WORLD LITERATURE
SET A
PSALM 23 (KJV) King David
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. 2 He maketh me
to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still
waters. 3 He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of
righteousness for his name's sake. 4 Yea, though I walk through the
valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with
me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. 5 Thou preparest a table
before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head
with oil; my cup runneth over. 6 Surely goodness and mercy shall
follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of
the Lord forever.
ON HIS BLINDNESS John Milton
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."
SONNET 29
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
SONNET 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
 SONG TO CELIA Ben Jonson
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And Ill not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Joves nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sentst it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.
FABLE Ralph Waldo Emelson
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel;
And the former called the latter "Little Prig."
Bun replied,
"You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together
To make up a year
And a sphere.
And I think it's no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry.
I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ: all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut."
IM NOBODY Emily Dickinson
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell!
They'd banish -- you know!
How dreary to be somebody!
How public like a frog
To tell one's name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING
Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sounds the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
THE VELVETEEN RABBIT Margery Williams
HERE was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he
was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be;
his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers,
and his ears were lined with pink sateen. On Christmas morning,
when he sat wedged in the top of the Boy's stocking, with a sprig of
holly between his paws, the effect was charming.
There were other things in the stocking, nuts and oranges
and a toy engine, and chocolate almonds and a clockwork mouse,
but the Rabbit was quite the best of all. For at least two hours the
Boy loved him, and then Aunts and Uncles came to dinner, and
there was a great rustling of tissue paper and unwrapping of
parcels, and in the excitement of looking at all the new presents the
Velveteen Rabbit was forgotten.
GOD SEES THE TRUTH BUT WAITS Leo Tolstoy
In the town of Vladimir lived a young merchant named Ivan
Dmitrich Aksionov. He had two shops and a house of his own.
Aksionov was a handsome, fair-haired, curly-headed fellow,
full of fun, and very fond of singing. When quite a young man he
had been given to drink, and was riotous when he had had too
much; but after he married he gave up drinking, except now and
then.
One summer Aksionov was going to the Nizhny Fair, and as
he bade good-bye to his family, his wife said to him, "Ivan
Dmitrich, do not start to-day; I have had a bad dream about you."
Aksionov laughed, and said, "You are afraid that when I get
to the fair I shall go on a spree."
His wife replied: "I do not know what I am afraid of; all I
know is that I had a bad dream. I dreamt you returned from the
town, and when you took off your cap I saw that your hair was
quite grey."
Aksionov laughed. "That's a lucky sign," said he. "See if I
don't sell out all my goods, and bring you some presents from the
fair."
So he said good-bye to his family, and drove away.
When he had travelled half-way, he met a merchant whom
he knew, and they put up at the same inn for the night. They had
some tea together, and then went to bed in adjoining rooms.
It was not Aksionov's habit to sleep late, and, wishing to
travel while it was still cool, he aroused his driver before dawn, and
told him to put in the horses.
 Then he made his way across to the landlord of the inn
(who lived in a cottage at the back), paid his bill, and continued his
journey.
When he had gone about twenty-five miles, he stopped for
the horses to be fed. Aksionov rested awhile in the passage of the
inn, then he stepped out into the porch, and, ordering a samovar to
be heated, got out his guitar and began to play.
Suddenly a troika drove up with tinkling bells and an
official alighted, followed by two soldiers. He came to Aksionov
and began to question him, asking him who he was and whence he
came. Aksionov answered him fully, and said, "Won't you have
some tea with me?" But the official went on cross-questioning him
and asking him. "Where did you spend last night? Were you alone,
or with a fellow-merchant? Did you see the other merchant this
morning? Why did you leave the inn before dawn?"
Aksionov wondered why he was asked all these questions,
but he described all that had happened, and then added, "Why do
you cross-question me as if I were a thief or a robber? I am
travelling on business of my own, and there is no need to question
me."
Then the official, calling the soldiers, said, "I am the police-
officer of this district, and I question you because the merchant
with whom you spent last night has been found with his throat cut.
We must search your things."
They entered the house. The soldiers and the police-officer
unstrapped Aksionov's luggage and searched it. Suddenly the
officer drew a knife out of a bag, crying, "Whose knife is this?"
Aksionov looked, and seeing a blood-stained knife taken
from his bag, he was frightened.
"How is it there is blood on this knife?"
