The Man Who Learned to Fly

A peaceful view of Earth was all he wanted. Everyday, since the day he discovered a uniqueness which everyone around him perceived both with awe and aberration, he wished he could get away from all the trivial things humanity deemed most important in their lives, and just see the planet as it is behind clouds of summer. He longed for freedom like birds carelessly flapping their wings as they migrate during winter; or perhaps, a gently falling dry leaf in an autumn afternoon. But he waited for spring that wouldn’t come; he was young, and youth has its own plans, changing as the breeze changes with the seasons.

Gravity, on the other hand, kept him locked in a cage. In a circus town like theirs, his relatives, more of blood rather than relation, thought it great revenue to display such gifts befitted only for gods of yesterday, reduced now to an attraction with man’s progress. Negotiations were done(which sold him at a price of a sack of rice excluding food allowance), and found himself surrounded by sweaty, red-faced crowd gawking at him as he flies around his cell as spacious as a box. Naturally he became the favorite, short of a tourist attraction. People flocked around him but treated it all as part of an act, a freak show rather than acknowledge, much more respect, a grand accident of beauty; he deserved adoration as a triumph of the species, instead he was thrown with patronizing clanging of five and ten peso coins.

At first, he tried to show what strength resides in his spirit, showing them the wonders of a harmonious marriage between corporeal existence and spiritual essence. He showed them how featherlight every molecule of his body in motion, like a soft dance of anatomy with an imagined crescendo of a sonata. At times, in his darkest flair, he would furiously barrel through the metal bars clanging them as a hurricane would, often sending the crowd stampeding to a safe distance. He somehow tried to tell everyone present to celebrate the potentials of an ever evolving race, to see beyond what conformity has to offer and take risks for something as rare as a man in flight. Instead, like a bush fire, fear of the unknown burned through the multitude, quickly instilling contempt at something more human than what is conventionally accepted as human.

People started to talk. Many wondered how someone like them was able to do the things they themselves cannot perform naturally, therefore something unnatural, abnormal. Skepticism and mysticism became the outward manifestations of the many unable to rationalize something otherworldly--- minds accustomed to petty matters trying to come in grips with someone simpler but bigger than they can put reason into. Theories abound; some concluded that it was all an illusion; some offered that he cheated, a trickster hidden with invisible strings attached to his skin; some believed it was the work of the devil or angels or ghosts; some believed he was a flaw of nature and should be studied closely, dissected for scientific purposes; while some, mostly children and the child-like, see him as a hero.

“Are you Superman,” asked a boy once. “Are you here to save the world?”

“No,” he would usually smile. “I’m just a man.”

As time passed slowly, people got used to his talent, dismissing him as someone dismisses a conjoined twin or a three-fingered man; he in turn got older. At night, when the sky was at its darkest, he would usually spend his time staring at the stars standing out like lighted pearls against a velvet background. He felt something slipping away from him; something he knew he would have to fight to preserve a rare gem hidden inside his soul. Nights like these, the despair of defeat slowly overcame his nature.

Withered and forgotten, he spent less and less time flying; his body slowly giving in to the wishes of gravitational pull. His eyes became that of a tired old man with days behind him wasted without remembrance or regret; a mathematical progression of dates and numbers like useless grains of sand slowly draining away to the shores of the cosmos. And he hated that thought, that feeling of uselessness knowing that fate have given him an extraordinary gift of flying; how he longed to spread his wings again.

Eventually, he got tired of waiting for Spring to come. He summoned every strength left in his body and broke the shackles that imprisoned him for what seems like a hundred years. He did the barrel rolls he used to do and tried to force through the metal bars until his very bones broke through the cold steel. Finally, he felt the winds of freedom caress his face as he zoomed away out of the sleepy town towards the barely lit horizon. He stretched his hands touching the clouds making way for the man who flew without wings. He felt speed beneath him, knowing that the thick atmosphere could do nothing to impede his approach to the velocity of light, washing away what was left of humanity that stained his God-given fate to embrace the universe. At last, he found his wish: he now saw Earth as it is, with the pearl-like lights of a billion stars behind him against a velvet background. He marveled how a small, blue planet could bring so much life in a place cold with darkness--- an anomalous specimen in a black sea of infinite marbles devoid of the living. He immersed himself with this peaceful thought, continuing his fight with gravity until he can fight it no more. As air gave way to the cold vacuum beyond, the man in flight finally learned to fly.

A View to A Soul (a tribute to O.Henry)

Being for the benefit of the complacent masses safely provided for with the fattening, present-day comforts, there exist such men who persevere, one way or the other, to free themselves of the monotone, hum-drum urban living brought about by the modern age. Whereas most 21st century city-dwellers satisfy themselves with a day of countless hours of menial labor, and a night spent on soft couches watching transmitted melodramatic tales of convoluted plot (as opposed to medieval conquests of the Holy Grail and pointless wars), a very small portion of the population refused the servitude of capitalism and seeks out the almost forgotten romantic, chivalrous notions of tradition and adventure out there, on the gray, decaying streets of Manila— and so far, in this country of course, at least but one man understood both.

