The Twenty-Fourth Night

 

Because I’d been bedridden the previous week, and there was no way we could set up a game of crapaud on my narrow single bed, I introduced Nick to the wonderful world of backgammon—a swift and elegant game.

He was instantly captivated: the board, the rules, everything about it. And now, although I’ve fully recovered and left my bed behind, we’ve returned to backgammon with renewed enthusiasm.

Nick was rolling his dice for a new move when he said, in his usual laid-back tone,

“My sister replied to my email. Again.”

“That’s great! Will you write her back?”

“I already did. You were sick, and I didn’t wanna bother you.”

“It wouldn’t have been a bother.”

“She seems okay with me, you know?”

“Fantastic.”

“She even asked if I’d thought about going back to America.”

“Did she say ‘America,’ or did she use another word?”

“Yeah, she wrote ‘America.’ I told her no. Either way, she gave me her contact so we could do a video call.”

“Twice as fantastic,” I said, with genuine enthusiasm.

“Does she live in California?”

“Nope. The family’s from Pittsburgh. I moved to California when I left home. I guess by now I’m more Californian than Pittsburghian. Living here on the island makes me feel even closer to Santa Monica.”

“And you don’t think of going back? Maybe for a holiday?”

“Maybe someday. But it’s not something I’m planning.”

“Well, I’m not planning on going back to Brazil either—not even on vacation. Maybe it’s the distance, maybe my being sixty now. I really think it’s too far.”

“Anyone from your family ever come to visit you?”

“Never. I left Brazil in 2007, and no one in my family has ever come.”

“Why not?”

“The Brazilian economy was definitely an obstacle. But also... my relatives aren’t the type to leave the comfort of their homes. They’re very attached—to their houses, their routines. They’re not willing to give that up.”

“But you guys still talk, right?”

“Yes, regularly. We have video calls all the time.”

Nick nodded. “I get that. For the first time in my life, I’m at peace. I’m clean. It’s been many years since I used any drug—but it feels like, if I go back to America, even for just a few days, I’ll come out with mud on my shoes. You feel me?”

“I do. Completely.”

“If I could go back and redo it all, I would. But I can’t. I can’t go back—only start over. I caught a terrible disease that’ll never be cured.”

“But we have the video calls.”

“Yeah, we do!” said Nick, brightening. He paused his move, and his face took on a thoughtful air.

“Isn’t it something? No matter how far we go, how many lives we live, we always end up needing love. Acceptance. In that sense, man, I envy you. You’re happy being alone.”

“I’m human, Nick. Part of me would’ve loved to marry, to have children. Biologically, we’re made for that. But for me, it’s too late to undo that mistake. To use your words, all I can do now is start over. My new beginning, I find in the Catholic Church. Yours, perhaps, lies in rebuilding your relationship with your family—which, today, means just your sister.”

Nick burst out laughing, warm and loud. “I just remembered something you once told me. It was like, ‘Young people, grow old before it’s too late!’ Man, if only the young actually did that... how many problems would that be avoided?”

 

The Twenty-Third Night

 

Few things trouble me as deeply as the fragility of life.

I’ve always preferred things that are stable, enduring. This business of feeling well one moment and then unwell five minutes later—it’s such a bother.

Wednesday night fell peacefully, and I went to sleep in good health; by Thursday morning, I awoke with a sore, inflamed throat. The quiet of the night gave way to the discomfort of the following morning.

Granted, it’s not the first time this has happened, and I know exactly what to do. My greatest fear, however, was the fever that always follows after a few days—and it can be a real nuisance for a while.

Well, the nuisance arrived Thursday afternoon. I left work and came home, where I’ve been ever since—Friday now—curled up beneath the blankets with a fever.

It’s unlikely I’ll die from this throat inflammation and its fever, but it is indeed a disruption. It’s like a buzzing fly that won’t let you be, especially when you're absorbed in something meaningful.

