Sam On The Near Side

Dear Eleanor,

I’m trying to imagine you reading this letter. You’ve probably picked it up from beneath the spillage of magazines and utility bills below the mail slot, and hidden it somewhere in your bedroom. I’m guessing you’ll save it until Sunday morning when you can read it over coffee, store-bought pastries, and the Times (are you still afraid of our beloved Post?) I suspect it is still cold over there this time of year. You’ve wrapped yourself in that pink bathrobe that I once said made you look like a famous panther (have I been forgiven for that?). You probably don’t notice them, but I’m imagining the sounds and smells of our beloved city in the background. The white noise around your brick house on university hill is painting an image in my head. It’s beautiful, but probably inaccurate due to outdated information.

I know, I haven’t written in a while. My output of letters these days is not what it used to be, which is sad because I’ve missed the sound of my pen against cheap, course, Chinese paper. When I first arrived in this place, I was writing volumes of letters to friends and family back in the “world,” as I started calling it (I think I read the term in book somewhere). They were well received, and so I kept writing more of them. It seemed that the people who read them were thrilled to read something about the strange, distant, and exotic. A friend from university once called me, “Sam On The Far Side,” in response to a rather lengthy essay about the great distances I traveled. However, as life became less exotic and more ordinary, my writing turned into something less interesting to my audience. The responses slowed to a trickle until I received no news from the “world” at all. It did not matter to me very much at the time. By that point I was so engrossed in what I was doing over here that I didn’t care about what was happening over there. However, I decided yesterday that I should write one last series of letters. And who better to write to than you, dear friend?

The farm is still as fertile as our last correspondence. The various, ingenious mechanical inventions we installed on it have allowed us to increase production tenfold. I wish you could see this place, I really do. Even after all of these years of living here, the beauty of the land has not diminished at all for me. I go walking throughout my little kingdom every evening at dusk, and I inhale the sensory exhilaration from all that comes near. The red sun hovers above the black lines of coconut trees scattered on the horizon as I stroll through the fields. Near our small orchard, the cows are sitting down. Their white, long faces reveal fatigue and desire for rest. Even the chickens in the coop near the house are silent. They know they’d better go to sleep before the rooster wakes them up at the crack of dawn. Only when the dim light fades, do I make my way towards the house. The cool air slides past my rolled up sleeves, and my sandals move silently upon the dirt. Can you picture me as a farmer? You said once that you could barely picture me as a teacher. It’s true, I did love the nightclubs, early morning coffee, and fast moving trains in my previous youthful life, but I wouldn’t trade this land for anything. The feelings I have for this patch of earth has grown and developed over the years, and yet it is this land that will be the cause of my eventual ruin.

I’m dying, El. The fecund nature of the climate has created within me a kind of rot that is eating me from within (I always thought that there was something sinister sounding about the word “bio-diversity”). It’s a slow and painful process. The native people developed thick, waterproof skins a long time ago in order to protect them from such diseases. The same cannot be said of men whose ancestors wrapped themselves in bearskins to fend off the cold. I tried to keep myself clean and dry as best I could, but ultimately it was no use. My body was penetrated by the rot some years ago, and has lay dormant until now. I can feel it coursing through my veins, and choosing a target from where it will eventually spread to other parts of my body. Who knew that an environment capable of creating such beauties as the lotus flower would prove to be so fatal?

I haven’t sought Western medical treatment for it because I know that what I have is beyond even their powers to heal. You always worried about my health, and I hate that I am telling you this now after all the advice you gave me over the years. You must believe me that I did take care of myself as best I could. Consider this an unintended consequence of a tropical lifestyle. No matter. I’m proud of what I have done here. Have you ever heard of a man stripping himself of all his former habits and customs as I have done? D.H. Lawrence, eat your heart out. I’m telling you, Eleanor, it’s something I had dreamed of doing, and now I’ve done it. What does it matter if it has cost me a life? What I have done is so much greater.

The height of the hot season is coming up on us rather quickly, and I’m forced to write these letters at my desk during the cool of night before I succumb to the darkness and fatigue. I’ll write more when my strength returns to me. You wouldn’t believe how terrible this season can be. Imagine our summers in the city, only with no ice, air-conditioning, fans, or anything else like that. I once tried to install a bicycle powered ceiling fan in our house, but it did not make any sense because I would have to work up a great deal of sweat before it would really begin to work. If you have any ideas as to how to keep cool, let me know. I’m always open to suggestions. Enjoy your winter.

