music that was ringing only in their ears. Men began dancing with women; men with gays; gays with gays; men with men; women with women; women with lesbians; lesbians with lesbians. Imagine truck drivers doing a tango! For the first time in Miami's recent history, zero crime was recorded. Why? Criminals were busy dancing the merengue with law enforcers. Prostitutes were the most surprised - Men began treating lady hookers as their queens and mothers and sisters; Gays began treating men hustlers as brothers and fathers. One prostitute woke up with a check worth a million bucks, "Holy f----ng cow!," she exclaimed. "A million f----ng dollars for nothin! And I did not even f---ng f--- him!"

Poor, poor, poor Lazaro. He had only one chance of being featured in Miami Herald and he was there covering his face with his hands. Thanks to the tourist who took his photo.

Fearing that a new disease was in the offing, especially with the prospect of chemical weapons around the world, scientists from CDC immeditely flew to Miami to analyze this extra-ordinary event. They found nothing wrong, and shrugged the whole event as a "Good Variation of St. Vitus Dance".

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Lazaro woke up but he kept his eyes closed. He thought of all the event the previous day and wondered if he was dreaming. Or perhaps...his awakening this morning was the dream. He pinched his face - he felt pain, he must be awake. Now which is the reality and the dream? If he opens his eyes, how sure it is his bed he wakes up on and not a stranger's bed? Even if he wakes up on his bed, how sure is he it is real? Life is nothing but a dream he once heard. His birth, his death, could and would all these be dreams? Will these dreams have an end? If he dies, will all these end in nothingness? Nothingness... he rolled on his bed...Nothingness, imagine that! No dreams, no pains, no life, no aspirations, no imagination, no hope. No! No! He can't take nothingness! He wants to remain dreaming, transcending different lives, even if it means eternal suffering, as long as....as long as... he has a sense of being. It's still better to be something than nothing. He opened his eyes. In a split second, he saw Magda's face in front of him, she quickly disappeared. His new day began with Magda and her admonition : "Fall in love. Be free. Become a useful member of the community. Gay or not. Reach out and touch." He dressed up for work.

Chapter 17 : OVER-SENTIMENTAL GHOST OF LOVE PAST

Lazaro was light-footed and focused as his day of work passed by. He thought that probably, Magda had sealed all his visions and confusions. Perhaps it was time for him to return to his old self, forsake what he went through and bring a sense of normalcy to his life. He drove to Miami Bay after work. He strolled leisurely, enjoyed the soft breeze, sat contentedly under a palm tree for a tan from the late afternoon rays of the sun. He felt wonderful for the first time after so many days. He imbedded himself within the crowd of sun worshipers - the skaters, cyclists and slaves of muscles. He watched them with admiration. The vanity of it all. The afternoon said goodbye and the night took over.

Ah the night...after what he went through, he had every reason to be frightened of Miami nights.

He saw an image that made his heart jump. "No," he mumbled to himself. "Don't show me this image God! You can show me all visions and images on earth except this!"

Lazaro remembered about the night of purgation, the night of pain, the night of suffering which Alonzo foretold. And this is it, the most painful of all. Lazaro closed his eyes - "Let my day be accursed if what I think I see is what I see. Let me not drink this cup again. Let me not see this again. Let me forget this."

He rubbed his eyes then re-opened them - the image was still there. The image stood, a gray silhouette in the middle of darkening horizon with thin strips of gold. The image was alone. It paralyzed Lazaro, wrapping his heart with sorrow.

The image was the extension of a similar sight he saw years ago, on a similar golden shore like this, there in Manila Bay. But unlike the present apparition, that long-ago image was a real person. Long gone.

He and Lazaro were young men then, approaching twenty years old. Their last Manila Bay visit was the culmination of their friendship borne out of pain and struggles and death. Lazaro buried his head between his knees. He gave in to a total recollection as he whispered to himself:

-- Dear Dodong,

We were still in college then, Dodong.

"Ignore them," you said as we sat in the University cafeteria. I was fuming. "Ha! How can I ignore your friends who think they're gifts of God to mankind? I will not ignore them bunch of assholes who convert the Univeristy of the ----------- to University of Shame. Look at them...just look at them! They sit on the University's steps to leer at provincials like me because of my cheap clothes. Everytime I pass them by, I feel being stripped naked in their eyes. Don't they have better things to do? I pity our founders - This university for poor but deserving students is now populated by feudalistic and aristocratic children who think riding a jeepney to school is a mortal sin. And you want me to ignore them? F---!"

"You stopped biting your ham sandwich and stared at me sitting against the background of the cafeteria's bland-cream colored wall; you felt torn apart, like a rope about to snap pulled between having me as your best friend at one end, and having your 'sosyal' friends at another end whom I detested. You released a big sigh of frustration. You said you could not drop me in favor of them. I was your best friend. Yet you could not forsake them either...they were your 'front' for your secret radical life with the Makabayans.

"Let's go to Manila Bay," you said.

Ah, Manila Bay.

The haven where we could regain our cool. Beside its soothing waters, I cried out my pains and family struggles while you released your angst and frustration against our politicians. I repeated my old refrain, "My mother does not and can not afford my weekly allowance. I am ready to quit school, drop courses. I can't take this anymore," I cried. Once more, you blamed the politicians for my difficulties - "They make all our people hungry and poor, while cronies, such as my father, get richer."

And then, in our attempt to ease our pains, I talked of Metaphysics and Religion while you talked of the Philippine's bright future. If only...we were full of if's then. Then I came up with a most preposterous idea - I said,"I saw a black robed priest in my daily jogging routine."

You unhesitatingly grabbed my fantasy, assuming this was my coping mechanism amidst life's difficulties. Together, we formulated a shape and name for this image. It made us feel good. Under what we imagined was the guidance of this man in a black robe, we vowed everlasting friendship.

You came up with the most fantastic scheme of transforming me. You figured that I, being a Spanish Chinese Filipino and possessing white complexion could easily be developed into an aristocratic son, like your uppity friends in the University. This could be done by improving on my clothes, reducing my provincial accent, hiding the blemishes of my poverty and bringing me to the society circles of Manila.

