Dead is more beautiful than life
Maybe I will die at eleven o'clock or another hour. No matter when I die, I still have to continue this journey. This live. This fucking life. After yesterday accompanied the keranda that brought out the smell of sadness along the way, sprinkling the bloody blooms on the ground still fresh, I thought my life was over. I have no one else. Saphiro was crushed by a truck.
Saphiro's death was indeed his own will. Long before his eyes were closed eternally, Saphiro often talked about death to me. He says death is more beautiful than life. "What's the proof, have you ever died?" I said and he always answered, "Later, when I am dead, I will come to you through a dream. I will tell you that what I have said so far is true."
Last night, just a few hours after his body sank into a room twice as large as without a lamp, Saphiro seemed a prophet. He visited my bed just to prove himself right. His words were not boastful of medics. I don't know where I was at that time. Saphiro pulled my hand quite hard, making me almost fall. He took me to a hill full of fresh grass and thick furry goats. Coolness reaches all over the body. I have never traveled the world, but the temperature in the hills is the coolest temperature - not too hot nor too cold - that my body has felt. So comfortable, my mind seemed to float when Saphiro stood in front of me, straight as a father was about to convey life advice to his child.
"I did not lie to you, Gustam. This is what I feel now. Death is more beautiful than life," Saphiro said, stretching out his arms. His face was sparkling. I never saw him like that. Before I could reply to his words, I first fell from the weathered mattress. Woke up from that strange dream. My body hurts and that means I'm still in life. Ordinary life. Life with pain ceaselessly.
Saphiro's first morning was an odd morning. No, I found a man sitting in the front room crossing his legs with a book in hand and a cup of coffee on the table. No, I found a man as short as my chest who said things with a serious expression as if he would preach about the end. I sat at Saphiro's usual seat. I brew coffee and read books. Through the window, I saw the sun wriggling and the morning began to grow. I should be cheerful, like a bunch of kids out there, but I can't. There is quiet here. Something is missing and I know what it is. There are none and I know that it will not last forever. Realizing something is missing and will never come back like a knife as big as a rhinoceros horn, so torturing and suffocating.
Knife? In the kitchen there was a knife that Saphiro routinely sharpened every time he felt the knife had collected. He used the knife to chop meat, vegetables, and everything else - Saphiro was good at cooking. The knife lay in a small container next to a spoon and fork. I could have picked it up and scratched it on my wrist. But it is impossible. Every thing like that occurred to me, the greatness of Saphiro's words at one time choked in my ears. "Life is a bastard. But killing yourself to escape life is nothing less than life."
Then why did you cross the busy and careless road that morning (or was it intentional?) So that a truck with demonic speed made your body like ground meat, isn't that no different than killing yourself and means you betrayed your words? Why, Saphiro, why are you doing that?
"I'm not suicidal. I just met my own destiny."
Ah, Saphiro bullshit! The next day you almost drowned in a pool that was too deep for your body size and you swallowed an excessive amount of headache pills to vomit, then I scolded you and berated you in such a way. What are you saying? You just say, "I'm not suicidal. I just met my own destiny." You know Saphiro, is that bullshit? Like the words of politicians on television, a set of words that should be thrown into the toilet with dung and urine. So are your words Saphiro. Nonsense!
Saphiro had left, in the rented house that I and he had rented hard with his erroneous honorarium as a newspaper writer and my payment as an amateur painter that was not much, all I could do was sit still like an old man who was too old. After years of togetherness since the fire that destroyed my family and the Saphiro family, solitude like stale rice in a trash can for hunger stomachs. I was forced to devour it all the risk is because I no longer have any choice. Because I no longer have anything.
In this little house, Saphiro and I had arranged various plans. Plans that will never materialize. Plans that have broken into memories and history.
"Someday we will go to Paris. Come to Shakespeare & Co. You will paint the atmosphere of the place and I will write a story about that place. It is not great if there is a story in my story near Shakespeare & Co, Paris, 20XX . "
Saphiro said that confidently. Perhaps in the realm there he really stopped by Shakespeare & Co. Who knows.
"I also want to go to the Novodecivhye cemetery in Moscow. You have to come. I want to visit Gogol's tomb and especially Chekhov. I owe him a lot, to Chekhov. I learned a lot from writing stories about laughing at this fucking life."
Hopefully there, Saphiro can meet Chekhov. Who knows.
Many more plans from Saphiro and me. However, among the piles of plans, there were no women. There were no women after Saphiro was left by his girlfriend who had married a civil servant. There are no women after Nadela left me without news.
The sun is rather high. Third day. Before the fierce Mrs. Rosa knocked on the door and charged rent with glaring eyes, I had to take a shower and go outside. Bathing doesn't need to be long. Apart from Saphiro's thick scent of soap and inevitably leading my memories to him, I also had to compete with Mrs. Rosa who was probably looking for a moment's reflection and then standing at the door of the house.
Fortunately, Mrs. Rosa hasn't appeared yet. With long steps, I walked away from my house and Mrs. Rosa's house right next to my house. I pulled my hat down, avoiding the sun glare as well as Mrs. Rosa's gaze that could just call me suddenly.
Less than five minutes, I arrived at the edge of the highway. The highway where the angel of death took Saphiro's life. In the middle of the road, faint red blood still appeared. Dry and somewhat blackened. I see death there. I seemed to see Saphiro when his soul stretched. I seemed to see a truck run over a short man who easily made any truck driver escape seeing him. I seemed to see it all and death seemed to be plastered in the eyelids.
Maybe I will die at eleven o'clock or another hour - no matter when I die, I still have to continue this journey. This live. This fucking life. Maybe I will die of poisoning or get run down or get hit by a bullet - no matter how I die, I still have to continue this journey. This live. This fucking life.
I stepped, crossed, looked up at the sky. Bright. I saw nothing but deserted the sky. I heard nothing but the clatter of my own steps. I don't know at what step, I was swayed, my gaze flickered. Maybe I was poisoned a week ago or a truck hit me or a policeman took me a thief and shot me. I do not know. Bu Rosa's voice vaguely sounded, calling my name and regarding the contract for three months in arrears. Faintly in the distance, I saw Saphiro smiling over the hills with fresh grass and thick furry goats. Everything is faint, then completely faded.