Aksionov tried to answer, but could hardly utter a word, and
only stammered: "I--don't know--not mine." Then the police-officer
said: "This morning the merchant was found in bed with his throat
cut. You are the only person who could have done it. The house
was locked from inside, and no one else was there. Here is this
blood-stained knife in your bag and your face and manner betray
you! Tell me how you killed him, and how much money you
stole?"
Aksionov swore he had not done it; that he had not seen the
merchant after they had had tea together; that he had no money
except eight thousand rubles of his own, and that the knife was not
his. But his voice was broken, his face pale, and he trembled with
fear as though he went guilty.
The police-officer ordered the soldiers to bind Aksionov
and to put him in the cart. As they tied his feet together and flung
him into the cart, Aksionov crossed himself and wept. His money
and goods were taken from him, and he was sent to the nearest
town and imprisoned there. Enquiries as to his character were made
in Vladimir. The merchants and other inhabitants of that town said
that in former days he used to drink and waste his time, but that he
was a good man. Then the trial came on: he was charged with
murdering a merchant from Ryazan, and robbing him of twenty
thousand rubles.
His wife was in despair, and did not know what to believe.
Her children were all quite small; one was a baby at her breast.
Taking them all with her, she went to the town where her husband
was in jail. At first she was not allowed to see him; but after much
begging, she obtained permission from the officials, and was taken
to him. When she saw her husband in prison-dress and in chains,
shut up with thieves and criminals, she fell down, and did not come
to her senses for a long time. Then she drew her children to her, and
sat down near him. She told him of things at home, and asked about
what had happened to him. He told her all, and she asked, "What
can we do now?"
"We must petition the Czar not to let an innocent man
perish."
His wife told him that she had sent a petition to the Czar,
but it had not been accepted.
Aksionov did not reply, but only looked downcast.
Then his wife said, "It was not for nothing I dreamt your
hair had turned grey. You remember? You should not have started
that day." And passing her fingers through his hair, she said: "Vanya
dearest, tell your wife the truth; was it not you who did it?"
"So you, too, suspect me!" said Aksionov, and, hiding his
face in his hands, he began to weep. Then a soldier came to say that
the wife and children must go away; and Aksionov said good-bye
to his family for the last time.
When they were gone, Aksionov recalled what had been
said, and when he remembered that his wife also had suspected
him, he said to himself, "It seems that only God can know the truth;
it is to Him alone we must appeal, and from Him alone expect
mercy."
And Aksionov wrote no more petitions; gave up all hope,
and only prayed to God.
Aksionov was condemned to be flogged and sent to the
mines. So he was flogged with a knot, and when the wounds made
by the knot were healed, he was driven to Siberia with other
convicts.
For twenty-six years Aksionov lived as a convict in Siberia.
His hair turned white as snow, and his beard grew long, thin, and
grey. All his mirth went; he stooped; he walked slowly, spoke little,
and never laughed, but he often prayed.
In prison Aksionov learnt to make boots, and earned a little
money, with which he bought The Lives of the Saints. He read this
book when there was light enough in the prison; and on Sundays in
the prison-church he read the lessons and sang in the choir; for his
voice was still good.
The prison authorities liked Aksionov for his meekness, and
his fellow-prisoners respected him: they called him "Grandfather,"
and "The Saint." When they wanted to petition the prison
authorities about anything, they always made Aksionov their
spokesman, and when there were quarrels among the prisoners they
came to him to put things right, and to judge the matter.
No news reached Aksionov from his home, and he did not
even know if his wife and children were still alive.
One day a fresh gang of convicts came to the prison. In the
evening the old prisoners collected round the new ones and asked
them what towns or villages they came from, and what they were
sentenced for. Among the rest Aksionov sat down near the
newcomers, and listened with downcast air to what was said.
One of the new convicts, a tall, strong man of sixty, with a
closely-cropped grey beard, was telling the others what be had been
arrested for.
"Well, friends," he said, "I only took a horse that was tied to
a sledge, and I was arrested and accused of stealing. I said I had
only taken it to get home quicker, and had then let it go; besides,
the driver was a personal friend of mine. So I said, 'It's all right.'
'No,' said they, 'you stole it.' But how or where I stole it they could
not say. I once really did something wrong, and ought by rights to
have come here long ago, but that time I was not found out. Now I
have been sent here for nothing at all... Eh, but it's lies I'm telling
you; I've been to Siberia before, but I did not stay long."
"Where are you from?" asked some one.
"From Vladimir. My family are of that town. My name is
Makar, and they also call me Semyonich."
