“Tell me, do I look like I have AIDS?”
Indeed, Sam was far from the picture of an AIDS patient that Keith would have expected. He had seen photographs of languid bodies reduced to bone and skin, delirious expressions and eyes that sank so deep in the dark recesses of their sockets that they looked like they could disappear any minute. He had expected to see some symptoms of the disease, perhaps ghastly lesions and ugly sores breaking through the skin. But there were no such telling signs on Sam, who could easily pass off as a person in the pink of health. He didn’t even sound sick. Maybe he had knobbly and wobbly knees hidden underneath the blanket. Maybe he had sores all over his trunk but not on his face. But Sam was as alert as the marguerites, visibly unblemished. And he had handsome features, the kind attributed to models. Athletic. Curious eyes, a firm nose, smiling lips and dimpled cheeks. And a crown of thick, black, wavy hair, the kind you see in a Vidal Sassoon advertisement. Friends and colleagues had said that he was popular among women, and they had not suspected that he was in any way homosexual.
“Frankly, I’ve reached the stage where I don’t give a damn!”
Sam’s attitude baffled Keith.
“I’ll be famous, won’t I? The first person in Singapore to die of AIDS. It’s like getting first prize.” He broke off to let in a cynical chuckle. “I call that the Singapore’s First Syndrome. Number one, the nation’s favourite number.” And then he curled like a kitten, his face cupped within his hands as he rested his elbows upon his raised knees. After a short pause, he said, somewhat pensively, “Maybe I should have said infamous or notorious, whatever. You’re the reporter, and you make a person what you write him out to be. One of my teachers at school used to remind me of the might of the pen and the power of the written word whenever I failed to turn in my assignments. He hated me, because I was trouble. I can imagine him laughing if he read that I had got into big trouble myself. But I suppose he was right.”
Keith was too spellbound to want to say anything. It looked like it was going to be an interview where he needed no questions but a good pair of listening ears.
“I’m sure you noticed the sign hanging on the door as you entered,” said Sam, whose garrulity suggested a starvation of no one or few people to talk to. “It isn’t there for my sake but to protect people like you. ‘No Visitors’, it says. It’s like one of those ‘Beware of Dog’ notices that invite you to enter at your own risk. How many of us, I wonder, really believe the signs that we see? Some homes that hang those dog warnings don’t even own a puppy! Anyway, sign or no sign, what difference does it make? Not many people come to see me, anyway. Hardly. They don’t dare, I suppose. I’ve lost many friends already—friends indeed—and some of them I held and still hold very dear to my heart, who would have otherwise thronged in here like they were heading for some party if it had been a gall bladder operation or a heart attack or even cancer. Look at me, do I really look sick? Okay, I had a bad bout of flu, but I’m fully recovered now.” And, looking straight into Keith’s incredulous eyes, he challenged him with rhetoric, asking again, “Do you honestly think I look like I have AIDS?”
Keith smiled, the way that a diplomat would.
“Well, that’s life, I suppose.”
Sam studied Keith with big, expressive eyes, whose intensity made the latter feel uncomfortable. Keith saw in them a longing for company. He suspected that Sam was not the kind who could put up with being alone and felt sorry for him, but he reminded himself that any feelings of sympathy for Sam might mar his objectivity. Keith looked around for some distraction and chanced upon the flowers which he pretended to examine with ardent interest, saying, “These are pretty flowers. What are they?”
“Marguerites. They’re small and nice. And you wish that
they would stay bright and fresh forever.”
Keith liked flowers but knew little about them. Then, he wished he knew more.
“You don’t really want to talk about the flowers, do you?” said Sam as he picked a bloom from the bottle and beckoned Keith towards him. He fixed the flower in a button hold on Keith’s shirt. “From me.” He leaned back, folding his arms, studying Keith like an artist. “You know, I always like the way that the Hawaiian people wear flowers in their hair. It’s kind of hip. Don’t know if I’ve used the right word. It adds colour and cheer to our composure and, I daresay, our outlook as well.”
“Different people wear flowers for different reasons. But I’d look silly wearing a hibiscus in my hair.” Sam laughed and Keith went on to say quickly, as if to justify his point of view, “I suppose it all depends on how you feel about it. You impress me as a romantic.”
“Maybe. What else do you want to know about me?”
“If you could elaborate on your condition.”
“You mean AIDS, don’t you? I keep forgetting that your purpose here is not to discuss flowers or Gone With The Wind but to write about me and my condition. It’s AIDS that you’re interested in, although I have yet to hear you mention the word. It’s a scary word, isn’t it? And you’re much too polite to be a reporter, but you’ve got guts indeed. It can be dangerous, you know.” He broke off, and when he spoke again, there was viciousness in his voice. “I might bite you,” he threatened and showed his teeth.
Keith jumped back. Sam let out a cackle and Keith was embarrassed.
“No, no,” said Sam, still cackling, “you know very well I will not do such an evil thing.”
Keith closed his notebook. He had written nothing.
“Okay, I’m sorry. Please do me a favour. Whatever you write about, do not make it sound like I’m a pariah. You’re a master of words, so you know what I mean by pariah. Like some stray dog we see roaming in the street, all covered with sores. I remember the folks in the kampong, where I lived when I was a child, throwing stones at a poor dog to drive it away. I think the dog died with a broken skull. It was bloody and cruel, but it was hard to blame the folks. They were superstitious people. Maybe they thought that the dog would bring them bad luck. When you are poor, you have to depend on luck a lot. Maybe they were afraid they might catch rabies. The amazing thing was that the poor creature didn’t even bark or snarl. It just whined pitiably before it collapsed.” Keith could see the sadness penetrating Sam’s quiet eyes as the latter dropped his voice. He was a good story-teller, punctuating his voice with the appropriate stress. A moment of silence was inevitable. And when Sam resumed, it was with renewed firmness that he spoke. “Whether it’s hepatitis or AIDS, believe you me, I wouldn’t have changed my life one bit. I was a happy person, and I couldn’t ask for more. No, I don’t think I could have lived my life any other way.”
Sam leaned forward and caught Keith’s arm in his hand, surprising Keith.
“And please,” he said, “spare my family, especially my mother, the agony. They’re miserable enough, so don’t make it worse.” Keith was relieved when Sam let go of his arm. “Some nutty reporter once asked my mother how she would feel if I were her only son. Now, what kind of question was that? I’ve got brothers, you see. And sisters too. My mother said that it didn’t make any difference whether I was her only child or one of a dozen, and that she loved me all the same.”
Sam lay upon his back, staring at the ceiling. Keith looked away. The leaky pipe in the toilet continued to drip away ominously. Perhaps Sam should tell Keith the ancient Chinese tale that he knew, but Keith might find it superfluous. He didn’t look the kind to let down his hair unless he was familiar with the environment. But Sam felt easy talking with Keith although he had been warned by his family against speaking with reporters. Those nosy buggers would never write anything good! It was Sam who had agreed to the interview, after having been hounded by several of them. When Keith called and said he would like a chat, it was that casualness in his voice devoid of the pushy, businesslike attitude of the others that led Sam to consent to being interviewed. After all, he was looking forward to some company to remind him that he was still very much a part of the world. Very early in the encounter, Keith had detected the insatiable appetite for fellowship spilling like lava in Sam’s volcanic heart. He read the silent apprehension of rejection in a man dying of AIDS.
“Now,” said Sam, “we can start the interview proper.”
Keith smiled, then said, “I have no questions.”
And they shook hands readily.
—Different Strokes by David Leo