But I give thanks to God for it. I’ve lived alone for many, many years, and I’ve grown used to not depending on anyone. I enjoy my independence. Still, when people say they envy my single life because I’m free from the natural worries of marriage and children, I always respond: unlike those who are married, I’ll never know the joy of being greeted with kisses and smiles—nor have someone bring me a bowl of soup when I’m sick.

Too much independence can make a person too proud. And nothing is worse than someone who thinks they’re invincible, unstoppable—only to be laid low by some tiny invisible bug, or worse, the stupidity of a complete stranger.

It’s good to know that God loves me enough to offer these gentle reminders of my smallness.

When I was young, these moments were easier to endure. But now, in the autumn of my life, even a mild sore throat is enough to remind me of my mortality. This never occurred to me in my twenties—back then, death was a mere theory, never a fact. Youth is arrogant that way. How vital it is that young people grow old before it’s too late!

I remember when I was a boy, attending a Seventh-day Adventist school, and the teachers would warn us to live each day as if it were our last: “If you were to die today, what would you have to show God?” the teachers asked us.

As the years passed, I never completely forgot that advice, though in youth it faded into the background—only to return now with strength and truth.

Much more important than knowing how to live is knowing how to die. I’m absolutely convinced of that. I can think of no event more significant in one’s life than death—precisely because it is the only one that is inevitable, and completely beyond our control. We have no power over it whatsoever.

And for that, too, let us praise God.

If I were to die today, what would I have to show Him? A few good things, surely—hoping that, when placed on the scale against the many failings, the good might weigh more.

 

From the bedroom I hear Nick humming in the kitchen. Suddenly, he calls out:

"Soup’s ready, man!"

Then, a pause and an exclamation of delight:

"Yo, this stuff is actually awesome! Like, how the heck did I even pull this off?"

I laughed, still tucked in bed.

He came into the room carrying a steaming bowl on a tray, with croutons and cheese on the side.

"Dinner for the sick little dude is here!" he announced cheerfully. "And yeah, of course he’s gonna love this canned soup I heated up with, like, so much love!"

I laughed again—and gave thanks to God for His love for me.

 

 

The Twenty-Second Night

 

We were sitting on the veranda, admiring the moonlight cast over the silver sea, savoring the tea liqueur I’d prepared some time ago, when I said:

“Last Tuesday, I found an octopus among the coral reefs.”

“For real? How’d you notice it?” Nick asked, intrigued.

“I know those reefs well, and I noticed one of them looked bigger, its outline just... off. I moved in closer, reached out gently — and a tentacle curled softly around my finger. Just as delicately as I had approached it. We exchanged what felt like… a few caresses.”

“That kinda sounds like an erotic story,” Nick joked, grinning.

“Far less than that, believe me. But quite suddenly, it wrapped itself around my arm, all the way to my elbow. It changed color and texture — to mimic my skin. But it didn’t harm me; it simply received the strokes I gave its great, strange head.”

“Were you snorkeling?”

“Oh, yes. It was easy to sit on the sea floor and still breathe. Octopuses are fascinating creatures. We played like that for a while, and then, gently, I nudged it back toward the coral — which it understood, and obeyed. I left the sea and went to work.”

“So… you made a new friend?”

“I doubt it. Octopuses are solitary, and I don’t believe their nervous systems allow for what we’d call affection. I suppose I didn’t pose a threat and may have even given it some physical pleasure; that’s all. Speaking of relationships, how are things going with your violets?”

“They’re hangin’ in there — still alive,” Nick replied.

“Very good. Do you speak to them?”

“Come again?”

“Your violets. Do you speak to them?”

“No...” he said, with a note of confusion in his voice, as though I’d suddenly become some odd, esoteric figure.

I laughed and pressed on.

“There’s some evidence that plants respond emotionally to external events and that they communicate with one another.”

 “Seriously?”