Aksionov raised his head and said: "Tell me, Semyonich, do
you know anything of the merchants Aksionov of Vladimir? Are
they still alive?"
"Know them? Of course I do. The Aksionovs are rich,
though their father is in Siberia: a sinner like ourselves, it seems!
As for you, Gran'dad, how did you come here?"
Aksionov did not like to speak of his misfortune. He only
sighed, and said, "For my sins I have been in prison these twenty-
six years."
"What sins?" asked Makar Semyonich.
But Aksionov only said, "Well, well--I must have deserved
it!" He would have said no more, but his companions told the
newcomers how Aksionov came to be in Siberia; how some one
had killed a merchant, and had put the knife among Aksionov's
things, and Aksionov had been unjustly condemned.
When Makar Semyonich heard this, he looked at Aksionov,
slapped his own knee, and exclaimed, "Well, this is wonderful!
Really wonderful! But how old you've grown, Gran'dad!"
The others asked him why he was so surprised, and where
he had seen Aksionov before; but Makar Semyonich did not reply.
He only said: "It's wonderful that we should meet here, lads!"
These words made Aksionov wonder whether this man
knew who had killed the merchant; so he said, "Perhaps,
Semyonich, you have heard of that affair, or maybe you've seen me
before?"
"How could I help hearing? The world's full of rumours.
But it's a long time ago, and I've forgotten what I heard."
"Perhaps you heard who killed the merchant?" asked
Aksionov.
Makar Semyonich laughed, and replied: "It must have been
him in whose bag the knife was found! If some one else hid the
knife there, 'He's not a thief till he's caught,' as the saying is. How
could any one put a knife into your bag while it was under your
head? It would surely have woke you up."
When Aksionov heard these words, he felt sure this was the
man who had killed the merchant. He rose and went away. All that
night Aksionov lay awake. He felt terribly unhappy, and all sorts of
images rose in his mind. There was the image of his wife as she
was when he parted from her to go to the fair. He saw her as if she
were present; her face and her eyes rose before him; he heard her
speak and laugh. Then he saw his children, quite little, as they:
were at that time: one with a little cloak on, another at his mother's
breast. And then he remembered himself as he used to be-young
and merry. He remembered how he sat playing the guitar in the
porch of the inn where he was arrested, and how free from care he
had been. He saw, in his mind, the place where he was flogged, the
executioner, and the people standing around; the chains, the
convicts, all the twenty-six years of his prison life, and his
premature old age. The thought of it all made him so wretched that
he was ready to kill himself.
"And it's all that villain's doing!" thought Aksionov. And his
anger was so great against Makar Semyonich that he longed for
vengeance, even if he himself should perish for it. He kept
repeating prayers all night, but could get no peace. During the day
he did not go near Makar Semyonich, nor even look at him.
A fortnight passed in this way. Aksionov could not sleep at
night, and was so miserable that he did not know what to do.
One night as he was walking about the prison he noticed
some earth that came rolling out from under one of the shelves on
which the prisoners slept. He stopped to see what it was. Suddenly
Makar Semyonich crept out from under the shelf, and looked up at
Aksionov with frightened face. Aksionov tried to pass without
looking at him, but Makar seized his hand and told him that he had
dug a hole under the wall, getting rid of the earth by putting it into
his high-boots, and emptying it out every day on the road when the
prisoners were driven to their work.
"Just you keep quiet, old man, and you shall get out too. If
you blab, they'll flog the life out of me, but I will kill you first."
Aksionov trembled with anger as he looked at his enemy.
He drew his hand away, saying, "I have no wish to escape, and you
have no need to kill me; you killed me long ago! As to telling of
you--I may do so or not, as God shall direct."
Next day, when the convicts were led out to work, the
convoy soldiers noticed that one or other of the prisoners emptied
some earth out of his boots. The prison was searched and the tunnel
found. The Governor came and questioned all the prisoners to find
out who had dug the hole. They all denied any knowledge of it.
Those who knew would not betray Makar Semyonich, knowing he
would be flogged almost to death. At last the Governor turned to
Aksionov whom he knew to be a just man, and said:
"You are a truthful old man; tell me, before God, who dug
the hole?"
Makar Semyonich stood as if he were quite unconcerned,
looking at the Governor and not so much as glancing at Aksionov.
Aksionov's lips and hands trembled, and for a long time he could
not utter a word. He thought, "Why should I screen him who ruined
my life? Let him pay for what I have suffered. But if I tell, they will
probably flog the life out of him, and maybe I suspect him wrongly.
