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Friday, January 10, 2020 | January 10, 2020 |

Saleem's Lot

Simone wanted the cojones of that bull because it reminded her of hard-boiled eggs. Soft, white eggs that unwittingly have the power to exude eroticism given the right amount of perversity possessed by the subject in question. When she sat on it the metaphor was not lost on us— however inappropriate the act may be. But what of the matador whose eye was pierced by the bull? Does he not play a singular part in the same metaphor? When executed by a graceful matador, bull-fighting becomes a fluid show of an intricate dance between the teaser and the teased, which culminates in the final movement of stabbing the by now spent bull— the triumph of man over beast.

In the case of this particular story, it was an eye for an eye with the matador at the mercy of the angry brute; all metaphors aside, I find myself in the shoes of that same matador as the bull was fast approaching, its horn inches away from my eyes. Would I have the presence of mind to close my eyes? Or would I stare back head on, resigned to my fate? The art of bullfighting is never in need of cowards so the option of running with my tail between my legs is out of the question.

Where the sun shines high up in the heavens and giving out its rays like trinkets to mollify its children after a period of absence, somewhere in Madrid, the matador, me, by the name of Saleem, prepares for battle. My cape swooshes with every move, slicing into the humid air like shards of glass. The bull is still raging in spite of the daggers already stabbed on its back. I am confident of victory. A few more movements and the final blow will be dealt. But in an unforeseen misfortune, the bull seems to have gathered all its rage to channel it upon me. With renewed strength, the beast surged forward with the tip of its horns jutted out, aiming for what I imagine is my eye.

Time stopped. The sweat trickling down my forehead stalled, mid-roll and I could feel its beads hovering on my burning flesh. The sun seemed to have stopped shining as well, with a glaze of ugly bright yellow covering the skies like a filter. It is at this point that I closed my eyes. My brain curled up and took a nap but not without commanding the nerves to go on autopilot. What was left in me was the sensation of a breeze and a quiet lullaby playing on loop in my ears and creeping in on my flesh.

That was when I decided that if I want to stall the bull’s horn from piercing my eye, along with the lullaby in my ears, I had to make the decision to never again open my eyes.

Chronos is a despot lashing away at the horses on his chariot. I am as with the bull, at his mercy. My prayers, like a sieve, filters only the most crucial, and that is, so long as the bull is ready to pierce my eye, let my eyes be as closed for how many aeons it may take.

My vision has always been 20/20 on the things it wanted to see, and blurry on the things it refuses to. I traverse through life with no difficulty as long as my goal is in sight. The bigger the goal, the clearer my vision gets. But when it comes to anything I’d like to escape from, darkness becomes a respite from all of my troubles. The latest of which, is the bull’s horn ready to pierce my eye.

From the murmurings around me, I could tell that I was at school. It’s been only about last night since I decided to fully close my eyes, and have instinct guide my way. I could hear their whispers wondering about me, but I don’t mind, my purpose far outweighs any prattle.

I half-heartedly listened to the teacher drone on about stories from the Bible until one detail caught my ear. It was the story of Lot who disobeyed God’s order to not look behind her, and subsequently became a boulder of salt. Once again, the eye as a metaphor. Lot dared to look and was punished. The same thing, I conclude, is happening to me.

“Saleem, why are your eyes closed?” -they ask.

“Saleem, is there anything wrong with your eyes?” -they ask.

“Saleem, is this a prank?” -they ask.

I silently let these comments roll off my back, vindicated in the thought that as long as my eyes are closed, I won’t suffer the same fate as Lot, and especially, I’ll be able to avoid the sharp point of the bull’s horn.

For days I lost glimpse of the moon, the moon that I romanticize as the abode of the gods and goddesses, and which shines every night for me and for me alone. The paeans I dedicated to this silver enchantress lie at the bottom of my drawer, with me being afraid that I might open my eyes in the process of trying to write about the moon again.

The eye is an egg, and the egg is an eye. This unfaithful quotation from Simone brings out the poet in me for I could enumerate lots of white, orb-shaped objects that could be compared to an eye. Although the question that needs to be answered is what is so erotic with an eye? Great thinkers have tried to answer this riddle only to submerge it back into the bottom of murky waters.

