The Last Day of Tokjai (5)

 

                          Chapter 5 -  Love of Coffee

 No lie — of all the villages, I love this village the most; of all the houses, this house the most; of all the people, Mother the most. She also seems to be the most upset that I will die soon. Since she doesn't feel the need to hide her sadness like the others — that is, she can show her feelings openly — I never doubt Mother's sincerity. Whatever is inside is reflected outside in Mother's world. Tossapol is a chatterbox — talks a lot, does little. Because he talks so much, some of what he says become meaningless. He lives in a language where empty words and sentences reign, expecting those around him to admire this language and applaud him. He makes noise, makes his presence felt, shows he's afraid of being forgotten. Father is the opposite. He works hard, gets things done, but speaks little while doing so. He doesn't walk around saying, "I did this, I did that." He's quiet; he lives his joys and sorrows inside. He doesn't let a drop spill out. He is responsible for my being fed, but I have a suspicion that the daily task of putting food in my bowl three times a day is driven by a feeling of loneliness that, despite the crowd around him, never fades from his heart. Otherwise, how else to explain the precision with which this old man, who otherwise pays little attention to me, prepares my food with the meticulous care of a responsible soldier? Not only when he's home — in my wild younger days, I'd sometimes spend the night in other people's gardens. Sometimes I wouldn't come home for days. Even then, Father would somehow find me and bring my food. He was afraid I'd starve and get sick from hunger.

Mother is the middle path — like a sparkling clean mirror. When you look into her, you see the reflection you left in her, without any breakage or blur. You feel that she will unhesitatingly give back to you the small share you contributed and the huge palace she built using that small share. When it comes to growing and sharing love, Mother lives ahead of life; she grows it in her chest, develops it, and doesn't reduce her care until it flies away. Neither Tossapol nor Father can come close to Mother in this regard. That's why Mother is the pioneer of the house, the true leader. Neighbors who come to borrow money talk to her; the relative cheated by her husband, the childhood friend who hasn't won a single lottery prize in months — they all sit before Mother. She is such a pioneer that when the weather starts to cool slightly, when the evening cool begins to bother people even a little, Mother is the first to wear a cardigan. After she wears it, the villagers know it's cardigan time. Because the Isan villagers don't want to believe — even in the evening — that the weather can get cold, and they won't be convinced until they see someone else believing it.

I pass by the tables; Mother's voice grows fainter. Having given up on Tossapol, she's gone to water the tomatoes and chilies she planted behind the barn. There were also cucumbers, but I heard the neighbor's chickens pecked away at them while they were still just flowers. The Tokjai of old isn't here to chase them and scare the living daylights out of the chickens. I used to make even the crippled chickens fly. They say where there's no cat, mice will play — well, where there's no dog, chickens leave no vegetables behind. As soon as the tomatoes redden, the chickens pounce. They know good taste. What can I do? When chickens come into the garden — if I catch their scent — I just bark from where I am. They know I'm harmless, that I can't do anything to them. And that's the worst part. If being weak punches my dog pride, the fact that other animals have noticed this situation knocks me out. If I can't strike fear into their hearts, it means I've suffered my greatest loss. Can life be darker or more hopeless than that?

Anyway, enough of these gloomy thoughts — what do I need them for? Pessimism benefits neither me nor the household. From the front of the house comes the sound of a motor. I pass between two pickup trucks parked side by side and go to the front. The motor stutters sometimes, stops, then starts again. Like the sobs of a baby crying and coughing between breaths. In my youth, I loved watching the grass being cut. When the metal blade on the long stick started spinning, I'd be a little scared at first, bark once or twice, and squeeze in by the flowerpots near the front door. The sizzle as the blade touched the grass, the golden grass spraying into the air, shrouding the garden in haze until it fell, the neighbor dogs — Coffee and Lucky — starting to bark at the noise, Coffee jumping over our wall from the empty lot with the pink house in the middle and looking at me for a long time, wagging her tail…