You brought me home, introduced me as the son of a Pampanga hacendero to your family. Your parents were too superficial to ask any question. They took me as their own son.

Secretely, you bought me brand name clothes, gave me money, and brought me to your friends' hang-outs in Makati and Quezon City. I hated all of this, but found it all too convenient to give the farce up. I joked over the whole thing, "I think of myself as your social rehabilitation project, thanks to Imelda's grand concept of the fake, the bad and the ugly."

In reality, your 'project' led to more problems than solutions. Rumors about us being lovers quickly spread throughout the campus. We took this in stride. The real problem really was my recalcitrance to the new image I was forced to assume. I ended up whining all the time. It was not easy for me to pretend rich after being brought up by farmers in a house where food was eaten with bare hands, where the best means of transportation was walking. I did not know how to use spoon and fork, I did not even know how to open a car door. In other words, I did not fit, there was always a situation where I felt uncomfortable and nervous. My mannerisms in social circles were awkward. Being hyper sensitive, I always threw a fit after each party, cussed you even. I became increasingly paranoid.

One day, out of frustration, I took this crazy notion that your true intention for all your good acts towards me was to have sex with me. So... one night, I dropped off all my clothes before you and said to get over it, f--- if you want to f--- me.

I'd never seen you get so furious!

We wrestled in a bitter fist fight. Yet, we ended up sitting together, panting, then laughing. You could never leave me as much as I could not leave you - I fed your social philosophy. You fed me my survival in Manila.

And then one day, you told me something about myself that I never thought before: You said I had eyes that spelled firmness, anger that could move mountains. You were afraid of what I might do if I were left alone in this cruel world. My perseverance, you said, defied human tolerance. When I said I'd run a marathon, I wanted to be the fastest. If I'd write a story, it would be a novel. You once claimed that if I'd be thrown to the moon alone for twenty years, I would not only survive, I'd turn the moon into Eden. You said that's my character. A character borne out of my constant battle against poverty and social unacceptability. You also said, I would never fall in love... because I love the concept of being unloved...

Lazaro raised his teary eyes at his friend's ghost now standing before him in Miami Bay.

"How are you Lazaro?" Dodong's ghost whispered. Ah, that voice, since how long ago did Lazaro hear that voice? He stared at the tweny-year old friend he once had. Dodong was still twenty years old, appearing more like his son if Lazaro became a father at fifteen. Or a younger brother, still wearing his old stretch jeans, his Crispa T-shirt. Lanky but firm. Dodong's face was calm, his thin mustache, thick eyebrows and brown eyes were exactly the same Lazaro saw them the last time they met. Lazaro knew he was being visited by the ghost of his past love. He refused to respond initially, wiped his eyes and diverted their gaze to the ocean. Pelicans swept the night ocean floor. He remembered their last meeting vividly:

Dear Dodong,

"I will take a leave of absence," you said. "Why?" I asked. You made sure no one was around us before answering. You surprised me with a quick embrace and whispered, "No one else knows this except you and me and Makabayan. My parents don't know this..."

Lazaro recalled that exact moment, the warmth of Dodong's breath touching his face as Dodong revealed his secret plan.

Lazaro bit his lips...he stood up with clenched fists and broke into spasms of cries. He spoke to the ghost:

"Why?

Why didn't I stop you Dodong?

Why didn't I stare into your eyes so you could have read my disagreement to your plans?

Why didn't I kiss you so you could have felt my love?

Instead-

I pushed your arms away

I moved my head away from yours

Because-

I was embarrassed to tell you how much I love you!"

Dodong's ghost smiled and spoke full of gentleness. "Lazaro, my friend...my love...you are very very tired now. It is time for you to break this spell of guilt. Even if we kissed, even if you blocked my way with your body, I would still have gone to the mountains to do what I have done. That was my destiny Lazaro - to lay my life for our country. And it's over now. Look at yourself - always running away, chased by painful past...Lazaro, many years have already passed. It is time for you to abandon the thought of me."

"Damn you Dodong! You left me standing on an unstable ground! Do you think it was easy for me to see you vanish without a trace? And now, while I am beginning to forget you, you have the audacity to re-appear as a ghost to remind me of you. Get away from me, you figment of my imagination! How many nights did I spend looking for you dead or alive? How many sleepless nights did I spend wondering what could have happened to you? How many nights did I condemn myself for letting you leave? If only I stopped you. If only I tied you to a coconut tree and starved you so you won't be able to climb that stupid mountain. If I just joined you, fought beside you. I could have administered you CPR. If only..."

"Lazaro! It's alright. Stop this nonsense!" Dodong cut into Lazaro's cries.

Lazaro was like a frigthened wolf now. Howling. "Forgive me...forgive me.. for pushing you away, for not telling you how much I love you."

Dodong's ghost wrapped his arms around Lazaro, "There is nothing to forgive. Lazaro, I'm fine. Shut the fuck up and let me see your face. Ah, look how fourteen years have turned you into. After all the years of poverty, you've made it. You are now in America. The family you left is a lot better off thanks to your hard work. See... you no longer have a mother who did not and could not afford your weekly allowance. See...you are now her provider. There are no more uppity students who would leer at you as you pass by. Because you don't care anymore about their opinions. You've proven your worth. Right? Lazaro, it is time for you to think of yourself and the love that might be meant for you...without me..."

"Damn it Dodong."

"Your people have benefited from you - you can't just imagine how many people have managed to have food on their tables, how many sick people got better, how many kids went to school because of a gay man who forsook everything - who did not hesitate to travel into a far away country with no money only to send back all the money his family needed. In your town, you are known as the great gay provider. Your mere existence assure them when faced with the prospect of having a gay son. You took away their fears of gays. More than these Lazaro, your affiliation to PWA's is now the talk of all the saints and angels in heaven. I heard you've been chosen to witness one of the greatest miracles in this century. My situation however prevents me from revealing this miracle... although I am allowed to herald it to you, as a concession to our tender friendship. And this much I am allowed to tell - Lazaro, be courageous - I pin my hopes on you - what I failed to achieve, you will achieve. You will complete what I failed to finish. Ah..." The solid structure of Dodong was becoming gelatinous.