And, after all, what good would it be to me?"
"Well, old man," repeated the Governor, "tell me the truth:
who has been digging under the wall?"
Aksionov glanced at Makar Semyonich, and said, "I cannot
say, your honour. It is not God's will that I should tell! Do what you
like with me; I am your hands."
However much the Governor! tried, Aksionov would say no
more, and so the matter had to be left.
That night, when Aksionov was lying on his bed and just
beginning to doze, some one came quietly and sat down on his bed.
He peered through the darkness and recognised Makar.
"What more do you want of me?" asked Aksionov. "Why
have you come here?"
Makar Semyonich was silent. So Aksionov sat up and said,
"What do you want? Go away, or I will call the guard!"
Makar Semyonich bent close over Aksionov, and
whispered, "Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!"
"What for?" asked Aksionov.
"It was I who killed the merchant and hid the knife among
your things. I meant to kill you too, but I heard a noise outside, so I
hid the knife in your bag and escaped out of the window."
 Aksionov was silent, and did not know what to say. Makar
Semyonich slid off the bed-shelf and knelt upon the ground. "Ivan
Dmitrich," said he, "forgive me! For the love of God, forgive me! I
will confess that it was I who killed the merchant, and you will be
released and can go to your home."
"It is easy for you to talk," said Aksionov, "but I have
suffered for you these twenty-six years. Where could I go to
now?... My wife is dead, and my children have forgotten me. I have
nowhere to go..."
Makar Semyonich did not rise, but beat his head on the
floor. "Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!" he cried. "When they flogged
me with the knot it was not so hard to bear as it is to see you now ...
yet you had pity on me, and did not tell. For Christ's sake forgive
me, wretch that I am!" And he began to sob.
When Aksionov heard him sobbing he, too, began to weep.
"God will forgive you!" said he. "Maybe I am a hundred times
worse than you." And at these words his heart grew light, and the
longing for home left him. He no longer had any desire to leave the
prison, but only hoped for his last hour to come.
In spite of what Aksionov had said, Makar Semyonich
confessed, his guilt. But when the order for his release came,
Aksionov was already dead.
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO Edgar Allan Poe
THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best
could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You,
who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose,
however, that gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be
avenged; this was a point definitely, settled --but the very
definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk.
I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is
unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally
unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to
him who has done the wrong.
It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I
given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was
my in to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my to smile
now was at the thought of his immolation.
He had a weak point --this Fortunato --although in other
regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided
himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true
virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit
the time and opportunity, to practise imposture upon the British and
Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his
countrymen, was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was
sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; --I was
skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I
could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness
of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted
me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The
man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and
his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so
pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing
his hand.
I said to him --"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met.
How remarkably well you are looking to-day. But I have received a
pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."
"How?" said he. "Amontillado, A pipe? Impossible! And in
the middle of the carnival!"
"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to
pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter.
You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain."
"Amontillado!"
"I have my doubts."
"Amontillado!"
"And I must satisfy them."
"Amontillado!"
"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchresi. If any
one has a critical turn it is he. He will tell me --"
"Luchresi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."
"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for
your own.
"Come, let us go."
"Whither?"
"To your vaults."
"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I
perceive you have an engagement. Luchresi--"
"I have no engagement; --come."
"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold
with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably
damp. They are encrusted with nitre."
"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing.
Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchresi,
he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm; and
putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely
about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to
make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not
return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to
stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to
insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my
back was turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to
Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the
archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding
staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at
length to the foot of the descent, and stood together upon the damp
ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his
cap jingled as he strode.
"The pipe," he said.
 "It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work
which gleams from these cavern walls."
He turned towards me, and looked into my eves with two
filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.
"Nitre?" he asked, at length.
"Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?"
"Ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh!
ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh!"
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many
minutes.
"It is nothing," he said, at last.
"Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health
is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are
happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no
matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be
responsible. Besides, there is Luchresi --"
"Enough," he said; "the cough's a mere nothing; it will not
kill me. I shall not die of a cough."
"True --true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of
alarming you unnecessarily --but you should use all proper caution.
A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps.
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a
long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.
"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.
He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to
me familiarly, while his bells jingled.
"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."
"And I to your long life."
He again took my arm, and we proceeded.
"These vaults," he said, "are extensive."
"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous
family."
"I forget your arms."
"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a
serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel."
"And the motto?"
"Nemo me impune lacessit."
"Good!" he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own
fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through long
walls of piled skeletons, with casks and puncheons intermingling,
into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this
time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.