How quickly that came to mind! When was the last time I remembered Coffee? When had I last thought of that tragic partnership? To feel the pride of being able to forget, you need to remember. What a contradiction, what an injustice! Everything about memories contains injustice! Isn't even thinking about them the same as objecting to them becoming memories? "Memories are like wine," Father would say when a little tipsy, "the older they get, the better they taste." That's how they are — what can you do? As if they exist to sadden you, to drive you mad. They come at you at the most inopportune times to take revenge for the mourning you failed to do properly in the past. The worst part is that while they occupy your mind with the crumbs of sad events, they also infuse a little pleasure. Thus, you cover the sadness of dwelling on memories with the pleasure you derive from them. Pleasure and pain, like oil and water that seem to mix but then separate, first mix, then slowly separate. They are like a drug injected into a vein. First you relax, you feel happy, you take childish pleasure in digging up old ground. Then what you've gathered grows heavy and settles on you. So much so that after a while you can't breathe. But as an adult dog who has overcome youthful delusions, I don't lose myself as easily in the swampy, deceptive softness of worn-out loves. I leave it at a taste. If I see sadness turning into a flood that will sweep me away, I jump into another memory. That's how I escape, without the slightest scratch from the venomous arrows of bitter memories.

Where was I? Coffee. Ahh, Coffee, ahh my Coffee, ahh my love that I found late and lost early, ahh my light of nights, coolness of days, ahh the sharp sword that cut my life in two… How your eyes glittered in the dark of night, how you would come and sleep on the thick cushions placed between the one-ton water tanks, how we would sneak into the neighbors' cornfields together. Didn't we often get lost among the sugarcane stalks as tall as two men, didn't we make the village's chronic dogs a little jealous. "Tokjai and Coffee, the king and queen of the village" — we were even famous for a while. Those who saw me sensed you were near, and those who saw you knew I couldn't be far. You were the only dog I shared my food with; my cushion, the shabby bed made from old clothes by the shoe rack, the wooden stool under the television mounted on the kitchen wall, the duck-shaped water pots to the right of the garden gate, the large metal cage under the two rooms added to the house — I shared everything, I wanted you to have whatever was given to me, I didn't want you to feel alone and abandoned in this garden. I wanted us to live together in this garden and die together. But life had other plans for you, and it executed them one by one, slyly.

After giving birth, you never stood up again. I so wished for you to return to your old self, to take care of our newborn babies, to drink milk and give your cubs more milk — but it didn't happen. Mother and Father tried hard too. The vet gave medicine to heal the inflammation, gave you shots so you could stand. None of it worked. You slept for days, and in the few times you opened your eyes, you remembered neither me nor your babies. The emptiness in your gaze was like the windows of an abandoned house — inside, broken furniture, moldy book bindings, dirty, dusty kitchen utensils. Yes, a family had once lived there, even enjoyed happiness to the fullest there. Then a wind had blown, carrying it all away. Now only traces remained — hazy leftovers linking past experiences to pain and suffering, and observers sighing at those remaining signs. When I couldn't see the slightest glimmer in your eyes, I knew it was a bad sign. But what could I do? A week later, you closed your eyes never to open them again. Look, now even Tokjai's eyes — the eyes of the one who never left your side — have gone blind. My eyes may not see, but the eyes of my heart still value no one but you. Do you know that? If I told you I secretly take pleasure in this loss just to feel closer to you, would you believe me?

 

Some people's eyes won't open in the morning until they've had a sip of coffee; after the first sip, they begin to perceive the world. That's what you were to me, Coffee. After I met you, I understood the world, life, the meaning of being a dog so much better. My horizons expanded, Coffee — so much that I began to see the life before I met you as the wasteful, useless days of a poor dog chasing empty tasks. There were two Tokjais: before Coffee and after Coffee. And the Tokjai who existed after Coffee was brand new — restless inside, clear-minded, open-hearted, always conscious. This power of love has always amazed me. After falling in love, you forget how you made yourself happy before, how you spent your days, what occupied your nights. Love doesn't erase the unhappiness lived before it, but the happiness — it makes it invisible, looks down on loveless lives with a selfish possessiveness. So much so that life before love seems weak and insignificant, like a candle placed next to a lamp, no one caring whether it's lit or not. That was Coffee — she came into my life like a sunken ship suddenly surfacing, burned me, changed me, transformed me, and then quietly disappeared into the same pitch-black water that had brought her to me. She gave me four babies; after giving birth, she never stood up again. She breathed her last on the mat where she gave birth to her puppies. She neither saw her puppies walk nor heard their first yelps. After she died, the puppies were given away to neighbors, and neighbors' neighbors. The love of Tokjai and Coffee spread across the earth to sprout in other lands.

