The Keeper

 

Papa was a hard man.  He worked with an obsessive vigor and frequently gambled at the stock exchange.  Sometimes it appeared as if his business was worth more to him than his son, Baba.  Baba was a well-liked boy.  Only in his fourteenth year, he was endowed with a friendly demeanor, a caring persona, a strong mind and the good looks of his Mama, whom cancer had separated from Papa and Baba.

That time of mourning not many years ago was not only for Mama’s passing but, so many would think each time they saw him, also of Papa’s deepest reasons to live.  The Good Book cautioned one to not choose Mammon as one’s treasure lest one’s heart be in the wrong place.  Yet for Papa, it seemed that his problem lay in no longer caring where his heart was.  He only desired for it not to bleed anymore and Mammon was an eager bandage.

Baba loved his father and quietly prayed for more warmth, more conversation, more play in the house.  When Mama was around, such times were the norm.  But now, during the rare hours he was back from the office, Papa was usually burying his eyebrows deeper and deeper in the Financial Times.  Otherwise, he was fast asleep.  Often, he ignored Baba.  He did not have time for his son nor did he bother to make or set aside any.  This was a source of regular melancholy for Baba. 

Baba, the keeper of memories beloved, wished things could be back to how they were when Mama was around.  He longed for the joy and love of the past years to trickle back – somehow – into the present.  Somehow.

 

One day, a strange-looking man came to the house.  He wore a blue coat buttoned up fully and he carried a purple briefcase.

            “What do you want?” asked Papa, “Are you selling something?”

            “Yes, dear Sir.  I am presenting to you a special, because rare, opportunity.  There is nothing as unique as my proposal”, said the stranger.

            “Okay, so what are these wares you peddle?” asked Papa (a second time, he noted with some small impatience).

            “Anything you wish, Sir,” said Mr. Blue.

            “I’m sorry?  Anything?” Did I hear right? Papa thought.

            “Me and my associates carry out barters with selected individuals.  We seek special persons who love a good gamble.  You were one of the highest on our list.  Think of me as the vapor-covered guy swooshing out of the lamp.  Aladdin’s lamp, ha.  I offer one wish (three would be pushing it, and two meaningless, no?). Whatever you ask for shall be given.  Payment is however, unlike the policy of mythical lamp-resident, not exempted.  You will pay me something worth half of that which you wished for.” 

Mr. Blue Salesman was smiling now.  He knew he had grasped Papa’s full attention and sensed in his (potential) client a great intrigue.

Baba came to the door and asked his father whom the stranger was.  Mr. Purple Bag extended his hand.

“How do you do?” he greeted the boy with a pleasant smile.

“He’s just fine, Mr. Salesman,” Papa intervened before Baba could reciprocate the greeting.  “Now, let’s get on with your ‘business proposal’.  It’s very strange.  I think you are, you know, ‘taking me for a ride’?  But I’m a patient and adventurous man.  Also, I cannot resist my morbid curiosity to see where you want to get with such pranks.  I shall tell you what I want:  Give me the Limo.  Its price is $200,000.  I take it that this means I will ‘lose’ something I already have, eh?  Valued at $100,000, correct?”

“Certainly, Sir.  Are you sure you will be happy with the Limo, a pretty chunk of metal?  Remember you only have one wish.”

“Are you sure your head is screwed on sufficiently tight?  Ha!  Please stop wasting my minutes, and tell me what you are going to take from me worth $100,000.  My old car’s resale price is a mere $30,000, the house is worth no more than $90,000 – what are you going to take?” 

“I’m afraid it’s not congruous with business policy to tell you what will be taken, Sir.  If you can just sign here, I shall be on my way,” the salesman said, producing a contract written in silver paper which read:

 

“I WILL TAKE SOMETHING. 

IN EXCHANGE, I WILL HAVE SOMETHING OF MINE TAKEN -

TO BE WORTH HALF OF INITIAL SOMETHING OBTAINED.”

 

Papa signed it in haste and irritation, his initial apprehensiveness over the non-disclosure of the item to be taken in payment (for the Limo) more than washed away by his absolute certainty that there were better things to do than hold pointless conversations with salesman wearing awry color schemes and selling even crazier business ones.

Baba’s questions to his father about the strange proceedings (intended really to be chat-starters) were, to his dismay, ignored. 

Papa, the keeper of a pained coldness unperturbed by love, entranced by the latest stock performances, not for the first time, waved his hand, and thus his son, away from him.

 

The next morning, Papa saw a Limo waxed gorgeous parked in the front porch.  Papa’s disbelief at the sudden appearance of the car was matched only by his awe at its beauty.  He ran his hands along its steel body.  The doors were unlocked, so Papa opened the front door, sat inside and found the key already in the ignition.  He drove it around the city, still not believing he was not dreaming.

“A miracle!” exclaimed Papa.  “That nutcase is a genie indeed!”

But Papa was suddenly concerned about the other side of the deal.  What price would he be forced to pay?

A few days passed.  Then a week.  Soon a whole month went by.  Nothing changed, except now Papa could send Baba to school in a glowing new car.  Papa thought less and less about the ‘bill’ for the Limo and was soon taking it for granted.  It was then two months.  Papa’s office work still kept him from home for long hours.  Baba, initially excited at the new vehicle his father was driving him in, was nevertheless still hoping that Papa would spend more time with him.

