Santé

Santé

It was three in the morning. Two men were sitting in a small room. Between them was a desk full of scraps of papers, a broken telephone, two scotch glasses, and a bottle of whiskey. The man in black suit poured the whiskey into his glass. Behind him was a dirty window that the moonlight hardly went through. The dim light-bulb above the men was swaying a little. Another man, who was now fondling a cat on his lap, wore a white shirt stained with dirt and wet with sweat. The man in black leaned his body comfortably against the black chair. They sat face to face.

"So, tell me why you are here, Santé" said the man in black, sipping his whiskey.

"I don't know," he replied, "Maybe I did something wrong?"

"I think you didn't."

"Then why are my shirt dirty? Is it because I was out at night?"

The cat was purring. The man in black said, "Santé.. Santé, it doesn't matter whether or not you go out at night. I'm okay with it. In fact, many people like being out at night. It's fine. What matters is where you did go, and what you did there."

"I cannot remember," Santé said, "Or maybe I don't remember." He kept fondling the cat.

"It's three in the morning, Santé. We're sitting here discussing your issue. Our issue," the man in black said, looking back to the window. As soon as he turned to Santé he asked, "It's a calm cold night, Santé. What have you done?"

Santé slowly looked up to the dim light-bulb. He answered faintly, "I am too old now-- too tired. Too old to be sacred of anything. Too tired for anything to be scared of. Don't you see? I have scars. I wrinkle. I am wrinkling. Dying flowers, I may say. My hands are dirty. My eyes, too dim. That's why I stumble a lot, perhaps. Things tend to get bad, you know. And at last they are." The cat kept purring. His voice was almost a whisper.

"Want a cigarette? You smoke?" the man in black offered. He brought out a pack of cigarettes from his suit pocket. The dim light-bulb kept swaying slowly. The whiskey in the scotch glass shone. It looked like a golden reservoir. He lighted his cigarette. The smoke was all yellow like the moon.

The man refused to smoke. He poured whiskey into his scotch glass.

"As much as I know, you were digging your own grave and probably those of the others," the man in black said, smoking, "That's why you're here."

Santé was fondling the cat. It was snow-white. Its eyes were dark as tonight's sky when it looked back at him. He said, "Yeah..., that, I remember now. I went to the garden. And I started digging. But then my shovel became so heavy I had to stop. I sat under the apple tree. So cold and hungry I ate an apple. Then I thought about my wife and the others. I... I wanted them to be happy. So I had to take my heavy shovel and kept digging again..."

The man in black was smoking. "I see," he said. His voice was calm.

"The devils ganged up on me. They forced me to do good deeds."

"Devils exist."

"Yeah..., they are out there and inside, walking around," Santé said. His head was down. The snow-white cat fell asleep. "Am I going to hell, for I followed the devils?" he asked.

"This is hell, Santé"

"Am I dead?" calmly Santé asked.

"Yeah, been dead for so long. I'm sorry the devils ganged up on you."

"But I did good deeds. This should be heaven."

"Heaven's a dangerous thing, Santé. It's too high for you to reach. Some people get there alive. Some people die and don't have any chance to knock the door. The good thing is the angels are kind enough to come and go. But right here, right now, you're in hell."

"But I did good deeds," Santé cried.

"You followed the devils. It's okay. Sometimes we do."

"They ganged up on me."

"I'm sorry for that. Someday the angels will come."

"Yeah..." Santé looked at the man and said, "So this is hell?"

The man in black nodded and replied, "This is hell. Want a cigarette? You smoke?"

The snow-white cat was staring at him. Its eyes were starry, yet deep-deep down dark as tonight's sky. The bottle of whiskey stood alone on the table like a sole ship in the dark ocean. The moonlight hardly went through the dirty window. The broken telephone made no sounds. He finally managed to reply, "Sure I smoke. Get me some whiskey, too." He mumbled, "Whiskey's a hell of honey. Everybody's drunk sleepy, drunk sleepy..."

"Welcome to hell, Santé"

"Cheers."