Cheers,
-Sam


Eleanor,

It’s truly a damn nuisance when you can’t walk. The rot has installed itself in my feet at long last, and I can barely get around the house without a great deal of pain. My wife (yes, I’m married El, but I know that you are not the least bit jealous) is quite beside herself. She insists on being my nurse, but I would rather not have her see me in my present state. On most days, I send her to the market to sell some of the fruits and vegetables we have grown in one of our gardens. I think she knows that I don’t want her to see me suffer and stumble about in my debilitated state, and that I’m constantly sending her away on purpose. She still goes to the market anyway. Her friends are there. They can console her in ways that a husband never could.

We don’t have any children, and it is impossible for us to have any now. The part of me that the disease killed off first was actually the part that would have made that possible. My wife, I think, was the most disappointed by this development. I think she desired a child from me so that she would have had something to remember me by when I’ve been eaten alive. She never told me, of course. Her expressionless face is still hard to read after some odd years of marriage, but I’ve known her long enough to know when she wants to tell me something, but can’t. Our dinners together have been kept in the normal and unintentional silence as a result. She always wanted children, and I can’t blame her for that. A childless marriage is looked down upon over here, and I’m sure all a neighbor would have to do is look at her with a hard glare to say, “Why no children?”

The people know now, of course, the reason for this. Nothing is ever kept secret here. There have been several attempts to cure me through their knowledge of traditional medicine and contact through the spirit world (You shouldn’t look down upon the power of superstition!). On one occasion, the elders came to my house to try and exorcise the evil demons from my infected body. A troupe of six men and women arrived, and brought with them the instruments of supernatural torture. First they took a glass teacup and put it within the coals of our woodstove until the edges of it glowed red. Then, using forceps, they placed it on my skin squarely in the middle of my forehead. I felt the searing heat down into the back of my eyes. I screamed, and they said this was good because the demons were reacting to the pain through me as a vessel. They then scraped my entire body with a rough sort of coin until the skin was red and bleeding. When the magic was done, I was a raw boiled lobster ready to be broken in half. Despite all of this trouble, I am still dying. I do find some comfort in the fact that by going though all of these practices, I am at last going through a kind of pre-death ritual (you remember how I just adore rituals?). I’m guessing that you find this just a little bit morbid; it is part of the process that I’ve begun to be a little bit fond of.

Do you remember the day before I left? I asked you if you would come out with me on one last romp around the city. You initially said no, saying that your husband would never approve of such an act. I pleaded, and you finally relented. I always liked your husband, and I hope that the episode did not cause too much trouble with him. I would have invited him as well, but a night out with an old friend isn’t exactly the same as a night out with an old school friend and her husband. We went downtown and saw a movie at the Alliance Française that we both wanted to see. I teased you by saying that you used to speak French, but you responded by shouting one of your Russian diatribes at me. It translated as “having more important things to do with your time,” and it was heartbreaking for a moment. You know how I have always loved the French. We got out, and dusk was settling over the alabaster buildings along Constitution Avenue.

We walked there from Dupont Circle (Why did we walk? The metro could have taken us in five minutes). We passed an old green house with yellow awnings that we always used to say was haunted. (I saw something like it a few years ago in this country when I went down the river a ways to visit a friend and buy some supplies. I think a Frenchman lived there during the days of European conquest, and it is amazing that something like that still stands. When I saw it, all the memories of youth came flooding back to me, as if ghosts were telepathically putting them in my head from the great beyond. I think your right, my dear. I think that house is haunted.) We strolled past the dark places and the white monuments, and came back to our favorite Greek restaurant on the other end of Eastern Market. I drank too much red wine there, and I remember you telling me that, despite having a purple mouth yourself. You wore a terrific dress, though I didn’t tell you (I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea). Summers in the city were lovely, even though everyone else hated them. The next day, I left for a place that carried that summer right into January and beyond.

No letters after this for a while. My wife has begged me to see a Western doctor in the capital for some time, and I have finally relented. These foreign devils think they can cure anything that they see before them, but I think that I will soon prove them wrong.

-Sam

Ellie,

Have you ever lived in a tropical climate? Nearly every day is the same except for two: the day the rainy season begins, and the day when it ends. Other than that, there is no real difference in the weather. The same brilliant blue sky appears at least at some point during the day, and the darkness envelopes our surroundings around the same time every evening. Time marches on in a continuous goose-stepping parade towards the future. Thus, I live in perpetual July. I have no way of knowing when or at what stage in time will be that where I am forced to leave this world. That vague sense of the future is probably what is keeping me buoyant.