"My opportunity to see you is about to end. The other world is pulling me, aaaah... Lazaro, listen to me closely. Someday we will be together again." Dodong's gelatinous element was turning liquid, hot liquid that was evaporating into thin air. "Remember I love you. I will love you and I will be standing upon the mountain when your time to climb it comes." He dematerialized completely.

Chapter 18 : COFFIN IN A GAY PARADE

Lazaro, looking old and haggard knocked at the door of Dade Rest. Seen through the glass window, a flashlight beam moved in the hallway and steps shuffled toward the door, a click at the knob and the door opened. Jeff Kaploski met Lazaro.

"Lazaro, oh, it's about time you came. Something happened...."

Lazaro was leaning against the door frame, his head bowed, weary and pale.

"Something happened..." Jeff continued. But he stopped in seeing the sad face of Lazaro. "Lazaro, are you alright?"

Lazaro embraced Jeff, shaking. He wanted to cry but he refused to.

"Lazaro, Lazaro, what's wrong?"

"Damn it all Jeff. It's lonely out there."

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They were standing in Bill's room.

"Really, I don't need to show you this, you have your own problems. It's unfair to you," Jeff said.

They were standing in Bill's room whose body was draped in white sheet.

"He died this morning," Jeff informed him.

Lazaro took this news matter-of-factly. There was nothing that could surprise him anymore, being used to a lot of crises and ghosts by now, he felt numb. He seemed to have seen it all. All that was left was anger...no...perhaps acceptance. All he was hoping for was hope itself. Neither of them spoke for a while.

Jeff sounded different however. He had an angry voice as he stared at the wall, his eyebrows knitted.

"I hope Bill died peacefully," Lazaro said. He did not wish for Bill's recovery any longer, he just hoped for his peaceful fading.

"That's the matter I'd like to discuss with you Lazaro, Bill suffered the worst before his death..." Jeff's voice gained fierceness, his face more wrinkled, his eyes reddish. "Last night, Bill had the worst symptoms of Hepatitis B, he was all jaundiced. He moaned continuously. Then his moans turned into screams. And because he did not want to disturb the residents of Dade Rest, he pressed a pillow against his mouth and twitched on bed. He was flailing his legs all over the bed, sitting, pulling his IV line, blood was leaking out of his arms. I stared into his eyes and they seemed to jump out of their sockets. Morphin was all I could administer to him but even that didn't work. I could have rushed him to the hospital but he became more agitated by the mere suggestion of it. He wanted to die quickly, here. I sat beside beside him on his bed and the only thing I could do was restrain him and say 'Let go.' Imagine that, Lazaro, all I could say to my friend was to let go... He got metastatic cancer in all his bones, the most painful of all types of cancer. Every five minutes he would clasp my hand, look at me beggingly and fearfully and then, he'd convulse. I've kept whispering, 'Let go Bill, Let go...' I tried to sing him a lullaby, massaged his body and legs but he did not get any relief. He answered me with another scream suppressed by the pillow he bit with his teeth. I had to keep the pillow in his mouth to prevent him from biting his tongue, or breaking his jaws. And then, he became quiet. He died at six o clock in the morning. But that is not what I am about to talk to you about. Upon his death, I saw something that made me tremble. I saw the Force.

"The what?" Lazaro asked.

"The Force. The One that made us all tremble - I have witnessed in the past the many forces that populated Dade Rest but this Force showed me what he's capable of doing, oh Lazaro, if you only saw what I saw...I was filled with rage. He is the spirit of this disease. Every particle making up his body is an HIV virus. He stood beside the corpse of Bill - "What the hell are you doing here?"I asked him. The Force, the spirit of HIV, stared at the corpse of Bill, then he pulled off his black coat. Underneath this black coat was a military uniform with shiny buckle and boots. He wore a black beret. I read the insignia on his lapel - HIV. I shouted at him: "Killer!" And in shouting this accusation, I remembered your paper Lazaro. I recalled your vision about HIV. All you saw in your vision was true. This spirit was made up of loosely binded entities that automatically changed formations in every movement of the Force. These entities looked like each others, clones of one another. "Get out of here, you Devil!" I yelled. He looked at me somewhat perplexed, he was of an abstract face, similar to Picasso's paintings, his eyes weren't leveled, his nose was one dimensional, his mouth curved downward to his neck. As surreal as Dali's paintings.

""You called me evil?", he answered, "Let me tell you who the real evil is! I was born with a gentle heart, long long time ago. Nature created me to sustain its balance and homeostasis. There in the jungles of Africa, I lived in peace, playing out my role in the nature of monkeys. In their population I was a balancing force, I killed their excesses to keep them trimmed and fit. I was a virus controlled by Nature herself. You call me evil? Tell that to the men who destroyed my abode. Tell that to the vinished monkeys and their habitats. These men came rushing in, cutting trees, pouring chemicals. Tell that to those who turned monkeys into delicacies. Ask yourself why and how I turned into this devil! Nature is weeping in its destruction. In its slow death, we viruses jump from place to place, live from organism to organism - because...because we need to survive. The balance scale is tilted now, the time is nearing when Nature will strike back - not out of revenge, that's not Nature's nature. It will strike in its task to balance itself. Nature has to preserve itself. There are many roaming spirits, seeking to return...and if there's no more body left for them to dwell on, they will turn into Forces man will not be able to contain. For every tree that is felled, one tree spirit goes to its Source to be replenished and restored, and then, it returns to Earth and Nature, to start all over again by penetrating a new tree being born. Everything on this earth, whether its a fish or a pebble has its own spirit that belongs to Nature. When all the spirits of trees, fish, birds, mammals, insects, microbes, air, water, come back from their Source - Mother Nature herself - and finds no tree, fish, bird, mammal, insect, microbe, air and earth to take them back, they will bind together and cause destruction. For every cut tree that you fail to replace, an extra spirit becomes homeless, and it becomes a forest fire. For every fish you pluck from any body of water or sea without replacing it, a spirit will spawn a tidal wave. If pure air is polluted, its spirit will give rise to hurricanes and tornadoes; if water is depleted it will flow in places it never went before; if birds get thretened to extinction, they'll pluck out wandering microbes and spread it to man; if insects would no longer find a flower to pollinate or honey to suck, they will attack humans. Do you think I made this happen? If I were cruel from the start I would have attacked humans since the beginning of time." "These were the exact words of the Force, Lazaro," Jeff paused from his angry account. He continued, "This abnormal entity held up his hand releasing a laser-like light and pointed it on the corpse of Bill. I saw it all... how the mark of skull murder was shaped by the laser - like a tattooe - on the forehead of Bill. I cried the loudest cry of my life. I awakened all the residents of Dade Rest. I asked the entity, "How could you do this to us? Is it because we are homosexuals?" He returned my question to me, "How could you Man do this to me? Listen to my warning - When the forces release their powers, no homosexual, nor heterosexual, nor child, nor adult, will be spared. You're seeing it now, great cities get drowned under great floods, volcanoes are erupting, the global temperature is rising. The destruction of man will not come from what he fears the most - no, it won't be a nucelar holocaust. It will come from Nature, so devastating it will be that the Great Flood in Noah's time will become nothing in comparison; it is worse than a giant meteor hitting this earth."