“Seriously. I don’t know if they ‘hear’ us, but they do perceive our presence — and our actions. It seems they even recognize us as ‘the bringers of water,’ for example. Talking to a plant can forge a sort of bond between it and its caretaker. I know countless stories of people who threatened to cut down a fruitless tree, and suddenly, it bore fruit — or bloomed, or came back to life when it seemed dead. Start an emotional relationship with them. Talk to them. Let them be your third magic chair.”

He laughed as he said, “You haven’t forgotten my magic chairs?”

“Not only have I not forgotten — I totally understand it.”

“I’ll give it a shot. I’ll try talking to my violets.”

“Please do. I just hope they don’t talk back.”

We both laughed.

“Made me think of that one who goes, ‘Feeeed me!’”

“Audrey II!”

“That’s the one! “Little Shop of Horrors!”

“Fantastic films — both the musical and the original.”

“I’ve never seen the original.”

“Directed by Roger Corman, at the height of his powers. Not as pulsing or with the grandeur of the remake, but full of charm. Want to watch it?”

“Right now!” he shouted, springing from his chair.

 

 

 

 

The Twenty-First Night

 

We were playing our weekly round of crapaud when Nick said to me,

“I rewatched Mary Poppins last night.”

“You really like that movie, don’t you?”

“Totally love it! It just makes me feel good.”

“I like it a lot too, but it doesn’t make me happy—just cheerful.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Happiness is the lasting possession of something that truly satisfies. You watched the film, you felt good—but then something came along and drained that joy away. Isn’t that what happened?”

“Yeah… that’s exactly it.”

“Something came up, five minutes later, and you’d already forgotten the movie—and the feelings it gave you.”

“True.”

“You see how powerful my psychic abilities are?” I said with a laugh.

“Oh, I see them loud and clear!” he laughed back.

“The fact is, in this life, nothing is permanent. It’s impossible to possess anything completely, no matter how much we may wish it. Not love, not health, not wealth. Everything is always on the edge of imminent loss. In Taoism, they teach that the state of change is the only thing in the universe that doesn’t change. In truth, that concept appears in every culture across the ages, and it’s not metaphysical in itself—it’s simply observation. And yet we ‘moderns’ forget this, and keep chasing, in vain, after happiness.”

“So you’re saying we’re doomed to be sad? Unhappy?”

“On the contrary. Even the most basic rational thought about the human being tells us we were made for happiness. That’s why humanity has always sought it. The real question is: where is happiness to be found? It’s not wise to go looking for bread in a pharmacy—yet that’s what mankind is doing nowadays. If it’s true that nothing in this world can be possessed permanently, it must be that we are looking for it in the wrong place.”

“You’re talking about God again, aren’t you?”

“Yes—and don’t forget I’m Catholic. What I mean is: the whole universe moves and changes according to an order that presupposes an intelligent creator. Parts of that order we’ve even been able to translate into mathematical formulas—a microscopic fraction of the whole, of course, but still, we got there. And even that points to a designing intelligence behind the fabric of the cosmos. That intelligent entity, which is outside the universe and brought it into being, is what humanity has always called God. As you can see, I haven’t even needed to appeal to religious arguments to get there. True religion only begins with Judaism—when this entity reveals itself—and it reaches its fullness in Catholicism, when God becomes incarnate, becomes one of us, and shows us His face.”

“My head’s kinda spinning here…”

“Hang in there just a little longer—and let’s forget Judaism and Catholicism for a moment. Let’s stay with the false religions, because even in them, we find echoes of the truth, though not the Truth. Our ancestors came to the knowledge of God simply by reflecting on themselves and the world around them—and the obvious conclusion was that if we are part of a created universe, then like all created things, we do not own ourselves. We owe everything to God. That intuitive knowledge is what gives rise to our longing for happiness: a desire to belong to the only unchanging good, whose possession would make us truly happy—our Creator God.”

“You do realize your line of thought is, like… totally chaotic? My therapist would probably want you committed on the spot.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it. By the way—aside from a few cheerful moments and an underlying sadness, what exactly has she offered you?”

Nick laid his cards down on the table and stared at me, lost in thought.