Visions of St Lazarus 5

Chapter 5
ST. AUGUSTINE’S FOLLOW-UP

“But someone will ask, ‘How are the dead raised? With what kind of body will they come?’ You fool! What you sow does not come to life unless it dies.”
—1 Corinthians 15:35–36

After recounting his story, Lazaro fell silent. He was embarrassed, confused by how much he had revealed—secrets he would never normally confess to a stranger. Yet somehow, this house had drawn it out of him. There was something in the air, in the walls—something that cultivated a deep melancholy he had long kept under control.

And Jeff—he had changed too. Since they entered this house, Jeff had become inquisitive, assertive, even domineering. A stark contrast from the gentle man Lazaro met on the seashore. It was as if some unseen force had laid their hearts bare, playing the cards for them both. Now, drained and wordless, they sat staring at the garden in silence.

At last, Lazaro glanced at his watch and stood up.
"I'm going home," he said. "Call me if you need anything."

Jeff smiled—and for a fleeting second, Lazaro glimpsed the man Jeff might have been before AIDS. He had once been incredibly handsome.

"Thank you for listening," Jeff said as he walked Lazaro to the door. "And for sharing, too. I’m glad to hear about your mission. I may not fully agree with its grandiosity—but I respect it, for whatever it’s worth."

Lazaro tried to respond but found himself voiceless. A vision overtook him: Jeff and his dead lover. Their final days—no hysteria, no screams, just quiet acceptance. The dying comforting the living. Jeff had survived. And he was smiling.

Lazaro waved goodbye and returned to the beach where they first met. Though it was nearing morning, the shore remained cloaked in darkness. A tide of confusion surged in his chest. As he walked, old suspicions returned—love, anger, fear, mystery... Dade Rest. Was his mind playing tricks? Was Jeff real? Were the stories of murder, magic gardens, underground tunnels, and crematoriums fragments of imagination?

Then, he remembered Dodong. He hadn’t thought of him in years. The loss of their friendship hit hard, and tears welled in his eyes.

He heard footsteps.
Startled, he turned.
A dark figure emerged from the reeds.
He knew the silhouette.

St. Augustine.

"Are you chickening out?" the Saint asked, his tone mocking.

"I'm not," Lazaro lied.

"Liar."

"But, my Saint... how should I react to what I’ve just seen? I'm not part of Jeff's world. I have the right to say no. Don’t I? I mean... free will is a gift from God. Am I truly my brother’s keeper?"

He hesitated. "Besides... I sensed another presence in that house. A dark one. It was powerful—like the Devil himself."

"Keep babbling," Augustine sneered. "Talk your way out of this mission."

Suddenly, Lazaro began to choke. He couldn’t breathe. He grabbed the Saint’s habit, gasping, "Saint... Augus—"

He vomited.
An egg.

St. Augustine folded his arms. "Being a chicken, you’re entitled to lay an egg. But beware—if you keep this up, the roosters will come. And you know what they do to hens."

"Saint Augustine!" Lazaro shouted, crushing the egg underfoot. "What good could I possibly offer them?"

"Oh, shut up. One minute you’re proclaiming your life’s mission to Jeff Koplaski, the next you’re quaking like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Make up your mind."

Then, sternly: "Let me ask you one thing—what can a nurse like you do for People With AIDS?"

Lazaro was silent.

"What’s the worst that could happen if you serve at Dade Rest?"

"I could get the virus... I could be murdered... I could die."

"And if you die?"

"I... I would..."

At that moment, it struck Lazaro: he was speaking to a dead saint. A dead saint who had just made him vomit an egg.

St. Augustine didn’t wait. "Let’s end this pointless talk. Work awaits. Follow me."

He picked up his staff and strode ahead. The Miami breeze whipped through his long gray beard and rough woolen robe. Lazaro pinched himself repeatedly. Awake. Not dreaming. He followed.

"Saint Augustine!" he called. "Why did God send AIDS to mankind?"

The Saint stopped. Turned. Struck him with his staff.

"Blasphemer!"

"Aray ku po!" Lazaro cried. "Saint! You’re becoming violent!"

"You offend with your question. Do not say that God gave this suffering to man. Man brought it upon himself. Look around. What do you see?"

"Condos, cafes, bars, parking lots, the ocean. I hear disco music."

"God-made or man-made?"

"Man-made, but... the materials come from God."

"Exactly. Man was given dominion, and look what he did. This is why there is so much suffering, Lazaro. See what they’ve done to the earth, the elements, even the organisms within."

He led Lazaro to the water. "Scoop it up."

Lazaro obeyed.

"Now drink it."

He grimaced. "I can’t. It’s dirty."

"Why?"

"Pollution. Waste. People swim here—you don’t know what they carry."

