Two women - best friends. One man - who is a High Priest and also happens to be one of the women's father.
The daughter's friend was called to the High Priest's court one day. She had done her friend wrong by falling in love with her husband. She had stolen a kiss from him, a kiss which was not hers to have. He had wanted more, even begged her it, but she resisted. She didn't tell anyone about his pleading. What she did do was tell her best friend about the kiss. She also expressed her regret for having fallen in love. Her best friend decided to forgive her.
When the High Priest heard of this, he put on his satin robe and called his daughter's friend to him. She had never seen him in his robe before. He was grand and stately, quite unlike the father-figure she knew him to be. She bowed her head in respect
"From now on, you shall no longer refer to me by my name, but as 'master'.
Are we clear on this?"
"Yes sir," she said and mourned the fact he was no longer going to take her by the hand, and into his garden. To lovingly show her all his herbs, teach her their names and how to sow in order to reap.
"You have caused great damage. And therefore it's better you leave so we can heal."
"Yes sir," she said and waited for him to ask whether she had anything to say for herself. He didn't. If he had, she could've asked him whether he had ever done anyone wrong in his life? Perhaps he wasn't aware he had? She could also point out how he had done the same daughter he was now defending wrong by neglecting her needs? But why should she desire asking him these questions? She wished she were a perfect person who didn't feel the need to defend herself, or to blame the world for her own shortcomings. But she wasn't. And she knew it.
"Sir, might I ask for what crime I am to be punished?"
"You know the crime," he boomed.
"Falling in love?" she asked, "or honesty?"
But he didn't hear this as he had already hit the hammer on his desk and had stood up. So she left. She did not turn back. And it was this that caused her best friend true great harm, greater than anything else.
I have had my piano restored. Now comes the confrontation with the passing of time: did I really know how to play this twenty years ago? I sit here looking at the notes and feeling like an entirely different person. I am somehow trying to inhabit the mind and body of a wild and passionate teenager.
How about Satie then? No, not Satie! Yes Satie. It's too late: the sheet music to his Gymnopedie has fallen on the floor. I have picked it up and started playing it. I don't really want to play it, just like I hadn't wanted to play it back then. Back then I had played it for my best friend's stepfather. His real daughter had died. She had been run over by a truck at age 17. His real daughter had always played the three Gymnopedies. Meanwhile, my best friend and I had reached the age of 17 and my best friend was battling severe anorexia. Nobody in their home played piano and so she asked me to play it for her stepfather's birthday. I did, and so I helped her try to communicate with her stepfather.
My best friend has long disappeared. Yet right now she is as much here as is her dead stepsister. Maybe if I play the piece a few more times, just maybe the memory will finally fade.
"But what does empathy actually mean," he asks. He is being serious. His question is serious.
Oh for chrissake.
"Well. It means the ability to feel what someone else must be feeling," she says. She then adds, "I think."
She lays down on the floor, stares at the ceiling. "You're right. What does it actually mean?"
" 'A narcissist lacks empathy', they say. But do they mean empathy as in "okay my uncle is in hospital and I'll pay him a visit"? Because that isn't really empathy is it? That's simply doing what's expected. That's more about feeling good about yourself. Not about your uncle."
"Here's an example. I feel bad for your having lost your job," she says.
"Why though?"
"Because I love you."
"That's lame, don't you think? You say you love me. But to love me is first and foremost pleasurable for you."
She sighs. "All right. Empathy doesn't exist."
"Maybe I don't want you to love me. Maybe I prefer you to hate me. Have you ever considered that? Have you ever wondered what I need, and I mean really need?"
"You want me to leave, is that it?"
She sits up, puts on her shoes, slowly, while looking at him.
"If you were to reallyunderstand me then you would quit your job. That would be empathy. Even better - do something that would make them fire you."
She has put on he second shoe and stands up.
"You know what? I really feel like a cigarette," she says.
He now looks at her too. His ernest frown is broken by a small smile. He says, "To be honest, you don't look like one."