The doctor in the capital told me what I already knew. Maybe I have a year or so to live? It is hard to say. It was already a painful trip down to that awful place. The bus jerked and bumped over every goddamn pothole on the road, and the entire journey felt like an ill-maintained carnival ride. The disease has halted its progress for the time being, which is the only reason why I could even go on this insane expedition. Lately the ratio of my diseased body to my healthy body has been similar to the cafés au lait I get at a restaurant in our provincial town. On some days, there is more milk than coffee, and on others there is more coffee than milk. The same with my body: some days more diseased than healthy Sam, others more healthy Sam than diseased. You never quite know what the amalgam of the two is going to be.

When I arrived at the hospital, I went through all the procedures of checking in. After a short lifetime in purgatory, I met a fresh-faced young doctor who was just off the boat from America. He was very enthusiastic about his work, to say the least. He shook my hand vigorously, causing me a lot of pain, before we got down to brass tacks. After a humiliating physical exam and about a hundred tests done in their basement laboratory, the young man came and told me that there was nothing they could do for me. He then asked if I was going to go back to my home country to be with loved ones before I died. It wasn’t any of his business, but I told him that all of my loved ones were here. He seemed rather perplexed by this, and looked at me like one does upon seeing the quadratic equation for the first time. I didn’t bother explaining my story to him. What would be the use? I thanked him for his time, and left. It was late in the day, but I didn’t bother getting a hotel. I simply hung around in a café drinking glass after glass of tea until the next bus came bound for the rural serenity I call my home.

I know your husband is a doctor, El, but you must not take this letter as a symbol of burning hatred for Hippocrates and all who take his oath. I am sure that their wondrous abilities have increased tremendously during the years that I stopped paying attention to the world. I am also sure that there are many cures and treatments for diseases that would have once thought to be virtually impossible. Mine, however, is still not among them. That sort of makes me feel special in a bizarre sort of way. I could have said to the doctor, “Ha! The tiny creatures eating away at my flesh and soul and I have defeated you and all of modern science!” I didn’t say this simply out of respect for polite conversation.

Speaking of your husband, let him know I said hello. From “Sam On the Far Side,” to “Sam on the Near Side!” (Admit it, you never could resist our name. I think Oscar Wilde has a play written about the attraction of names. You know the one I am talking about. If it is playing at theatre sometime, you should go and see it. I would if I were you)

Much Love,

-Sam

El,

When a person changes his cultural settings, what do you think they think of first? Food. This is followed by sex, but usually those with less prurient interests think of their stomachs first. Even to this day, I still have a strong obsession with bread. I went so far as to build a mud oven behind our house solely for the purpose of creating this delicacy. The result, which mystified our friends and neighbors, was something resembling the desired creation but not entirely. I’m sure that the disgusted owner of a patisserie would have loved to take a sledgehammer to my oven and batches of bread if he ever saw what I was doing. I myself was satisfied with what I managed to create, but no one around me would eat it! It is sad to see such a wonderful and delicious piece of work go to waste like that.

You have probably noticed the change in handwriting by now. I’m in bed, and I am dictating this letter to my wife. She doesn’t speak English very well, but she knows the alphabet enough to take down letters. I’ve hit a bad spell in the disease, and I’m beginning to think that this is the beginning of the end. Yes yes, I know. I’m so dramatic. I always hoped that the only dying I would have to do would be to perform a standup comedy routine at my high school talent show. If you’re hearing crickets right now, then my point has been proved exactly.

Did I ever explain to you why I never came back? I suppose it is something I’ve hinted at, but never fully explained during our correspondence. I do hope that I get the right answer this time (my reasons change every time I think about it). It’s nothing surreptitious, of course. I’ve tried to make it known to as many people as possible, but the fact is that hardly anyone believes me when I tell them. I trust you will be most understanding, El.

