The Komodo Dragons
A few years after my return from leave in Oxford, Pat succumbed to a fatal disease. She was no longer able to manage the stairs in the Pandan Valley and our spacious flat became hard to manage. We had to move to a flat in the Mandarin Gardens Condominium, on Singapore’s East Coast.
A few years after her demise, I decided – at the suggestion of a close friend – to embark on a cruise of the Indonesian Islands. By then I had come to accept my having been ostracized by my late wife’s siblings. I was living comfortably in Mandarin Gardens and kept renovating it to fit my taste. Good friends helped me to find my way back to equilibrium. When I decided to take the cruise, I invited my God Daughter, Sophie, to join us.
One morning the cruise ship had to anchor off the coast. Access to the shore of Komodo Island was by engine driven boats which made the trip every fifteen minutes or so. Sophie and I left the ship at around 11.00 a.m. Some ten minutes later we disembarked at the pier. Just for once, my walking cane was of no use. Sophie had to help me out of the boat onto terra firma.
As we left the pier on our half day tour, one of the local attendants offered me his arm. To steady myself, I had to grasp it firmly. The twinkle in his eyes helped me to identify him as my lifelong friend.
“Since when do you inhabit this island?” my mind asked Theophil.
“You know very well why I decided to come over. You, Peter’le, are bound to need my help. Your health is poor and you are old and worn out. What made you take this tour?”
“I want to see the Komodo Dragons, Maestro. I decided to take a chance.”
“It’s free choice, Peter’le. I’ll make sure you don’t regret it.”
The trail appeared to me long and winding. Sophie and the attendant had to keep me going. In my heart of hearts, I cursed my impulsive decision to go ashore. Theophil read my mind. Still, he showed no sympathy. He remained a smiling, levelheaded tour guide.
After some twenty minutes we got to the water hole. Four Dragons were now visible. They were massive: as big as average crocodiles. They did not move or open their eyes and appeared fast asleep. Indeed, they might have been part of the rock formation. All the same, some local trainers, armed with two-pronged wooden sticks, were keeping watch over them.
“These wooden sticks are strange, Maestro. Why should an active full-size Dragon pay attention to them?”
“Each Dragon tasted the prod of these sticks, especially around the eyes, before it grew to full size. Accordingly, the Komodos ‘respect’ the sticks. But they are useless when a Dragon attacks a prey.”
“In that case, why do the trainers dare to display the Dragons?”
“They feed them well and so the Dragons are usually not dangerous.”
At that moment Sophie drew my attention to one of the Dragons. It had opened its eyes and its two-pronged tongue was touching the ground. To me, it looked dangerous. The trainers, too, became apprehensive. One of them took hold of a rifle.
“What is happening?” my mind asked Theophil.
“This Dragon did not get a full share of the feed. It is hungry. But there is no real danger. It will not attack a crowd. A closely knit group appears to be too big. Hopefully, nobody will leave the group. The Komodos attack strays!”
At that very moment, Sophie drew my attention to one of our fellow tourists, a woman of about sixty years of age who wore clothes more befitting a girl in her mid thirties. Brandishing a digital camera in front of her, she broke away from the group and walked towards the Dragons, trying to capture them in the centre of her screen. Ignoring the attendant who asked her to remain with the group, she asserted that she had the right to take photographs. Looking at her closely, I recalled that, on the previous day, she displayed ill temper in a friendly Rubber Bridge session and had made sarcastic remarks to her partners.
She had by now set herself apart from the group and approached the Dragons. Suddenly, the hungry Dragon lurched and then leaped in her direction.
“It’s charging!” Sophie let her apprehension show.
“Isn’t it afraid of the trainers?” I asked aloud.
“The fear of the stick is a conditioned reflex,” explained Theophil to my mind. “The Dragon is running amok. Its main reflex now is the urge to satisfy its hunger! And prey is within grasp!”
Just before the Dragon threw itself on the photographer, it was hit by the bullet. It rolled over but, in its final struggle, managed to bite its prey’s thigh. Blood oozed from the wound as the frightened photographer steadied herself and used a handkerchief as bandage. After a few minutes she recovered from her shock and a strained smile descended on her face.
“Are you hurt?” asked Sophie.
“It’s just a scratch,” she replied composedly. “It’s nothing!”
“She is kidding herself,” Theophil told my mind. “The Dragon’s bite is venomous. The poison will soon begin to act. Watch your photographer closely.”