"Stooop!" I yelled. "If you think that Man is that helpless you are worng. Man himself will put you back to where you belong. Man himself will balance Nature.

""Really?" he asked in a mocking glance, "How can the Destroyer repair what he destroyed."

"Then he suddenly vanished, Lazaro. I was probably dreaming all these but the truth was there all the same. Bill was dead and the Force was flounting his triumph, giving out his fake wisdom and rationalizing his stupid evil works. Bill was murdered by him, that's that! And I'm tired of all these Lazaro, tired of all the misfortunes befalling us gays. Look at us three, all enveloped by sorrow...yes this tragedy may all look too dramatic, it sounds too heroic to stand like this, comforting a dying man and gaining sympathy from people who are observing us, watching us from a distance. But that's all there is to it. We are still here and they are still there. They may cry with us right now but once our show is over, they'd just wipe their tears and forget us. I'm not the one who'd simply swallow that! I'm not a mendicant for mercy, sympathy, acceptance, civil right or freedom. I am the one who insists on earning these even if my blood, infected as it is, will spill on the streets of Miami. Just look at us! Look at us! How long shall we replay this plot of huddling in a tiny, dark room screaming and whimpering, only to be heard by us? Lazaro, I'm tired of hiding, of keeping things only to myself. That Evil Force forced us to shut our mouths up through intimidation and fear...Lazaro, I'm not willing to take another beating again...Forgive me for dramatizing these to you now, at a time you yourself are full of personal crises. But do you realize how I feel - as a gay man standing between you who cries out his loneliness and Bill who died alone - where does that leave me? I am surrounded by tragedy. And I won't take this anymore. I have been afraid so long and this fear had marginalized me. Before I die I will make sure my acts will clear up who I really am. I will parade our tragedy in the strreets of Miami, I will show to the worlld what happened to us, I will not stop until they will look at us more closely. I will make sure they will hear us. I will bring out the corpse of Bill to the streets of Miami. I am not expecting you to agree or bless my plan, for this is my own personal crusade as a dying man. If you choose not to join me, I will certainly understand."

Lazaro listened to Jeff's siloliquy. There are other things in this world that matter more than his own personal sadness. In confronting the ouburst of Jeff, Lazaro sensed something wrong...it was the anger of Jeff. Anger is passion, it does not lead to hope. He felt that whatever Jeff was planning to do, it was simply wrong, it won't solve their problem as gays. The plan of Jeff was virtually impossible. He disagreed.

Why was he being dragged into this? How could it be possible that an enterprise as noble as serving AIDS victims end this way? Where did he go wrong? From the very beginning, he met nothing but rejection, disappointment, a lot of conflicting visions, his life became awful. Why is there so great a battle between the Forces of the Good and Evil in dealing with homosexuals? Was he really meant to be in the company of Dade Rest?

"Jeff, I need to sit down," he said. The room was full of gloom, Jeff moved beside the corpse and holding the dead hand of Bill, began weeping. Lazaro sat beside Jeff, stroking his back. He did not feel anything at that particular moment, he was devoid of emotion. Look, he was telling himself, I work my butt off in the Nursing home to see the agonizing deaths of old people and at nights, I volunteer here in Dade Rest to see young men die the same way. After ten years as a Nurse, this is all I saw and continue to see. I wish for a day when I can come into a place of healthy, happy people, like, for example, a bank clerk who counts money and talks of assets and has good time. Why is my life fading away into the company of the dying? Of diseases? Of passion? Of tragedy? Everything I saw during the past ten years was pure hopelessness. Oh God, let this pass. I'm tired.

He clasped his head with his hands and rested his elbows on his kness. He was simply tired. As in the many deaths he'd encountered in his life, he wished he knew a formula, or proper words to say to comfort the ones left behind, but it seemed the only way to comfort them was to remain silent.

But how could he be silent after hearing the plan of Jeff?

He voiced his disaggreement. "I do not agree with your scheme, Jeff. No one can sympathize with a corspe in a coffin in a gay parade."

Jeff looked at him with blank eyes, still holding the hands of Bill's corpse, as if in touching it, he was expecting Bill to awaken and laugh. Jeff was as thin as a stick. Weak. A corpse like the hand he was holding. He stiffened. "Fuck you Lazaro, when will you ever face the reality? How much more suffering will it take before you scream? Isn't Bill's suffering enough to pull you out of your high horse? Am I not enough to show you the truth? Dammit. Dammit! The likes of you are the ones destroying us. You are the one who is killing us."

Jeff's anger over the death of Bill was now projected to Lazaro "Before you came, we lived so peacefully. We were complacent under the Force of Dade Rest. We made our own rules, we were contented. Without you, this Force gave us security. He gave us strength to nurse our wounds, he made us strong...but since you came...we started doubting this Force. You gave us the idea that we were a bunch of helpless faggots under him. I know who you are Lazaro. Why don't you get your butt off the bed of Bill and look at yourself in the mirror. Remove the mask off your face to see the real you. You are the Agitator. What have you done since you came? You gave us nothing but moralistic, melodramatic, quasi-religious anecdotes enough to make me puke. You did not nothing but show us how miserable we are. You portrayed us as pitiful, helpless, sick people. And because you agitated us, we are now angry. In our anger, you condemn us as wrong. Since you came to Dade Rest, not a day passed by without a crisis. We got sicker, and our deaths became more painful. Haven't you done enough damage to us?"