"Ooo, Tokjai, is that you? You heard the motor and couldn't resist, right?"

"No, son, it's not the motor — he probably needs to pee. He's been sleeping since lunch. Open the garden gate so he can go out. He likes to go by the neighbor's wall."

"You're really something, Tokjai. The garden is surrounded by walls. You've been going out for years to pee on the neighbor's wall."

I hear the rumble of the heavy garden gate's steel wheels sliding on the metal track. In the old days — when I was young and strong — I didn't bother with the gate. I'd jump over the wall, then down. All in two leaps — hop, hop, and I'm out. Mother even had an iron fence built on top of the walls, but it didn't stop me. I'd still find my way, discover the spots where the fence had bent from rain and wind, and somehow release myself into the freedom of the street. Now, they slide the iron gate open because even the threshold might be an obstacle for me. There's also a hinged gate at the beginning of the wall that swings open, but they think I won't manage the threshold or will trip and fall. Oh, those days — from Tokjai, whom not even walls could stop, to Tokjai, for whom a threshold seems like a hill. Though in the evenings they do open this hinged gate, and if I really feel like it, I go out, bark a couple of times, and come back. I check what the neighbor dogs are up to. I sniff around; I fill my being with the smell of flowers, insects, and dust coming from afar. There aren't many cars on the village road in the evening, and I've learned to stay to the side — as long as even my tail touches the bushes, I'm safe.

"Father, does that black-and-white cat belong to the neighbor or is it a stray? He was around here last time I came too."

"He belongs to the neighbor, but not the ones next door — the motorcycle repair shop on the other side of the sugarcane field. They have four cats and two dogs."

I draw the cat's scent into me. A discharge, like hard nails rubbed on dry wood, comes to the tips of my paws. An icy waterfall runs through me. It's a natural reaction from my weak heart. No matter how hard I try to establish friendly relations with cats, my body gives its natural response, straining me to the end. Luckily, I'm not a spineless robot as some people think. I know very well whom to ally with, whom to show compassion to, and whom not to tolerate. If it's the cat I think it is, I used to know its grandfather. He was a nice cat; we didn't startle each other when we met in the village. As you know, we dogs traditionally don't like cats — we find them rude, ungrateful, and snobbish. There are many cats in our village, but they're not often seen during the day. So, people think we dogs have chased them all off. They come out at night to hunt — they sometimes enter our garden. I don't make a sound. Why would I? After all, they don't steal my food. I don't chase them for drinking two drops of water from my bowl. Water is abundant in this house. Besides, they catch the mice stationed around the barn and chase the geckos that have grown large enough to harm the household. By the principle "the enemy of my enemy is my friend," I get along well with cats — or rather, I ignore them. They don't abuse my goodwill either. When they're in the garden, they disturb neither me nor the household. They come quietly, do their business, and leave. I don't know where they go in the dark, or what dark passages they slip their heads into when they need to sleep. Honestly, I don't care much. Also, I find it funny how they stare at anything that moves and then chase after it, regardless of what it is. They can't resist moving objects — they attack immediately, as if their cat identity would be damaged if they didn't chase. I'm describing such cats, but don't think I'm looking down on cats. Maybe in this garden, yes, I need to show I'm the boss. Outside the garden, we are equals. And now I'm outside the garden. I smell my own scent on the bushes where I always pee. Hmm, the neighbor's dog has peed here too. That's a bad sign, but there's nothing I can do. If he were nearby, I'd tell him not to. Who knows where he is? He's only five — in the prime of his youth. He has enough energy to run from one end of the village to the other, enough appetite to wolf down three bowls of food in one sitting, enough affection to wag his tail from side to side like a car's windshield wiper when he senses his owner is near.