All of us started to wind our way back to the pier. After ten minutes the photographer displayed fatigue. She looked unsteady.
“Can I be of some help?” asked Sophie anxiously. “Shall we get you water?”
“Oh, I’ll be alright,” she assured us but at the very same time started to sway and appeared out of control.
“It’s the venom,” explained Theophil to my mind. “Usually, the venom does not act that fast but she has a poor constitution.
“Please help her, Maestro. I know you can!”
“Sorry, Pere’le: I am not an interventionist! And, you know, she worships Him and so it’s His business!”
“Is she then a goner?”
“Unless you pray to Him! Occasionally, He grants a supplicant’s plea.”
“But how can I – one of your followers – address him? I am not a turncoat!”
“You have my permission and I urge you to go ahead.”
“Please Mighty God, please cure her!” I misquoted the scriptures.
A light, windy cloud hovered for a few seconds. Then – right from its centre – emerged the figure of Michelangelo’s Creator. I had seen the Fresco in Rome and had noted that, at that time, the Lord’s beard had flaws.
“When was your beard varnished to perfection, Oh Lord?” I assumed the courage to ask.
“I got the artist out of his ward and made him do the job. Initially, he was stupefied by the pigments I created for the occasion but then came to terms with them. But what is this all about? Whom did you ask me to ‘cure’? Why should this friend of yours be brought back from the brink of death! Isn’t she happy with her past?”
“I’m not sure, Good Lord,” I explained. “I turned to you because …”
“I,” interjected Theophil, “told him she believed in You and hence needed to be attended by You rather than by me!”
“Is she really a worthy person?” asked the Good Lord.
“Well, she goes to Church every Sunday, says her blessing as often as possible and makes her donations to God’s Charity!”
“True,” mused the Good Lord, “but she starves her maid and does not pay the poor servant’s salary regularly; she speculates in real estate in the Church’s name and fails to declare all her income to the authorities! Is she the type we want in heaven?”
“What a strange reversal of roles,” I exclaimed out of control.
Both the Good Lord and Theophil looked at me with amazement. In the event, the latter asked me to explain.
“Well, in the bible the Good Lord tells …
“… Satan …” interjected Theophil
“… that a fellow called Job is a fine man who avoids all things evil, whereupon
Satan points out that Job may have ulterior motives. Presently, You – the Good Lord – find fault with the photographer and Satan seeks to promote the faith!”
“But there has been a dramatic change of circumstance,” explained Theophil. “In Job’s era most people were good and worthy. Very few wanted to turn to me. My ward was getting empty! So, I wanted to extend hospitality to Job!”
“And now?” I asked bewildered.
“Now queues are forming in front of my gates! Many of the applicants are lawyers, bankers and software engineers. Worst of all, they bring with them sophisticated air-conditioning equipment. So, they don’t fear the heat! Me’think, they prefer it to the cold weather high above. And, of course, I allow them to play chess, bridge, poker and dominoes. They are also permitted to gamble (with electronic money), drink and behave in any way they like. For instance, women can be free with their favours and men – especially those who were overcome by shyness down on earth – are free to womanise etc. So, Peter’le, I try to turn applicants to Him! And your photographer has a ‘good core’! She belongs to His department!”
“Oh, very well,” responded the Good Lord. “Let her have an extended term on this planet. We’ll judge her when her day comes!”
When I regained my earthly vision, the photographer was recovering. Her face had regained some colour and she walked again steadily and with determination.
“You look much better,” said Sophie.
“And I feel fine. It is as if nothing had happened: a miracle.”
Back on board, the photographer excused herself, left our group and rushed back to her cabin. Sophie helped me back to my own. When she left, I took my shower and then tried to relax. It had been a day of adventures.
“Come and have a look at our photographer,” urged Theophil who decided to appear in front of me in full regalia.
“Is she that interesting? I thought she was rather dumb!”
“You and your negative outlook! Here have a look!”
Back in her cabin, the photographer was wiping her eyes and kneeling devotedly.
“Oh, Mighty God, I bless you for saving me. From now on I shall follow all your teachings. I shall give enough food to my maid, pay her all arrears and settle her salary punctually. And I shall give her every Sunday off: she too deserves rest. And – oh Lord - I am not going to speculate and I shall never scold people again! I’ll do my best to be worthy of this miracle!”
“What a strange conversion,” I mused.