Augustine shook his head in mockery. "Excuses. When God created the sea, there was only one reason man couldn't drink from it."

"And what’s that?"

"Because he’s not a fish! You fool!"

He pulled Lazaro away. "We don’t have time to waste."

"Why?"

"Don’t make me regret your return to life. Weren’t you searching for the Ten Holy Men? What are you waiting for?"

THE SAINTS COME MARCHING IN

Reluctance
(excerpt by Robert Frost)

...The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question 'Whither?'

After the vision of St. Augustine vanished, Lazaro drove home, disturbed. His mind brimmed with questions. Was he losing touch with reality? Hallucinating? Sleepwalking? To vomit an egg and be struck by a saint’s staff—not once but twice—was decidedly not normal.

He finally managed two hours of sleep and went to work at Universal Nursing Home.

Later that evening, back home, he checked his answering machine—no messages from Dade Rest. Not yet.

He played his favorite CD—Puccini’s Madame Butterfly. As Kiri Te Kanawa’s voice filled the room with "Spura sul mare," Lazaro melted into the sofa, overwhelmed by the beauty of music.

Staring at the imitation paintings on his wall—Degas’ Blue Dancer, Renoir’s Dance in the City—his thoughts wandered to Butterfly, then to Miss Saigon. Tragic heroines. Sacrificial love. Love that defied reason. Would he ever know such love?

Opera after opera passed—Aida, Turandot, Tosca—and with each aria, Lazaro felt a greater ache. He had never truly been in love. Not that kind. Not madly, passionately, irrevocably.

He forgot dinner. The beauty of music had made him forget hunger.

Later, he read Frost and Whitman. But Frost stirred a restlessness in him. He blamed Butterfly, blamed Saigon, blamed his lonely heart. He felt the love he longed for turning into a desperate rebellion.

He went out.

Ocean Drive was full of lovers. Lazaro was envious. He suddenly had a wild thought—maybe his visions were the product of repressed longing. Maybe he just needed love.

So he drove to Warsaw, a prominent gay bar. For one night, he would not be alone.

Inside, dancers strutted. Someone tapped his shoulder. A stripper whispered, “I haven’t seen you in a while.” Lazaro didn’t believe him.

"What’s your name?"

"Michael." The man rubbed against Lazaro.

"How long have you danced here?"

Michael backed off. "You a cop?"

"No." Lazaro smiled.

The stripper drifted away.

A man sat beside him. "I’m from Cuba. You’re... Japan? Mexico?"

"Guess again."

"Philippines?"

"Yes!"

They laughed. Lazaro talked about colonial history—he was excited. But midway, the Cuban yawned.

"Am I boring you?"

The man nodded. They both laughed.

Then the Cuban said bluntly: “I’ve never made love to a Filipino... Your chest is great... Your skin is smooth... How big are you?”

Lazaro was gutted. He had wanted love—not this. He had hoped for art, history, conversation, connection. Not this.

“Your place or mine?”

Lazaro bowed his head. He couldn’t go through with it.

All around him: strippers, lust, ritualized exchanges. Yet inside, he burned with rebellion. He wanted to scream: Stop this. Let’s fall in love. Where did love go?

He stared at a candle. A vision came: the Cuban man, years later, aged and lonely. Another stripper fell in love, changed his life, became a lawyer, adopted children, and became an activist. Another never changed—and died tragically.

“I have to go,” Lazaro said.

“The night is young,” the Cuban smiled.

“I need sleep.”

“You snooze, you lose.”

Lazaro wondered: Who really lost tonight?
2025-05-22 04:25:05
visions

Visions of St Lazarus 4

Chapter 4

The Director stood up, wiping tears from his eyes. “I’m so lonely… and guilty, Lazaro.”

He staggered, almost collapsing on the sand. Lazaro was quick to catch him. Together, they walked along the shore beneath a darkening sky. The ocean breeze grew colder, the tide humming its timeless song. Jeff regained his composure after a few yards and extended his hand.

“My name is Jeff Koplaski.”

Lazaro barely acknowledged it. He wasn’t listening. His thoughts spiraled inward, drawn into the undertow of Jeff’s confession. The sadness clung to him like sea mist. Tomorrow marked the first day of Fall. The last of summer’s winds whispered their goodbyes.

Lazaro bent down and scooped a clump of sand. He rolled it in his hand and flung it far into the sea. A ritual—his way of shedding burdens, whether the stories of others or the weight of his own grief. They reached the gates of Dade Rest.

“Why not come inside?” Jeff offered.

Lazaro hesitated. The mahogany door loomed before him—blackened, like the ghost of old Florida. He looked around: padlocked bars, rusting wires, graffiti-scribbled walls. The surrounding vegetation, alien and misplaced, appeared like intruders from another world.

