A SECRET LIFE: Fiction from "The Scanga-Ra Chronicles"
A SECRET LIFE
Fiction from "The Scanga-Ra Chronicles"
by Cesare Syjuco
Published in: San Juan [The Liberated Bimonthly Magazine of Art], October 1985
“We are spirits
in the material world...”
- The Police
Scanga-Ra dropped in for dinner, quite unexpectedly, as always. The children raced to meet him at the door, taking turns dispensing wet kisses. Later, as their mother whipped up a hot meal of bean curd and eggrolls in the kitchen, he would delight them with his magic prowess and his trained lizard. An evening shower was beating lightly on the pavement outside.
He took a cigar from the cinderbox, sniffed it at length, then bit off one end and set fire to the other. We retired to the drawing-room. There was a twinkle in his eye from the gaslight as we took seats by the wireless.
Of course he had already heard the news about Ray Albano. Ray had not written to him in weeks, and so, naturally, he, Scanga- Ra, had an inkling that all was not well with the poor, dear man. A call he made later to Ray's office only confirmed what he had feared all along. Ray Albano had slipped away in the dead of night on the 6th of August. And without so much as a by-your-leave.
He felt very distraught at first. Ray and he had been school chums from god knows when. He was shattered by the man's sudden passing. He took to serious drinking for the first time in his life. He subsisted on aliums for a week. He gave birth to an ulcer. He acquired a most unsightly tic in his right cheek. He felt sure that there was nothing left for him to do but to quit.
Nonon Padilla had mailed him Ray's meager belongings. A lifetime of correspondence in a Shoemart bag. Flashback after flashback sent his mind whirling from the aftershock. He was in an absolute state of panic. He was dreaming awake. His once-somber paintings had taken on a deep red coloration. His brushes would not yield to his prodding. And trying to lose himself in his work only reminded him all the more of his pal, Ray Albano.
Dinner was served. We dined with Jeanne and the kids, leisurely taking second helpings, sipping pink lemonade that Mickey had made especially for our guest. Scanga- Ra's talk was light and animated, the range of his conversation diverse. The abominable snowman. The dead sea scrolls. Kublai Kahn's sweep into China. The frog in Padre Pio's throat. The children sat captivated, but hied off to bed at a quarter-to-twelve after their mother threatened them with a poker.
We had Benedictine from a cut-glass decanter. Jeanne excused herself to attend to her knitting in the parlor. The lights were dimmed and the curtains drawn for the night.
It was the suicide note that had made all the difference, he confided in me. There it was in a sealed envelope at the very bottom of the bag that Nonon had sent him. Ray Albano had wanted desperately to die. He had held his breath long enough to make absolutely certain that he was dead. So you see, said Scanga-Ra, there was really nothing to cry about.
It wasn't important why he did it. It could have been for any number of reasons or for none at all. And in the end, it mattered little that the C.A.P. had stopped sending him singing telegrams for his birthday. Or that his own brood had turned rabidly against him. Or that effeminate painting had taken disposable art to the cleaners. Ray was exactly where he wanted to be, and god knows he was entitled to that.
I walked with Scanga-Ra through the garden and out the gate. The sky had cleared. The stars were in full force. We stood on the curb and shared a cigarette, clasping in a firm handshake before he disappeared into the shadows.
The very next morning, I received a postcard from Ray Albano. It was dated August 7 and was mailed in a hurry from somewhere in the Persian Gulf. Ray was shacked up with a voluptious blonde named Vixie. He had accepted a teaching post in Tunisia.
* * *
Cesare A.X. Syjuco, “A Secret Life: Fiction from ‘The Scanga-Ra Chronicles’” (page 1 of 1), San Juan The Liberated Bimonthly Magazine of Art, October 1985