What is an eye? In layman's definition, it is the organ used by the human body to be able to see. Physically, it is located below our forehead and is made up of many parts that I won’t waste time enumerating here. The eyes (and eggs) which Simone was hopelessly fascinated with were metaphors for the all-seeing eye of God. Sex is an intimate act which is supposed to be between two consenting adults and should be done behind locked doors. By making use of the “eye” in their escapades, they are welcoming the presence of God in their otherwise bleak world. Their intimacy is grounded upon violence, perversity, and death, and I suppose these “eyes” are a desperate plea to God almighty to intervene; to show Him the filth they both had come down to and their subconscious hope for a savior.

The God possessing omnipotence and an all-seeing capability, is the very same God who told Lot never to look behind her lest she be turned to a pillar of salt. This God, and this God alone shall be the only one able to re-open my eyes.

When Simone killed the priest in the denouement to a bizarre adventure of lust, she made sure that no god could ever save her soul. The priest, as God’s representative of his dominion here on earth, was violated and brutally murdered. The eye ceased to be a metaphor, it has now become a tired symbol of the intrusive nature of that all-seeing eye. Simone, an independent woman, sealed her own conviction of it. By letting the egg enter the most sensitive parts of her body, she declared war against everything holy. The egg as an eye is the all-seeing eye of God. If God refuses to get down from his pedestal, I shall introduce him to my filth. This, at least, is my interpretation of the whole thing.

The weeks have passed since I last opened my eyes. Immobile in bed, I resort to counting the hours by the seconds, regretting nothing, and with joy in my heart, I dedicate this sacrifice to God. The matador in me wanted to open my eyes and face the bull’s horn without fear. To be an example of bravery in a world of cowardice. However this too, is not a good enough incentive to disobey God.

When a new day came, they helped me wash and dress up with I believe to be trepidation present in their voices. I wondered what could be wrong but dared not speak aloud. My mother told me, sobbing, that there’s something wrong with my head. She sobbed as she told me to remove my boxer shorts and let it all hang out.

It was here that I remember going for a visit at the psychiatrist’s a few days ago— I remember the sound of paper on pen as she wrote down what years of experience taught her to be as that which is wrong with me. Poor creature! I may respect science and medicine a lot, but it doesn’t mean I’ll mindlessly absorb their drivel hook, line, and sinker.

I could feel my mother guiding me to the living room, and from the sound of heavy breathing, I knew that my father was awaiting me. My father is a stout, beefy man, with a strong built, at least that’s what he was from the last time I saw him before I closed my eyes. Every second is an eternity, it is said, and who knows if my father hadn’t shrunk down since then? After a few more minutes of silence, my father cleared his throat and began to speak. The timbre of his voice could have been heard on that bull about to pierce me. It shook heavily with pent up anger and a hint of sadness. From where I was located, I could hear my father sobbing in quick little snorts, like a defeated man pleading his case.

“Why won’t you open your eyes, Saleem?” He asked.

I gave him my explanation as succinctly as possible. “Only God’s divine command can make me open up my eyes again.” I declared.

My father, despite his tough constitution, has always been a man given to persuasion. I know in my heart that he will be able to understand me, and even support me on my cause.

Unfortunately, the subsequent strings of events would prove that theory wrong.

I wasn’t able to see it, but I felt it reverberating to the depths of my core. I fell back on the carpet nursing my crotch. My father, with the conspiracy of my mother who told me not to were boxer briefs under my night shirt, has kicked me in the testicles.

“See, now your eyes are open!”

I failed. That raging bull has pierced my eye, and as Lot, I’ve turned into a pillar of salt. That’s what’s supposed to happen, at least.

I looked around my surroundings. Like a new born babe, everything became fairly new after weeks of self-imposed darkness: The books neatly stacked on the shelves, the curtains swaying softly in the wind, up to my parents— all was fresh again in my sight.

The terrible thoughts of turning into salt, or being pierced in the eye by a bull’s horn, all of these faded away with the light of the moon. I became a free man the moment my father performed his heroic deed.

The moon, I must insist, is also an eye. It watches over us at night, and is able to see all our dark secrets from a distance. I welcome the moon in my being through my eyes: which could now see clearly the things that matter most. The bull’s horn and Lot’s fate are distractions, eclipsing the bigger picture of the moon illuminating an otherwise bleak life.

Labels: 2020, aiko lactaotao, asian writers, filipino women writers, filipino writers, flash fiction, georges bataille, short story, south east asian writers, story of the eye