As his custom, Mr. Carpidio Martin entered casually via the kitchen backdoors, preferring them instead of the gold-framed glass entrance fronting the plush restaurant specializing, uniquely in these parts of the city, the very best of steaming Asian dishes. Every year, once a year and always after the greetings of the season when it is much colder, as per tradition, a homeless destitute gets to win an invite akin to lottery from the man revered not only by balding men who knew success inside the wood-paneled board rooms, but also by the lowly beggars and flesh peddlers that line the darkened streets of Ongpin. Mr. Martin seated himself at a corner table for two, and whispered discreetly to his driver to usher in the expected guest of the evening. The corporate man was greeted with a freshly pressed suit, but crumbling fingernails nonetheless.

“Good evening, Sir,” said the guest with much politeness.
“Good evening,” replied Mr.Martin offering the seat. “Do you prefer the buffet upstairs or do you fancy it ala carte?”
“Whichever way that pleases you, Sir. Frankly, I just need a warm meal.”
“Then it is your night. I much prefer a good conversation as well.”

Having seen the face of hunger brought about by poverty before, Mr. Martin observed that the man in front of him kept himself as clean as he could, deducing further based on the smoothness of expression that this homeless could not have been there long out on the streets and is unaccustomed to heavy work.

Following his established tradition of good taste coupled with a distinctly eccentric show of philanthropy, Mr. Martin ordered first the soup of the day, which is made exotic more by its rare, endangered ingredients from the rock walls of Palawan, than by it’s actual taste(all but for a little above the minimum wage a bowl, highly recommended!). It was followed by plates of crab meat salad, spicy shrimp, cua pao, fried dumplings, steaming yang chow fried rice, and the veritable delicacy of the house, the ever-famous Peking duck served with sweet sauce the chef claimed to be Shezuan’s most heavily guarded secret. By dessert comprised of mango puree with tapioca balls and sugar cane juice, the evening’s guest recovered most of his color and was into heavy conversations about personal adventures of his work. Unknown to the host, the most benign of situations can bring forth the unexpected thrill most adventurers search for a lifetime in faraway lands.

“You know,” blurted the guest between mouthfuls of prawn crackers. “I wasn’t always like this. I am thankful though of your hospitality to a stranger, dear Sir, but I still regret being great at my job.”
“I’ve gathered as much,” replied Mr. Martin with a tinge of veiled curiosity.
“I used to be a photographer. I am famous for my handling of light and shadows, of patterns where there is only chaos, and for bringing out grace where there is none.”
“What happened then? Wasted your money on trifles?”
“No. I became very good at what I do.”
“Then, patrons come to where success is. It’s a natural law.”
“The demand is good, but…” the guest hesitated a moment. “Something inexplicable happened.”
“Something,” eyeing the man in front of him like a puzzle. “out of place?”
“Yes, up to now I still question not the nature of circumstance that fate gave me, but how destiny itself brought me a talent of either extreme importance to man, or perhaps his doom.”

The guest began to recount life’s peculiarities leading to his ill-fate. As Mr. Martin found out, he owns a studio famous all over the country for portraits that reached magazine covers, newspapers and even the halls of Malacañang. He took pictures of countless celebrities: politicians, supermodels, actors, foreign diplomats, and ordinary people wanting to be extraordinarily known. He however, never found the affinity for landscapes; he much preferred capturing smiles, laughter, sadness and indifference on various faces. He called it “snapshots of Life”.

“You are Mr. Gregorio Valderama,” exclaimed Mr. Martin, unable to hide his reverence. “ The famous owner of Valderama studios.”
“I am none other.”
“What happened to you? You sold your properties and disappeared!”
“Well, you found me. ‘Must be fate.”
“You have a very lucrative career. Why throw it all away?”
“As I have said, I got very good.”
“I’ve always admired your works. That picture of Ms.______, her smile somehow said she’s cheating her husband.”
“Well that’s my talent’s humor in a nutshell.”
“You mean…”
“Yes, Mr. Martin. I got so good, I somehow began to capture the very essence of a person’s soul.”
“I… don’t understand.”
“People flocked my studio because they thought I made them beautiful, but my lenses never lie. My camera reveals who you are, and when people see themselves as it is, they either find something really attractive…”
“Or something disgustingly evil,” finished Martin in state of disbelief.
“Well, I suppose it scared a lot of people. That’s a natural law— using your words, we really don’t want to look that deep.”

The rest of the dinner was mostly spent in silent thought. Mr. Martin could hardly absorb all the strangeness in one evening, much more to him who is accustomed to laws of causality as a requirement in daily living, even given his odd search for some quickening. You could never know, he thought, of what might be expected when one journeys into this world. Perhaps, there is one more thing.

“Mr. Valderama,” said Mr. Martin regaining his composure. “Could I ask you one more commission?”
“Being a man of honor,” replied the guest. “I am forever in gratitude for this sumptuous feast, your hospitality of course.”
“Can you take a picture of my ex-wife?”
“What about her?”
“I left her due to an affair of my own. Perhaps it would suffice for you to know that.”
“It will be all in confidence my dear Sir.”
“Thank you. She will be dining tomorrow in this same restaurant. You can mail me the photographs to my hotel room and I will give you a check appropriate for your service.”

Mr. Carpidio Martin slowly opened the manila envelope containing the photographs of his wife together with the negatives. He tried to control the soft trembling of his fingers, knowing the familiar warm feeling of anticipation for the unknown, and the tugging opposite of sanctuary beneath the blissful blindness of ignorance. His eyes slowly stroked the angelic face of his wife, the smoothness of her skin in full womanly bloom, her auburn hair flowing carelessly below her shoulders, and her deep brown eyes… He had seen it, and he cried of loss as he never cried before.