Lazaro's mind was just too hazy for him to speak. He lifted the sheet covering Bill - a body so emaciated he noticed trickles of blood, still fresh, peeking from his nostrils and mouth, his eyes still opened. Lazaro closed them.

"Don't touch him!" Jeff yelled, pushing Lazaro's hands away.

"I just wanted to close his eyelids," Lazaro said meekly, too tired to resist Jeff.

"No you didn't. I want Bill to look exactly the way he died. I want the world to see how he suffered because of AIDS," Jeff was running out of breath.

"Jeff you need some rest."

"Listen to you! Rest? What is the use of rest for a dying man? I will have my eternal rest in due time."

"Jeff," Lazaro was getting more concerned. "Jeff you're too upset to think right. Your body may not be able to take all these." Jeff's color was pale but his eyes remained ferocious.

"Don't give me your bullshit sympathy. Don't act a Nurse in front of me!"

"But I cannot deal with a man blinded by passion! Bill is not your property. He's got a family himself, haven't you thought of that?"

"I called his family, dammit! And they denied ever having a son called Bill!"

"No decent family can do that Jeff."

"Oh yes! With AIDS!"

"Isn't that against the law?"

"Fuck your law. What do you want me to do? Sue the people who denied him?"

"There should be a better way, Jeff."

"Exactly. And that's what I intend to do..."

"Oh please...your plan is illegal. One, this country will not tolerate that and two, you won't get sympathy."

"You son of a bitch! Get your legalitlies out of here and don't you say the word sympathy to me again. I never had it, I don't have it and I will never have it. Not even from you! You can keep all your sympathies to yourself and I don't give a damn."

"Jeff, listen to me!"

"Get out! Get out of Dade Rest!"

Chapter 19 : THE CONFRONTATION

Lazaro turned his back and felt tired descending the stairs of Dade Rest. He wanted to get away from it all now, he just could not handle this.

Yet, how could he leave? If there is any time he was needed the most, it was this moment. There must be a better way of talking reason with Jeff. There must be appropriate words to convince him.

He turned his eyes around to look back and saw Jeff rolling up Dade Rest's curtains, unhooking the latches of windows, opening them, pushing the doors wide open and shouting in the open air: "Let the world see who the People With AIDS are!"

Lazaro thought to himself, "Jeff, how can I tell you that I've been there before? I was full of anger too just like you. There was a time I wanted to die unforgiving. I wanted to die carrying anger to eternity."

Lazaro's past kept rushing in - his Palawan experience - where he fought the system, only to be expelled after seeing Anastacio Makalusong dead by suicide. His lover Dodong fought the government, he too died without mercy.

"God," Lazaro began praying. "Please do something."

He stopped in his track. No, he can't leave. If HOPE can conquer defeat, it can conquer AIDS.

He sensed something...

He saw him. He was standing on the roof of Dade Rest, smiling with outstretched hands heavenward.

The Force.

Yes, the Force.

Lazaro finally saw the Spirit of AIDS. It was composed of billions of viruses spreading over the Dade Rest's roof, multiplying as they creeped like ants in their descent over the house walls, through the windows, the doors, the stairs.

In seeing the Force, Lazaro gave out a cry - God, why did you forsake us?

This was his final vision of the enemy that he desperately tried to understand. He lingered to watch it. The day passed, and another, and another, Lazaro did not eat, he did not go home to change his clothes (without even knowing it, he was terminated in his work at Universal Home for failure to show up) as he kept on walking around Dade Rest compound, waiting, watching how this Force gobbled the residents of Dade Rest. On the second day, a coffin arrived in a red pick up truck. On the third day, the coffin containing the corpse of Bill was lifted by ten emaciated men up into the truck and the funeral march began. The People With AIDS came out one by one. Lazaro counted forty-five as they assembled behind the red pick-up.

Jeff and Sam Cold and three others were first in line, following them were PWAs leaning on their companions, limping. They led the others who were now blind, the last line was composed of PWAs on wheelchairs.

Lazaro was left standing on the side of the formation. He was an outsider now. Jeff did not acknowledge him, he bowed his head as he walked past Lazaro. Lazaro saw the trail of HIV viruses surrounding them.

Lazaro, now almost dizzy and hungry and dirty, cried at the top of his lungs: HOPE NOT PASSION!

Hearing and recognizing him, some of the marchers waved to him, while the others looked perplexed in seeing his dirty appearance. Lazaro walked outside the small cordon, every now and then he shouted the same phrase - HOPE NOT PASSION. They turned left as they approached Collins Avenue.

Curious onlookers, not knowing what to make of them started gathering around. Discovering who they were, their eyes widened with disbelief. Mothers clutched their kids. "Don't get close to those people," they said.

"Mommy, Mommy who are they?" the kids asked.

"They're people with AIDS."

Some old folks' eyebrows were raised in seeing them, "What the hell are you doing here?" they shouted.

Lazaro's fears were becoming real. The group persevered in its march. A homeless man sitting on a bench stiffened up in seeing the march. Pulling his eyeglasses he caught the eyes of Lazaro staring at him. "What you lookin' at, faggot?" the homeless man asked.

Lazaro turned his eyes away.

A group of cyclists stopped on the side of the road. They hooted the passing mourners.

A taxi driver hooted his horn as he also stopped in the middle of the road, rolled down his window to give them the finger. "Go back to where you belong!"

The skaters, tourists, beachgoers, pedestrians started lining the street. Some were quite stunned and silent, others appeared stung by the sight, others became angry, others patronizing, others oblivious, others simply enjoyed the scene.

And then, they started murmuring among themselves. The murmurs turned into verbal assaults.

Afterall, this is America.