A sudden gust of wind pressed against the door, making it groan. To Lazaro, it sounded like the mournful cry of a lover grieving death.

Yes—Miami was like that now.

The serenity of the ocean betrayed by neon lights and commercial noise. The romance of old Florida replaced with malls, bars, sterile brightness. And this—Dade Rest. It felt less like a sanctuary and more like a tomb for men with AIDS.

Inside, the lounge surprised him: fresh flowers, a neat arrangement of chairs, a coffee table surrounded by quiet beauty. Paintings adorned the walls. Soft light washed the room in calm. Sleep had already embraced the residents. Lazaro held his silence in respect.

Jeff flicked on a flashlight and led him past the lounge. As they descended a steep stairwell, the architecture shifted. Doors led to more doors. The house grew stranger.

They entered a tunnel.

Wooden paneling gave way to cold, bare brick. The air was damp. The hallway echoed with quiet lives—snoring, weeping, murmured chants, a faint stereo playing something devotional. Each closed door flickered with candlelight.

By the time they reached Jeff’s room, Lazaro had lost any sense of direction. “This house is... much bigger than it appears.”

Jeff nodded, unlocking a plain door. “That’s the beauty of it. No one suspects. Not even the realtor. A century-old secret. The tunnels were built by Spanish monks—refugees of colonial violence. Hiding places, sanctuaries. And now, centuries later, this place shelters the condemned again—us.”

The room was stark. A single bed. Spartan. Monastic. Or was it more sinister—a crypt?

Lazaro turned toward the passage they came through. The brick walls whispered.

Death.

Jeff lit a candle. The flame trembled.

“We found a gold mine,” he said. “No one else knows what lies beneath. Except us. And now, you. But it must remain a secret. There’s a Force here—protective... dangerous. You've heard of the Skull murders?”

Lazaro stiffened.

“You mean... those two men? The ones found with symbols carved into their foreheads?”

Jeff nodded solemnly. “One of them—Antonio—worked here. He crossed a line. Told someone. Now they’re both gone.”

“You didn’t report this?”

“To whom? The police avoid this place like a curse. What would they get from men like us—emaciated, dying? Most of us can barely walk, let alone defend ourselves. So we keep our silence. Because the Force... punishes disobedience.”

“This is madness.”

“Is it? Call the police, and you’ll understand.”

“Is this Force... a spirit?”

Jeff’s face darkened. “Not until you’ve seen the crematorium. Down in the lowest basement.”

“No, Jeff. I don’t want to see more. This talk of tunnels, ghosts, murders—it’s too much.”

“You’ll understand one day. But promise—you’ll keep the secret.”

Lazaro hesitated. “You broke it by telling me.”

“Because you’re not an outsider anymore. You said you wanted to work here. That makes you one of us.”

Lazaro blinked. “And those before me?”

“They remained outsiders. Only a rare few are allowed into the heart of the secret.”

“Why me?”

“You arrived on the anniversary of the monks’ disappearance. That’s a sign. It’s said they leapt into the crematorium—burned themselves alive.”

“Why would they—?”

“That, you’ll learn in time.”

A scream echoed through the tunnel.

“What was that?”

“One of the dying.”

“Who lives here, Jeff?”

He looked at Lazaro, candlelight dancing in his weary eyes. “Doctors. Lawyers. Priests. Engineers. Gardeners. Street vendors. Artists. We’ve all renounced the world. There’s no cure. No return. So we commune with God. We prepare for death.”

Jeff opened a door to a hidden veranda. A cold wind rushed in like a burial shawl. Lazaro stepped into a breathtaking garden—shadowed statues, a cottage framed in palms, a lush green sprawl. Gardenias perfumed the air. The moonlight made it shimmer like Eden.

Jeff smiled. “We built this. Our architects. Our landscapers. Our final masterpiece.”

They sat on rattan chairs. Lazaro was stunned by the beauty. He longed to return.

Jeff read his thoughts. “You can’t. Not by day. This is our sanctuary. And just as I said—this place must remain secret. Even helicopters see nothing. This garden is cloaked... by the Force.”

Lazaro fell silent. He stopped arguing with reason. This mystery—this metaphysical mystery—had swallowed him whole.

Jeff’s voice turned gentle. “Now, Lazaro. Tell me your story.”

And so, as if under a spell, Lazaro spoke.

-----


Lazaro took a long breath, the scent of gardenias washing over him like absolution.

“Jeff… I’m always running. Always.”

His voice barely rose above a whisper.

“I ran from our parish priest when he told me my desire was a sin. I ran when I topped my class and was expected to take the prettiest girl to the prom. I ran from college basketball courts because my wrists betrayed me. I ran from a girlfriend who asked for intimacy. I ran on pavement, in fields, across beaches, rivers, volcanoes...”

