Home 
(For Temistokles Adlawan)
It seemed to Congressman Ysmael Bukad that when his grandfather died he was the oldest, most decrepit man on earth. He was bent over and so thin you could see bone and veins under white transparent skin. He was sick with everything. He was a skeleton who sat anywhere and everywhere, mumbling fragmented stories of the war. Not just one war but many. He spoke as if war was all he remembered, as if war was all there was, as if there were no periods of peace in between.
Always, his hands and fingers played out the smallest details of the battle. Thumb and little finger spread apart, arms tracing an arc overhead: this was a warplane mowing down the enemy. Palm with fingers closed in, with middle finger raised: this was not a sign for the penis. It was a war-tank crawling inexorably into the carnage. Ysmael and his cousins found these stories quite entrancing when they were all younger. But with time, the stories lost much of their credibility. They never repeated themselves. They were disjointed. They must have been invented ad lib. And this was not for them a viable method for a story. They wanted only truth, universal and immutable.
And then, what child would now believe any story of Leon Kilat and his army victorious and then vanquished. Who would believe a story of a young boy who stood eyes wide with fear beside his master when they stabbed, bludgeoned and then burned him. The air thick with smoke, the stench of burning flesh, guilt and fear, the sight of a their hero?s body whom they had themselves murdered and was now still writhing and squirming through flames, refusing to die, beyond what for them was the realm of possibility. This stunned and blinded them to a small detail. Kilat's hand reaching through the flames, reaching to the young boy's hand, then grasping it tightly, then releasing it as in a final, ever so gentle touch of farewell, which also said: Continue to fight. Never stop.
In time, the young boy became a representative, a leader to his people. He was an unusual politician. He never had too much money himself. He never stole. And yet he could win elections, never once buying even a single vote. He seemed tireless. He seemed never to stop moving. In time, the myth even grew that he could be in two, even three places at one time. He did not have a passport. He never applied for one. And yet, he claimed he had been to Spain, to Egypt, to New York and even London. When he claimed to Ysmael that he had written for John Lennon the lyrics for "Nowhere Man" and "Fool on the Hill," he attributed this only to senility and dementia.
And yet Ysmael listened to him as much as he could even though the stories themselves seemed to lose their importance. Ysmael must have been a bit crazy himself or why could he still tolerate the company of this old man. He even enjoyed himself at times, especially when they both got terribly drunk from tuba, or gin or rum or beer. The old man was not choosy with his alcohol. He drank everything Ysmael poured into his glass. He ate everything they put on his plate. He seemed never to worry if it would kill him.
And yet Ysmael could easily observe how over time the old man got sicker and sicker still. Until he could hardly rise from his bed alone. He could hardly breathe. His voice became a hoarse whisper, really nothing more than the sound of air passing through holes and cavities. His life became a drawn out, never ending term of suffering and sadness and still he would not die. And yet, to everyone's surprise, he could be found sitting seemingly everywhere and anywhere. At times he sat under the shade of a tree near the spring where the young women did the day's laundry. People espied him sitting on a rock by some wayside, stooped and mumbling to himself his old, old stories.
He died the same day Ysmael came to visit. His visits had become rare. Ysmael was too busy being a politician. He brought with him three bottles of South African red wine which the old man claimed tasted exactly like local tuba, immediately after a very long drought. By now, Ysmael had to hold his good ear three inches from his mouth in order to listen. Every time he listened, he smelled the paradox of life itself. It was a rich, mysterious if awful smell. Yet to Ysmael, it seemed to contain deep mysterious secrets. It made him think: How little we know of life, despite all our sciences and our technologies and our religions. What do we know about death?
Finally, right before he willed himself away, the old man reached out and their hands met. He whispered into Ysmael: "I cannot die until I give you this. Go places. You will understand in time."