It began with a loud comment. "You get what you deserve. This is gay's punishment from God." Insensitive comments like these don't drive in well in a politically sensitive country.

A gay man suddenly turned to the spectators and yelled, "Who said that? Who the fuck said that?"

Everyone became silent at first and then, a heavy set bearded man rose from a sidewalk bench and said, "I did, you got problem with that, asshole?"

"Fuck you. Hitler!"

A skinhead suddenly appeared out of nowhere. "Hail Hitler. Kill all the fags and minorities."

The minorities in the crowd turned their eyes at the skinhead. Their eyes narrowing and their hands clenching.

"Ignore them," one of the gay-spectators reprimanded his fellow.

"Ignore them? Who gave them the right to insult us like this?" the other gay-spectator asked.

"This shitty funeral is all we need to expose our dirty laundry," another gay joined in.

A disturbance in Miami was reaching a boiling point. Partol cars started swarming around the gathering. The funeral march was now moving at a snail's pace heading toward the City Hall. From an original count of forty-five, it swelled in size, this time, the funeral was drowned by people of all sorts: minorities and skinheads, pro-gays and anti-gays, liberals and conservatives, even those against HMO's appeared out of nowhere. The crowd around the parade was now a sea of chants, screams, name calling, cusses.

In Washington Avenue, a police car halted the march.

"Sir," the police said, "This is illegal."

A voice from outside the group answered in an aggressive tone. "We're a group of American taxpayers holding a funeral, Officer. What's wrong with that?" Lazaro did not recognize this impromptu spokesman. His fears were now being fulfilled. The message carried by the funeral march was slowly being owned by many groups of people. It was becoming the trigger point of something dangerous.

"This is not a funeral march, Sir," the police said. "A funeral march needs a permit and isn't allow to disturb the peace of Miami on a morning like this."

The new spokesman would not stop. "This is America Officer. We have the right to assemble."

"You have the right to peaceful assembly, Sir," the Officer emphasized the word peaceful.

"Aren't we peaceful?"

"Sir, you are peaceful right now. But look at the potential problem you are about to create. Look around you."

They did not have to look around to see the real problem. Bill's funeral was spawning a potential anarchy. Traffic was halted, occupants of vehicles who were getting late for work were fuming. Lazaro looked at the multitude of people that were not a part of the original core of forty-five. He searched for Jeff in the middle of the throng, he was nowhere to be found - drowned in the midst of gay activists, skinheads, moralists, libertarians, pro-life, pro-choice, feminists, anti-feminists, blacks, whites, and other minorities. Like a colony of bees, any bee that had a rant against anything, a complaint, a cry, came flocking in. The funeral march was about to open a can of worms, and the worms were starting to spill out on Washington Avenue, Miami. Watching and listening to them, Lazaro could no longer tell who was right or who was wrong. He started shaking his head. Ah, the earth is full of opposing Forces. Anger is everywhere. This was what he wanted to tell Jeff. To hope is better than to succumb to passion. He finally found Jeff holding tightly on the coffin of Bill. Teary-eyed and pale. Jeff saw Lazaro.

"Lazaro," Jeff called out upon seeing Lazaro. "Who are these people?"

Lazaro walked and stood beside his friend.

Chapter 20 : FIDEL CASTRO PRAYED ON THE DAY OF BERNADETTE

The police quickly penetrated the multi-activist groups now milling around the funeral march to prevent them from creating an unruly mob. An impasse ensued, not one willing to give in. The Chief of Dade Police gave his order loud and clear, "Alright, don't move beyond this point. Dismantle this march. Now."

"We are gonna go where we want to go, say what we wanna say," the activists chanted.

"Stay!" the Police Chief yelled back.

The stand-off began. The situation was getting very very tense.

The media were in a frenzy. All local, national and international news outfits rushed into the scene in what CNN called another potential Waco tragedy. Business along Washington Avenue was put to a halt. Tourists started flocking. Locals left their offices to become spectators. By mid-morning, the Justice Department issued a stern warning to all the groups - Disband now to avoid the full measure of the law.

No one budged.

By noon, no less than the President echoed the warning of the Justice Department. By one p.m. the National Guard was called in.

By mid-afternoon, people in the United States and the world were monitoring the stand-off as the media gave a minute by minute account of the crisis about to unfold.

National activists joined in the fray. Different personalities clashed on the TV, voicing opposing opinions about the potential tragedy in Miami. Political wranglings in every cable channel went on unstoppably; Politicians, instead of providing solutions were bent on attacking their opponents. The President and his advisers were at odds with the FBI, Pentagon, and the Armed Forces Generals. All were afraid of a repeat of the Waco tragedy - and be blamed afterwards.

But all agreed with one thing: This has to end and it has to end now!

The entire Washington Ave was cordoned off by the police. Spectators however managed to post themselves in the different arteries connected to the Avenue, anticipating something brutal.

The National Guard was now in full gear, in proper positions, awaiting signal from their chiefs. By three o-clock in the afternoon, the decision was finalized.

What happened afterwards would puzzle the world, be replayed over and over again, analyzed, debated on, be listed in the World's World Records and be remembered for many years to come.

One young girl's witness account was recorded by a journalist, this girl's name was Bernadette:

"It seems, at least me, that in America, everyone is angry at something. I was watching this group of people surrounded by the police, they were verbally accusing each other. They were arguing about petty things, like, you know - like skin color and abortion and gays - I mean, I come from M---- and my people are more worried about food and clothes and shelter than who's living this lifestyle or that, who has this principle or that. And if you just saw the police and guards present you'd think America was at war. You have to be there to know it, I was standing there, you see, leaning on an electric post, just watching, you know. I was comfortable by and large, because, you see, Miami has the best weather in the world like...like the hot is on you and the breeze cools it, that's reaaally cool. Well! Things just got different by three o clock pm. Okay, okay, three o' one pm, somethin' like that. First the Guards sprayed water on the crowd, then they threw them tear gas. Guess what! No one moved. Goddammit! As for me, I mean...I mean there I was standing beside a pole dry and comfy and then I was all wet and sweaty. Beat that? 'Thought I was gettin' sick o somethin'. People felt the same...I guess...they probably thought like me...sick o somethin'. Everyone was silent. Then a baby broke into cries. I can't blame it. I mean, the poor baby probably felt like turkey and it's not even Thankgiving. See what I mean? This is the coolest part - that thing on top of the pole? Transformer or something - it exploded - boy! The camera of CNN exploded too. Wow! Like firecracker. So people ran away from the poles. Like me. Why - of course it looks like the National Guards were about to do something other than spray water and throw tear gas. How about dropping an atom bomb. Right? The heat lasted for two minutes, see, we were fucking roasted for two minutes, never had a quicker tan in all my life. I thought, gosh, I'd have skin cancer o somethin'. I'll sue, you bet your ass, if that happens! Then the wind returned - it smelled like cinnamon, like I was in my mother's table eatin' pie. I knew then a magic is goin' on. You hear me Copperfield? People were really afraid now. "What's goin on?" everbody was asking. To my neighbor, I nodded my head and pretended I was taking it all cool. I smiled. "Yeah" he said. Imagine that, we were both sweaty and trembling and say this is all cool. The next thing you know , we were both screaming. The sky over Miami turned orange. Beat that? Fucking sunny and delightful orange orange! Like I was in Bimini at sunset. The sun was as large as a football field. That's scary. Even the military boys became yellow, ooops, sorry, I mean orange! Hold on hold on, I'm nervous now. Give me a sec...

Okay dude, I continue - when everything was orange and above was a sun the size of football field, a lunar eclipse occured. Ha! A lunar eclipse you ask? Yes a lunar eclipse and the ugliest lunar eclipse I've seen. It wasn't a moon's shadow that covered the large sun - it was the moon itself! With all its ugly holes and lines and mountains and deserts right before my face. I thought it was gonna drop off from the sky.

Everybody were screaming and running by now. I thought it was the end of the world. Then, when the moon completely covered the face of the sun, eveything turned pitch black. People got crazier, those marchers, they spread like chickens. Duh! We were all bumping and hitting each others. It was really dark. Man, I hit a post. Everything was so fast, you know, I mean, one second everything was orange, the next second it was all black. What do you make of that?

The police and guards were screaming their lungs out - "Calm down! Don't panic!" Who the hell were they fooling? They were scared themselves for their dear lives if you ask me.

Thunder and lightning blasted us. We stopped on our tracks. The ground started vibrating. I never imagined an earthquake in Miami. Impossible? I bet my ass you can say that again.

The moon snapped out of the sun. I thought it was falling toward us. But it moved sideways and the sun, well... the sun started bouncing to and fro before settling in its place. Then, it took different colors - Have you seen a blue sun? A green sun? A pink sun? A red sun? I did! I thought I was in a disco dammit!

While the sun was bouncing like yo-yo, a more deafening series of thunders and ligthnings lined across the sky non-stop. I really felt I was gonna die.

I feel like cryin now...hold on...What really frightened me was when I saw the lumps of clouds burst into flames. And then the screams. Horrible...horrible...

Can I have a Coke please?

It was after the fiercest of lightnings that a scream was heard.

"It is hit! Dade Rest is hit!"

The news spread among the frantic crowds like wild fire. "This is hell!" they exclaimed. "We're all burning!"

Upon hearing this news, Jeff panicked, "No, this can't be," he cried as he bolted out of the Washington Avenue cordon and started running back.

"Don't even think about it!" Lazaro was quick in blocking Jeff's frantic run.

"It can't be," Jeff's adrenaline, was at its highest gear. He managed to loosen himself out of Lazaro's grip and jumped over the barricades sat up by the police. He turned eastward on Lincoln. He was suddenly among the disarrayed crowd as he bumped into one car, fell over but hastily picked himself again, like a man in a trance. He was both panting and wheezing but his strides were fast and strong, as if somebody else was in control of him.

Lazaro was pleading behind him, "Stop. Don't do this to yourself Jeff."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jeff bawled upon seeing the sight of Dade Rest - a lightning struck the house tangentially, smoke bellowed from the groundfloor upward to its roof.

"This isn't happening. Tell me this isn't happening! This is impossible. That is my house. My home," Jeff kept saying.

Lazaro was dumbfounded by the same sight. But his mind was much clearer than Jeff's. "Jeff, anything is possible now. We're no longer in control." he said as he tried to pacify Jeff.

Jeff who was now hysterical ignored Lazaro. "This is my house of rest for Chissakes! God, whoever you are, don't you see this is my house of rest? My life and future is invested in here! This is where I'm gonna spend the rest of my life. This is where I'm gonna die."

The fire swallowing Dade Rest hissed in response to Jeff's cries, as if taunting. A series of explosions followed. Other buildings began igniting, black smoke started hovering over the once beautiful skyline of Miami.

Lazaro was holding Jeff back, scared to let him go. But Jeff was extraordinarily strong, as I've mentioned, as if strengthened by another spirit. He managed to push Lazaro away and he sprinted as fast as the wind, toward Dade Rest. In a second, he was engulfed by the blaze.

Lazaro could not believe his eyes as he watched Dade Rest stoop then kneel then tumble like a fallen man. With Jeff inside it. Oh God, Lazaro uttered. Oh God! God! God! God! He released the loudest scream Miami had ever heard. After his scream, he buckled to the ground as he clenched his fists toward the sky. He saw the final vision, the painful vision the Saints had foretold. It was the last triumph of a Virus Spirit that exacted vangeance. The one who killed all his friends. After this vision, Lazaro became blind. This lasted for the entire day. As if his body refused to see anything anymore. In his temporary blindness, he recalled the many things he saw in Dade Rest - the monks who once gave their lives instead of succumb to wars, the spirits of PWAs that danced in the wind, the beauty of a secret garden, the Struggle between life and death, between the good and the evil. They were all gone.

"My friends, my friends..." Lazaro whispered. He could not see. He turned blind.

In his blindness, Lazaro failed to see a beautiful thing spawned by this great miraculous Miami tragedy. He did not see - out of the dispersed crowds that ran all over the streets of Miami in fear, a black man was picking up a white child to safety, a black woman was leading an old white man back to his car. The gays who were just fighting a while ago were running together hand in hand as if in their togetherness, they would survive, a Hispanic was supporting a limping skinhead, a feminist was trying to pull a Catholic priest stuck in the mud. A militia was helping one of the Guards.