He paused, his eyes moist.

“I ran from friends who didn’t understand. And even from those who did—because I was ashamed. I ran from the tanks of Marcos, carrying wounded comrades during protests. I ran when my friends were killed. I ran from beauty, from truth, from myself.”

He lowered his head.

“In all that running, I caught fleeting glimpses of things worth living for—tiny visions between footfalls. But I never paused long enough to hold them. I'm tired now. I want to stop.”

Jeff said nothing. The garden listened.

“You were right, Jeff. I am an idealist. But maybe that’s how I survive—by hoping. I’ve lost too much to live without it. You asked about my story... well, let me ask this: Have you ever held something so sacred, so shining—like a diamond—only to realize it was never yours to keep?”

He looked at Jeff, his face a mix of pain and awe.

“In my youth, I wanted to serve God more than anything. I read the Bible daily. I prayed for hours. I dreamed of being a missionary—to heal, to help, to give. But inside me, something else bloomed. A desire I was told was monstrous. I fought it with all my strength. I wore masks. Layer upon layer. I prayed God would change me. But the masks just grew uglier.”

Lazaro’s voice quivered.

“I couldn’t speak to people. I’d look at men and see diamonds. I felt like rust. I stopped reading the Bible because I couldn’t bear the words that condemned me. What kind of God creates you only to hate you?”

He choked on the question.

“I screamed one night: Enough! I threw away my faith like shattered glass. And then I dreamed.”

His eyes lifted toward the moon.

“In my dream, a voice asked, ‘Why did you give up so easily without a fight?’ I stood in nothingness. No direction, no time, no gravity. Just that voice. I asked, ‘Who are you?’ It answered: ‘I am not a Who. I am What I am. I am your reference point.’ I asked, ‘Are you God?’ But the voice fell silent.”

He drew a shaking breath.

“When I awoke, I opened my Bible to a passage I had always avoided—Sodom and Gomorrah. But that night, I read it differently. Not with fear. With new eyes.”

Lazaro recited:

> *“Abraham asked, ‘Will you destroy the innocent with the guilty?’ And the Lord answered: If I find ten righteous men, I will spare the city.”*

“That struck me like lightning, Jeff. God was *searching*—pleading—for even ten good men to redeem a fallen city. And there were none.”

He leaned forward.

“That’s why I’m here. Not just to work at Dade Rest. But to continue that search. I will find those ten. That’s my mission. To plead for the city again.”

Jeff let out a slow breath. “You may find the time of Abraham and ours are not so different.”

Lazaro nodded. “That’s why I don’t speak to theologians anymore. Or self-righteous men in pulpits. I don’t debate. I won’t quote scripture to those who weaponize it. I’m not here to evangelize. I’m here to find the ten.”

He closed his eyes.

“My journey began in the Philippines. I searched the streets of Manila... and I found Dodong.”

He smiled faintly.

“My first holy man.”

---

DODONG

My Lord, You tested me in the River of Meribah,
ground me ‘til I became a blade of gold.
I wept until my voice echoed the songs of angels,
prayed until my laughter mirrored saints.
Hear me—*

The souls of my friends rise
through darkness,
making appointments with You
before their time.
Their skin, loose around bone,
clutches IV lines like rifles.
They lie alone in trash heaps of morality,
gasping for air poisoned by indifference.*

I am their night watchman,
my lamp raised over their departure.
I’ve seen them trade sperm for boiled eggs,
dig their graves in makeshift cemeteries,
resurrected only by monsoon rains,
barbed wires still bound to wrists.*

Screaming Freedom—

> *While political whores
fix their hair for TV cameras,
peddling fake promises and
bridges made of numbers
from rigged lotto machines—*

My country has become a joke.
Seventy million people,
twenty want to be president.
Twenty thousand want to kidnap the richest twenty percent.
Twenty million want to be slaves abroad.
The rest?
They just want to die.*

My friends rot in their graves,
still screaming: Freedom—
while politicians write poetry
on the flesh of starving children.*

Tell me, Lord—
Will their deaths feed the orphans?
Heal the wounds of my land?
Redeem a prostituted Filipina in Tokyo?
Restore a domestic helper’s dignity in Hong Kong?*

While cronies gorge on imported beef
and banana republic fruit,
the rest of us are condemned for eating dogs.*

Sometimes I envy the dead.
At least they rest.
Jose Rizal, nothing has changed.
Politics still holds the reins.
Let the Mabuhay satellite drop us on Mars
so we might preach
to the dead children of Rebecca,
rather than speak to deaf tyrants
in this cursed archipelago.
2025-04-25 18:33:58
visions