“Indeed, Peter’le. A real conversion: a return to God with her whole heart. A conversion affected by Satan!”
“So, on occasions, you turn yourself into a pastor, Theophil!”
“And some say I am the epitome of evil!”
A Painful Memory
Some four years had elapsed since my cruise to the Indonesian Islands. I was no longer able to travel and spent as much time as possible at home.
That evening, the skies were clear and the view from my sitting room in Mandarin Gardens was as exciting as ever. But I was not calm. A painful memory kept disturbing my peace. Wishing to unburden myself, I waited impatiently for Theophil’s appearance. Before long he was seated by my side, assuming Peppi’s guise.
“What’s the matter, Peter’le?”
“A sad memory keeps plaguing me! I believe you know what is on my mind.”
“I do; and I will indulge you. In truth, though, you should have visited the occasion involved when we covered the milestones in your life. Please tell me why you avoided revisiting it when we meandered through your life.”
“Shame; and the feeling I ought not to talk about it to anybody!”
“Yet it was a milestone. In the aftermath you lost the remnants of your regard for Pat. Well, let us time travel.”
We were back in New Zealand. A man in his forties, overweight, balding and dressed untidily, was walking along the shore in Lower Hut near Wellington. His wife was him. The man was downcast and silent. That very morning his mother advised him that his father had given up the ghost. She had asked her son to give the funeral a miss and, in any event, he felt unable to fly over. All the same, he felt shattered and dissatisfied.
For a while, the woman and the man kept their silence. Then, unexpectedly the wife had her say: “One Berger less. So what?”
“You never recovered from this outburst,” stated Theophil. “You continued to walk in silence, Peter’le. I watched you from afar on that very occasion. Why didn’t you tell her off?”
“To what end?” I asked bitterly.
“So as to get it off your chest. Instead, you recalled in silence the many occasions in which you treated Pat’s mother with honour and helped Pat’s siblings when she asked you to step in! And, Peter’le, this silent resentment did you more harm than any outburst you have had in your life.”
“Why was this incident crucial, Maestro? Was it really a milestone in my life?”
“You alone know the answer! It is patent that the matter was never smoothed over in your mind. It kept gnawing at you. Months later, you discussed the incident with two of Pat’s siblings.
“I recall their reactions. They tried to tell me Pat’s comment was acceptable. They pretended she wanted to soothe me. Nowadays, I can understand them. They felt that any member of their inner circle could do no wrong; and I was on the fringes. I was not one of them. It is of course possible that my reaction to their words had been too severe. But why do you think this was a milestone?”
“What were your feelings for Pat up to that that very day?”
“Sympathy and guilt: I knew I had not come up to her expectations and tried to be supportive whenever I could. Oh, . . . I see what you mean: as from that day I simply felt bound by the duties I undertook when I married her but my sympathy and the remnants of my affection were gone.”
“That is the point, my dear Peter’le. Putting it bluntly: you no longer felt the duty to pretend to be a loving husband.”
“True,” I conceded.
“From that day onward, your priority became your hobbies and whims. Frequently, you were uncivil to Pat and to her siblings. They realised that you disliked them! No wonder they ostracized you after Pat’s demise.”
“You make sense!”
“That is not my only point, Peter’le. Your excuse for not flying over to attend your father’s funeral was Pat’s inability to remain on her own in Wellington. But did you really wish to attend the funeral? If Pat had been your real concern, you could have taken her with you or asked her sister to fly over to Wellington for a visit.”
“I know: I simply wasn’t ready to bid my late father goodbye. In my mind he remained alive and kicking; I loved him.”
“Pat’s bitter outburst was unfortunate,” Theophil explained. “But you faulted her for your own inadequacy: your unwillingness to face facts. Do you continue to think of your father?”
“I ceased to do so after I met Peppi: he filled the void in my life.”
“And after he died, I revealed myself to you, Peter’le. As from that day, you were able to turn to me.”
“Was I then unjust to poor Pat?”
“I cannot tell. Emotively, though, it was a turning point. Your grudge against Pat was anchored in the shouting match she had had with your father some two years earlier on. You tried to forget about this incident but it continued to irk you. It surfaced when she had her outburst.”
“So that was a milestone in my life!?”
“I believe it was: it was a turning point in your emotive make up.”
“Why, then, did I fail to revisit it on our previous journey?”
“You alone have the answer: Peter FitzOstrich.”