Lazaro failed to see how a country forever divided became one in a single magical moment. It took one big calamity for the people to discover one truth: Nature is the great Uniter, not Divider.

As twilight approached, Lazaro regained his sight. He walked away, slowly, slowly, then his steps became fast, faster and then... he was running. Upon his running, the rain started. First it came as a drizzle, then gentle drops, then it poured heavily.

Chapter 22 : THE HOLY GAY

When Lazaro left St. Augustine Church, the saints that turned into stones turned humans again. They started laughing their brains out. St. Augustine, now nearly in tears blurted out, "My goodness, how can Lazaro know his ten holy men, he always expect to see them in all the wrong places?"

Afterall, there are holy people found in most unexpected places. There are holy Blacks and Whites, holy Latinos and Asians, holy feminists and conservatives, holy priests and seculars. There are holy rich and holy beggars. Holy men and holy gays. Yes, holy gays. Don't be flabbergasted by my claim, these holy gays dwell among us. You won't find them in the Basilica or chapels, or synagogues, or pulpits, or temples. You won't find them on TV praising the Lord. You won't find them in missions or evangelical expeditions. Where, pray, do you find them? You find them in Kroger Supermarket.

Or Piggly-Wiggly - where Lazaro is always found. Don't be misled by gay images inculcated in our minds by our parents. Not all gays are sex crazed maniacs, nor sex starved pretentious underdogs, nor maternal sweety pies, nor drag queens, nor serial killers, nor pedophiles. Just like their straight counterparts, there will always be a deviant among them. If there are holy men, there are holy gays.

Lazaro was not the first, nor the last of his breed. There are many gays like him. He, just like the rest, is an enigma to you. If you live in his apartment complex, the first thing you'd notice is his apparent discipline even trees can't match. He walks with bowed head as if too shy to greet you or any of your neighbors. As if, he's always hiding something...You insist his shyness is a sign of manliness. But then...occasionally, he raises an eyebrow a little bit higher as he speaks, there is a change of intonation in his voice, an exaggerated sway somewhere in his gait. You keep that observation to yourself. You need more facts to support your suspicion. He regularly goes to the gym - this you attribute to his health profession.

A woman comes to his apartment, stays for days - Aha, you say, he's straight - only to learn later she is the cleaning lady. Friends that visit him can't help either - they're mixed. (What do you expect in multi-national-sex-orientation-Miami?)

Lazaro cooks, cleans, and listens to Maria Callas - but you won't know that, his door is always locked and he uses wireless headphones. He reads novels - so do you and every straight person in town.

You invite him to social gatherings - he's interested in football and motors and get fixated on the TV with a beer in one hand. Afterall, he's so good in acting. But then again, when he accidentally bumps into women's issues, like fashion trends, his knowledge can beat the entire Chanel - bless his soul.

He flirts with neither men nor women. He keeps whatever sexual desires he has to himself. He doesn't care whether you observe him or not. Until you get tired of sniffing and watching and analyzing and observing. You start ignoring him the way you ignore the telephone post in front of his apartment.

You finally say to your friends, jokingly, "My neighbor Lazaro is not a hetero, bi or gay - he is simply asexual." Period.

Allow me to explain Lazaro's mind and heart, I am taking this liberty because I'm one of his closest friends. Lazaro will never come out as long as gays are treated dirt, as long as other gays demand him to think and act their way. He fell in love once, tried sex in many corners, unfortunately, all those he'd met wanted his body only, not his entire being. Call him unrealistic, a pity maybe, but holy gays usually are. He prefers to be silent than tell a lie. And when a person gets too intrusive, he walks away. As I said, he is really shy. He is holy without even knowing or admitting it. God is his main reason for living, everything in his life becomes secondary to God. His greatest regret is that for many, straight and gays alike, God had become an enemy instead of friend. Lazaro's last letter to me went this way:

"I am back to my old self, I regained my freedom. I am a now a lonesome traveler. My patron Saint is no longer Augustine. It's John the Baptist. One day, I encountered this passage in the Bible: (When Herod heard it, he said, "He is John the Baptist! I had his head cut off but he has come back to life!" Mark 6:16)

Lazaro's letter continued: "Ah, the fate of the good is not always happy. If I were John the Baptist who spent my entire life spreading the Good News, living solely on honey and locusts, alone and screaming in the desert for the world's redemption, only to find myself in jail and be decapitated in the end, what would I tell God? Perhaps I'd say, "You are a cruel God! How can you let your servant be thrown to the mercy of a little girl named Salome?" Do you think John the Baptist sang a song upon learning his fate? I bet he didn't. He probably trembled and screamed and cried like the rest of humanity. I would, had my fate be that of John the Baptist's. But I am not John the Baptist! I am only his friend. I am the one who wants to be there beside him in prison. I am the one who wants to be with him in his desert. I want to be the one comforting him at the prospect of death. I want to be there beside him when he calls upon God. If anyone thinks these desires are homosexual in nature, so be it. I'd rather be an unknown homo under the feet of John the Baptist, than become a giant straight among Saints."

The letter ended in that note.

After sending me this letter, Lazaro, who was the focal point of the greatest miracle after Bernadette, chose to close himself and began to live alone. He'd never admit the truth, yet to me he is still a holy gay.

I don't want to sound presumptive but if by any chance you'd see him walking along the shore of South Florida, or reading a book solitarily in a bookstore, or picking his groceries in Piggly Wiggly, don't get offended if he'd stare at you for a brief second and then glance away. As I said, he's really shy.

Just tell him. I, Mario, am sending my best regards.

He is in mid-thirties, quite tall, his face still has a trace of the beauty he once had. He is soooo quiet. Always staring far away.

Oh by the way, please ask him to forgive me for outing him a little. And tell him: Gay saint or no saint, he needs to get a life.

I, the recorder, is terminating this manuscript. Caput. The End. No More. Fin. And as the King of Siam used to say: Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera...

end