 

Then one day, almost a year after the Limo arrived at the doorstep, something terrible happened.  Life, the keeper of tragedy and blessing inexplicable, was about to strike a blow.  There was a boy, there was a drunk, and there was a collision.  There was confusion, cries and there was blood – lots of it.  There was panic, an ambulance and there was the ICU into where the victim - into where Baba - was rushed.  His injuries were massive.  The doctors said Baba would not survive a day more.  Death, the keeper of life extinguished, was soon to keep one more.

 

            Papa suffered a similar shattering, but in his soul.  He held his head in his hands and tried to will away this new and acute disaster.

            Looking through his tear-dirtied fingers, he saw a purple-colored bag on the floor next to him.  Immediately, he glanced upwards.  The blue-coated salesman was there.

            “Hello, dear Sir,” the stranger whispered.

            “What are you doing here?” Papa spoke in a sob. 

            “I am sorry if this seems a bad time, Sir.  But it is business policy to inform a client when transaction has been completed.”

            “Transaction?  What are you talking about?”

            “The transaction involving you and the party I represent, Sir.  You asked for a Limo and you obtained it.  I told you we would require something worth half the price, as payment.  Did you forget?”

            “No, but in the name of all things sane tell me how the transaction has been completed!  I haven’t - ”, and the moment he spoke the words he fully understood, “lost anything…or have I?”

Papa felt the blow of comprehension like a missile hitting his solar plexus.

“Baba?!  My price was Baba??”  But even as he asked he knew it, knew it as sure as the Snot-&-Tears concoction in his palms, was certain of the answer as he was of the Sum Insured of the insurance policy taken out on Baba: $100,000.  His son was, prior to the accident, worth no more to him than his actions (or non-actions) had implied.  The death of his wife had numbed him beyond the capacity to display loving fatherhood.  And he let Baba deal with the grief; he buried his anguish by shoveling it, in small yet lethal doses, to the person alive who loved him the most.  He showed little joy when Baba was around, haven’t taken him out for a father-and-son meal since Mama died, barely even paid much attention to his kid.  He only loves who shows his love – how true!

“It is maybe obvious that my employers care very little for pecuniary compensation.  Money is an over-valued thing, no?  The purity of an innocent soul, its richness of personhood - now that’s a steal!”

“No!  You can’t take him!” Papa screamed without control.

“On what grounds do you base your objection?  You signed the contract.  You okay-ed your end of the deal.  So no I don’t recommend questioning the validity of the transaction as grounds for, shall we say, ‘backing out’.”

“No!  Take me instead!”

“Can’t do, Sir.  At the time of Baba’s mishap you were worth a WHOLE lot more than $100,000, at least to yourself.  We don’t play unfair, Sir.  We never take more than we contracted for, up to the point of the final transaction.  Look at it this way, Sir:  You didn’t have to sign.”

“Then please I’ll trade him for an even greater amount!  Give him back to me and I’ll give you two hundred thousand – even if I need to break my back for the cash!” Papa was disintegrating in desperation.

“According to my calculations, Sir, at this moment your son is already priceless in your eyes.  Unfortunately for your trade proposal, far from meaning that the price tag is now zero, Baba is of infinite worth to you now.  How do you expect to pay back twice times infinity?”

The blue man, the keeper of souls stolen from hasty barters, grinned, “Talk about buying-low/selling-high; you of all men must appreciate the beauty.”

           

            Aghast, at a loss, in an abyss, was dear Papa.  Feelings of guilt and loneliness poured into him in like an endless stream of despair.  What was he to do?  He spent endless hours with Baba in the hospital room; he sat at the side of Baba’s bed and look at his son, drinking every line of his sweet face.  He recalled, eventually, the joy he had with Mama and Baba.  And his tears now had no end.

            “Baba, you are my son, and I love you dearly.  I am very sorry for the agony I’ve put you through, for those times I didn’t care.  And now my greed has left you in a broken state, and my heart is shredded into a million pieces.  My dear Baba, how can you forgive me?”

            No sooner had Papa uttered those soul-torn words, Baba awoke.  Through semi-open eyelids Baba saw a man he recognized as his father crying at the bedside, with his face staring down at the sheets.  Baba reached out to stroke his father’s hair.  A final touch.  His last words to his Papa were:

 

“I love you, Papa.  It is good that you exist.  I want you to exist.

You must not die.  You must live forever1.

I love you, Papa.”

 

            A few months after Baba’s funeral, Papa was walking home after dinner with friends.  In spite of the sorrow of losing his son, Papa had become saliently friendlier and less greedy (with much reduced time staring at charts and stock reports).  Unlike when Mama died, Baba’s passing did not crush Papa; it painfully yet surely brought out Papa’s true and more caring and openhearted personhood.

            But he missed his son.  And it ached as a wound in his soul would.

Yet when he reached home Papa noticed something was amiss.  The Limo was gone.  On the doorknob hung a golden-papered note.  It was a strange telegram-like message.  It read:

 

“TRANSACTION DECLARED VOID, LIMO RETURNED,

BARTERED ITEM NEVER BELONGED TO YOU.

BE A BETTER KEEPER FROM NOW. 

SECOND CHANCES COME RARELY.”

 

            Papa, the keeper of love and family merely loaned, opened the door.

And stepped into the house.


1 From G.Marcel, The Mystery of Being, trans. G.S. Fraser and R.Hague, ii (London: Harvill Press, 1950-51), p.153.