The simple answer is that I became quite comfortable in the new life that I was leading, and I did not want to simply abandon it. You remember how I first came over here as a teacher, yes? I taught the people here everything that I know. History, geography, English, French, Chinese, and astronomy were all part of my various curricula. When I finished, I had a choice. I could have either gone back home, or stayed to try and eke out an existence for myself. I had made a few friends, and I was fairly comfortable in this life. Up until that point, I had seen my experiences as continuing process of needless abandonment. Once I had gotten fairly comfortable with one life and one particular living arrangement, then it became time to rip myself away from it. Essentially, going back would continue this process (funny to think of a former home as being part of the unfamiliar, isn’t it?). So I decided to break this pattern. I stayed and made a life for myself among these people. I bought some land, and learned how to bring it into submission through irrigation and plowing. I married, became ever fluent in the language, and slowly began to replace the local customs with ones that I had imported from far away states. The only thing I kept from my previous life was my native language, although there were many times when I simply wanted to forget it. I’m glad I didn’t though, for I would have never been able to write these letters to you.

It’s Christmas Eve here on the far side. The fiery, red sunset, and the radio is blaring an advertisement that has something to do with “crissma.” There’s no snow, and I don’t think that Santa Clause delineates this far from his trajectory to drop presents. Still, it would be nice if he dropped by. I don’t have any cookies for him, but maybe he would accept a bowl of fish-head soup?

Merry Christmas!

-Sam

My Dearest Eleanor,

I must tell you that this will be my last letter. You should know that I have taken great joy in writing these letters, and there is no else whom I would have shared my final thoughts with. I imagine you are sad at receiving this news, but please don’t let it upset you. I have led a happy life, and I have no regrets. The pain from the rot is now extraordinary; I have felt nothing like it before! Imagine a million tiny mouths running wild throughout your body, gnawing away at your flesh and gorging themselves on your blood. I shall overcome the microscopic monsters to finish this letter. They haven’t defeated me yet!

As I have lain in bed during the last few days, I have continually thought about what I’ve wanted to write to you about in this final letter. The obsession of writing “the perfect letter” has gripped me from time to time, as if this series would come to an explosive and fulfilling climax. Instead I have foolishly wasted both ink and paper, both of which are precious commodities, and am doing what I do best; rambling. I wouldn’t be quite your beloved Sam if I didn’t ramble, yes? Despite this shortcoming, there are several things that I need to tell you before I succumb to fatigue.

If there is anything to be gained by these letters, it would be the comforting feeling of knowing that I am understood by at least one person. I have found that when you live in a situation such as mine, the desire for understanding becomes chief among the hopes and dreams of the present. Many people back in our home country as well over here did not understand why I left places like your brick house and never returned. There’s a certain amount of alienation and loneliness that comes with that.

I have also discovered that life is also a continuing process of trying to understand the world around you. Often enough, many of your attempts and conclusions that you draw are proved false. Even though I have lived here for many years, and have learned a great deal about how this society operates, there are still aspects of this culture of which I know nothing about. When confronted with these, my ignorance forces me to admit that I know very little around me. I remember one incident during the early years of my presence that provoked this thinking.

I was waiting for a taxi in our village one day hoping to go to the provincial capital. While I was pacing around and kicking the dirt with my feet, a woman came up to me and started asking me questions. There are few foreigners around where I am, even fewer back then; therefore, this was not an uncommon occurrence. However, it did seem that this woman was more aggressive than most other people. After a minute or two, she started poking me in the chest, very impolite, and shouting in my ear. One of the men nearby was watching the scene unfurl, and quickly moved at this point to gently move the woman away. I watched dumbstruck with my mouth hanging open as she was taken away. One of the passengers in the shared taxi ride later told me that her husband has run off with another woman, and that she was crazy because of that. For a person such as myself, this was almost hard to believe. Having spent the better part of a year in the country, I had grown accustomed to seeing the seemingly strange and the bizarre as part of normal and everyday life. This being so, I couldn’t even recognize craziness when it was right in front of me. I thought that it was all completely normal. It was a seminal moment; for I could see how little I understood about the world I was living in. I still have moments like these on occasion. While they are a bit discomforting, I recognize their value.

I am saying all of this to you, El, because all of this, all of the things I’ve lived through and seen have showed me how important the desire for understanding is to me, if not for the whole human race. I would be happy to know that you have understood even a thousandth of what I have done in my struggle to live as I have done. I would have loved to hear from you (my mailbox at the post office was taken away because of disuse some years ago), but like I said, “I have no regrets.”

I imagine that you are reading this over your morning coffee, and eating the croissants that you have bought from Quartermains. The little pastries have made your fingers greasy, which has made the edges of the letter transparent. You are trying to wipe the grease off, but it really isn’t working. Don’t worry about it. I’d rather have this letter as tasty as possible. Go and sip your coffee, as it is getting cold.

Sincerely and Affectionately,

-Samuel Ashley