She allows the silence to last for a second longer, after which she cracks up, and so does he. She sits down again. Kicks off her shoes.
"Thank you," she says.
She says it beneath her breath as I've told her many times not to thank me.
Please. Do Not Thank Me. I beg you. Don't.
She has gained a lot of weight, but she has never looked more wonderful. Her children are finally with her. She hadn't seen them in eight years. And for the past few weeks, she has been allowed to enact a normal life.
Remember how you used to play doctor as kids? Or play school?
We are now playing happy family. We are playing what it would be like if she lived in a European city and belonged there. To rent her own small but clean studio. To clean houses for employers who treat her well and adhere to rules of labor law: they give her days off, they send her home when she is sick, they provide for social security and pension payments and health care.
Indeed, play this game, dear employee, dear friend. And I'll gladly play along. My part is easy. I simply provide for the characters. All I needed to do was pretend to every possible figure of authority that your children are staying with me and I've know them for many many years and have a special bond with them and I pay for their tuition and think they should see my city and so on. Of course I'll join in! Right now I get to play the guest who comes over for dinner. I should actually thank you, because I feel entirely at ease in this game. I slump on your couch halfway through your marvelous feast and giggle with your daughters, who decide to do my hair.
Do keep smiling, my dear. Let's take as many pictures as possible of this game which, for now, we seem to be winning. But it will soon end. Next week your children must return to Manila and you don't know when you'll next see them. Perhaps you'll get kicked out of this sublet, as has happened so many times before. Or you'll fall ill and can no longer work. Or you might one day cause an accident. Then the police come and tell you to leave the country.
Not now, though. The game isn't over, not just yet.
Another perfect stranger comes crashing into my home, boisterous and loud. A buff Italian man who has a little ponytail. He's here to fix up the piano and he doesn't waste a second. While speaking he's sticking newspapers to the floor. He glues all his words together and they come out of his mouth as a string of garble. It's hard to tell where the commas are or full stops. Then there's this thick accent I have to bight my way through. It forces me to listen though, and to look at him. Maybe I should try that sometime myself, speak inaudibly so people have to listen. All his words seem entirely relevant, as if he has been sent to me by some force. And yes, his uncalled for advice is cliché, but so is all possible therapy or self-help.
He also states that he expects a lot from a potential wife because he has so much to give. Excuse me? Yes, he says, I have so incredibly much to give. This is another thing I might consider trying for a change: telling everyone how great I am. Just to see what happens.
And then he goes on and on about energy. Make sure the energy is right in everything you do.
I leave him to his work sipping my way too strong coffee, wondering how I'm going to make it through the day after a night of only five hours sleep and more alcohol than was really necessary. Energy? Maybe not today.
I consider taking everything this stranger says more seriously than any shrink or clairvoyant has to say. But as I myself leave the house and tell hem to just close the door behind him, he mumbles: if you have a nice single friend that is looking for someone like me, could you let me know?
It's interesting isn't it? How you can run around life thinking "I can do this, yes I can" and these thoughts intermix with feelings of worthlessness and you can believe both at the same time. You can feel happy and sad, you can feel excited but nervous, passionate and angry and mellow yet agitated and hopeful while worried or ashamed and confident. All of such thoughts pass the tiny synapses of your brain in a split second.
The sun can shine, but if it rains there's a rainbow. Yet that too disappears, as does everything else that's good, or bad. The sting of a bee won't hurt tomorrow but it will hurt all over again if you step on one.
Then someone you want to avoid getting too personal with - like the woman who cleans your house and who you always somehow feel guilty towards as she shouldn't be doing that you think or other random thoughts that do not mix well with the pleasure of allowing yourself the luxury of a clean toilet - that someone then looks at you while carefully drying a plate. She keeps looking at you. She slants her head after you have said your cheery, "helloooooo! how are youuuu?" She asks, "are you okay?" And what then happens is you sob. You find yourself throwing your arms around this woman who is much shorter than yourself and who's life is much tougher than yours. And not only do you sob, you wail. And she says a few words, and all of that is fine. All of that, she understands.