 

"Tokjai, hurry up and pee so I can close the gate. Look, it's late afternoon — cars are passing on the road."

"Tos, you tell your mother — I'm going as far as your uncle's house. I'll pick up something for dinner too. And I'll get some food for Tokjai — some protein, so he heals quickly."

"Okay, Father, I'll tell her. Don't be late. Come on, Tokjai, get inside."

"Leave him, son — nothing will happen. He doesn't go on the road like he used to — he's scared. He knows where to stop."

Yes, I'm scared. Like everyone else, I don't want to die. But at the same time, the thought that life might continue like this — as torture — for a very long time disturbs my mind. Not wanting to die is one thing; not objecting to death when it stands before me is another, right? My state is like that of a criminal who, tired of running, surrenders to the police who've been chasing him for a long time. I haven't lost my will to live, but if death comes and says, "Come on, Tokjai, you've lived enough. It's time to put out this fire. Come, let me take you to nibbana," I'd surrender my soul without much resistance, without huffing and puffing, without setting the world ablaze. I'm not tired of living — I'm tired of not being able to live. Even Father has understood: "He knows where to stop," he says of me. My place now is at the edges; the middle of the road and the squares are not for me. How suitable to a dog's identity is the life of a dog who can't run, can't walk properly, can't see his surroundings, can't make new puppies, whose smell repels anyone from coming near him, whose wounds breed maggots, who walks around in a cloud of flies? I can't even break bones with my mouth like I used to. Inner surface of my mouth hurts; before I can break a tiny chicken bone, I have to turn my jaw thirty times, bend and twist my mouth thirty times. So, I'm glad Father is going to get food from the place near Uncle's house. Boiled rice mixed with broth is my most preferred meal these last few months. Sometimes they also put fatty bits stripped from meat into my bowl — I can get those down without too much difficulty. Though I don't have much of an appetite anyway!

"Come on, Tokjai, don't make me regret opening the gate."

I bark. Not at Tossapol, but at the road passing through the middle of the village — the road I can no longer walk down, the road where children will still ride their bicycles to school after I'm dead. Tossapol is a little startled but doesn't say anything. Maybe he's laughing at my high-pitched voice from weakness, my limping body, my face unchanged for so many years, the greenish discharge hardening from my blind eyes… I bark because I'm sad, I bark because I can't put that insolent dog in his place, I bark because my voice is the last thing I can give to this world. When my voice goes off, I too will go. Will any void be felt — in the minds of villagers raising glasses of beer against the darkness in the far corners of the village, eating spicy snacks? And what about the teachers at the school at the mouth of the village road — will they remember my name after I'm dead? "There was a Tokjai who came to school every day, who sat in the back of the classroom, listened to the lesson, and went home with the other children in the evening" — will they say that when they enter the garden and don't see me there? Will they talk about the legend of Tokjai among themselves?

"I'm closing the gate, Tokjai. Come inside. I'll fill a bucket with the grass I cut and burn it in the back of the garden."

I stopped barking. There's a relief inside me I can't explain. I guess barking did me good. I walk slowly toward the gate. Meanwhile, I hear the sound of the closing gate sliding on the metal track. I stop, motionless and breathless. I wait a while. Did Tossapol just say "bucket"? Yes, he said bucket. Once more, I bark long and loud — I even howl like a wolf, lifting my head to the sky. Bucket, yes. Damn it. I bump into the trash can placed by the magnolia tree because I'm not paying attention. I turn slightly to the right. How did I get here? Yes, he said bucket! Under my feet, dry soil, stones large and small; this tree on my left that I smell must be the magnolia. The swing should be here — the one Tossapol likes to sit on before his morning coffee. I lie down under it gently, careful not to hurt my wounds.