by John Okas
The guardian rises, stands behind Gloria, closes his eyes and moves his hands in spiralling counterclockwise circles over her. He speaks in a strange language, gently and melodically. “Bo-gha-sid-dhi, bo-gha-sid-dhi, bo-gha-sid-dhi.” He mumbles over each present, apparently asking heaven’s blessings. Taking his seat again, he looks around the table and says, “Now please bear with me as I go back, over the long prenatal logarithms past when I was the germ of whom I turned out to be, back before I was who I am sitting here today, to the Word I was originally …” He closes his eyes and begins to chant more sing-song syllables, repeating them with only minor variations. It reminds Laudette of the chants of the Nussbaum irregulars.
She says, “Now hold your horses with the ‘cheese’, Mister Qwats. Let’s forget the long-winded log rhythms and those nasty old germs. In this country we have a saying, ‘When in the Eternal City, do as they do’. You’re on the Freeway now, this isn’t way back there in fairy tale land. Keep in mind that talk is cheap. Please get to the point: tell us about Sugar.”
“Excuse me, Miss Lord. Let me assure you Pingp’yangpoong is no fairy land. But many things which are a natural part of life there will seem peculiar to you. For instance our audiences as a rule don’t mind a long chant before the story. They don’t care for too much tension in the plot and will not feel cheated if there is no sense of an ending. In our way, we simply try to paint a clear picture of the land and the mind of the people. Just as life goes on after death, nothing is ever finished. We say, ‘A building is only as good as its foundation.’ And so by chanting I was hoping to give you a better understanding of the monotony the events of my life in Poong took root in, and would spin these ancient sounds eventually into an Inklish autobiography. The story of my life would be boring except for all the remarkable people in it. It so happens that Lady Bharani is in the most recent chapter.”
“Nobody asked to hear your life’s history, or your country’s. The folks over there might not care much for action, but here on the Freeway we say, ‘Come on, let’s skip to the chase’. How many times do I have to tell you, Mister Qwats? It’s Sugar we want to know about.”
He looks to Gloria who rolls her eyes to let him know she knows how exasperating the sitter can be. She finds, with the wine hitting its mark in her brain, that she is suddenly in no hurry to hear about her mother, and would just as soon have the tale as this most intriguing character would tell it.
“Obviously, Lawsy, Mummy is alive and well! The very fact this Angel boy is here tells us that. I can understand what he means. Hearing the last chapter first would spoil the tale he has for us.”
“Well, the suspense is already killing me. What did happen?”
“You see the way it is, Angel? Old Lawdy will keep us permanently regressed with her complaints unless she gets to the ending first. But please keep it short; leave as much of the mystery intact as possible.”
“Well, Miss Lord, you know, Lady Bharani and I have a remarkable friend in common, Lord Bharavi. We met because of him. Presently they’re living the high life together up White Cloud Way.”
Laudette shakes her head and grumbles, “That’s just what I was afraid of.”
Gloria says, “It’s dawning on me, Lawdy, you were telling the truth after all when you confirmed there really was something in this story beyond the imaginations of Mummy and her nutty friends. If this Flying Monkey is as real as the nose on my face, it’s about time I learned something about his religion. And, I can smell this Angel Boy here is just the one to let me in on the ground floor. I’m more interested in getting to the bottom of things than I am in hearing the latest word on Mummy. She was never happy here. In fact she was barely here when she was here. It looks to me from the picture that she’s gone on to a better place. That’s enough to satisfy me.”
Gloria is having a merry time herself, waking up to the reality that magic is a fact in the world as well as in her mind. She laughs, and makes eyes at Pun. “I couldn’t be more delighted Mummy’s changed into you, Angel. Start wherever you want, and if you want to go on mumboing and jumboing, so be it. Amen.”
Pun Qwats looks back and forth between Laudette and Gloria and offers a compromise. “In many ways the maturing of one man summarizes the history of a whole race. How about if I just start with my own life and times, and hope that they will shed light backwards on the history of my people? But I will say this, to sum up all the Poongi formulas and guidelines that are to precede a story, ‘The end of one story is the beginning of another, so sit back, relax, and float downstream …’”
Art in Heaven
Glad to be Alive
And here, with obviously so much more to tell, Art closes his eyes and brings our book of the dead, will-we nill-we, to a conclusion.
I know there’s more light ahead. After all, Pun Qwats did more than raise Glory. He’s the same sweet guardian angel who watched over us when we were children, and who to this day is my mentor. He swings with words the way his namesake in the The Good Book swung with the horn. From time to time, I’ve had bits and pieces of the story of his early life from him, but never the whole thing, from the beginning.
“I say, Artie boy, don’t stop now! I knew from the start that the Nastis and the Kimrakazis would lose the war, that the good guys would win. If the enemy stayed in us, you and I wouldn’t have been here. But I want to know all about Pun Qwats. How exactly did our grandmother meet him? And why did he agree to change places with her and become Old Glory’s slave?”
“In reality, life goes on. You don’t find everything out. You die. That is the end of any genuine life. Why should it not be true of truthful books? Morning, look, the embers in the fireplace are cold, and out the window, it’s so late it’s early.”
I go to the glass. The night has passed, and the storm with it. Rows of white fluff are streaming overhead, running in front of a chill northwest wind that is clearing the air. The incoming winter has no sting in the wake of Art in Heaven.
“Morning,” he says, coming up behind me, “the angel’s tale is better saved for another time.” He touches me with his brilliant hand, and his light runs through me. “If I want to stick to my policy of happy endings, this is a good place to rest. Sarah’s prayers are answered. Gloria has a man around the house she can count on. Not Corn Dog exactly, but Pun Qwats, a man, as we well know, every bit as singular as the buck.”
In Art we trust. And Pun Qwats, too. He never left us wanting for a grandfather, a grandmother, a mother or a father. He spoiled us, schooled us, and counseled us even though he had his hands full taking care of our mother too. “Yes, brother, it’s a long spin for one sitting. It will take me a year to sort out what I’ve heard already tonight. Go now, I won’t hold you. But do promise me you’ll be back.”
“You have my word, Morning, I will.”
When the first ray of sunlight enters the room, Art slips into it, disappears and makes himself omnipresent in one pass.
Art is gone, back to being everywhere, shining. And I am left alone, in one spot, trapped among the living for the time being, and happy for it. With Art faded into the All and the fire out, I feel the chill in the house. As if on cue, at that moment, the power comes back. The lamps go on and the clocks start ticking again. I go into the hall, push up the thermostat, and hear the old oil burner in the basement come clanking into operation. I fix myself a cup of tea in the kitchen and, while I wait for the water heater to warm my bath, I sit at the table, drink tea, and write down all I saw while I still remember it. I bring it upstairs to read over as I draw a hot bath. But I quickly put it aside, welcoming the steam from the running water and the whoosh of warm air from the heat vents on me as I undress. In the water, I lie back, breathe deeply, and see Art in Heaven brightening my mind and dissolving the hold the first person singular has on my flesh.
Now, sleepy, feeling the full effects of being up all night, and the warm bath, I go to my room, to bed, sliding between the covers, engrossed in idle nonsense dreams, glad to be al
ive, my head achatter with bright days ahead.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1995 by John Okas
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2476-1
The Permanent Press
4170 Noyac Road
Sag Harbor, NY 11963
www.thepermanentpress.com
Distributed by Open Road Distribution
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