"The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss
upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of
moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is
too late. Your cough --"
"It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another
draught of the Medoc."
 I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied
it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and
threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement --a
grotesque one.
"You do not comprehend?" he said.
"Not I," I replied.
"Then you are not of the brotherhood."
"How?"
"You are not of the masons."
"Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes."
"You? Impossible! A mason?"
"A mason," I replied.
"A sign," he said, "a sign."
"It is this," I answered, producing from beneath the folds of
my roquelaire a trowel.
"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us
proceed to the Amontillado."
"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and
again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We
continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed
through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and
descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of
the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another
less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to
the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris.
Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this
manner. From the fourth side the bones had been thrown down, and
lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of
some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the
bones, we perceived a still interior crypt or recess, in depth about
four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have
been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed
merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof
of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing
walls of solid granite.
It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch,
endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination the
feeble light did not enable us to see.
"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for
Luchresi --"
"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped
unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In
niche, and finding an instant he had reached the extremity of the
niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly
bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite.
In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about
two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain,
from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was
but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much
astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the
recess.
"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help
feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is very damp. Once more let me implore
you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must
first render you all the little attentions in my power."
"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered
from his astonishment.
"True," I replied; "the Amontillado."
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of
bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon
uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these
materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall
up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I
discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure
worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning
cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken
man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second
tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious
vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during
which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I
ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the
clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without
interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was
now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and
holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble
rays upon the figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly
from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently
back. For a brief moment I hesitated, I trembled. Unsheathing my
rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of
an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of
the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall; I replied
to the yells of him who clamoured. I re-echoed, I aided, I surpassed
them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew
still.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I
had completed the eighth, the ninth and the tenth tier. I had finished
a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single
stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I
placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from
out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It
was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing
as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said--
"Ha! ha! ha! --he! he! he! --a very good joke, indeed --an
excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the
palazzo --he! he! he! --over our wine --he! he! he!"
"The Amontillado!" I said.
"He! he! he! --he! he! he! --yes, the Amontillado. But is it
not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the
Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone."
"Yes," I said, "let us be gone."
"For the love of God, Montresor!"
"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew
impatient. I called aloud --
"Fortunato!"
No answer. I called again --
"Fortunato!"
 No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining
aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a
jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick; it was the dampness of the
catacombs that made it so. I hastened to make an end of my labour.
I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the
new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a
century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!
RUNNING SHOES Rick Barret
Baby is where I draw the line, or babe, or similar terms
of endearment. They did not understand. All I really want, all I
really need, is a relationship that goes beyond the bounds of
friendship, yes, but which does not cross the border of
consummation. I never intended to hurt them, but this simply is the
principle I live by. Although, I admit, I really am the one to blame
for I never defined my terms at the outset or set our expectations
before the relationship became serious. How can I even begin to
explain it? In any case, before I was ready to do so, it was already
too late.
I hope its different this time with Gee. I think she really
knows who I am. I think she really understands me. I think she
really is the one. We have so many things in common. We love
most of the same things, share most of the same interests, most of
the same views about issues, have roughly the same philosophy of
life, and the same taste in books and music. I first met her a year
ago in my alma mater during its summer job fair. She was the first
candidate I interviewed. The thing that stunned me about her when
I first saw her was how closely she resembles the Jazz singer Norah
Jones: her dark eyes, eye brows, nose, mouth, cheeks, and chin
bore uncanny similarities with the artists own features; even her
hair, although at the time she tied it up behind her head so it was
not immediately noticeable. A colleague described it as a luxuriant
tumble of long black hair. Its spot on. She hardly wore any make
up, but her lips were cherry red.
She smiled when she handed me the clear white folder. It
was her CV, and I read it with great interest. I was thoroughly
impressed with her, but it took me a while to speak up and ask her
questions because for a minute I couldnt make sense of the items
in the questionnaire. I tried reading them, but I couldnt finish a
single sentence. My mind was somewhere else. When I managed to
open my mouth, I stammered. But she was very calm and she
looked at me with great curiosity as she listened to my queries. She
struck me as very bright, sweet, modest, and unassuming. She did
more of the talking and the only signal that brought back my sense
of time were her eyes when she glanced at the wall clock inside the
room. I told her she was more than qualified for the job and hired
her on the spot.
She started her training under one of our managers, but after
a couple of weeks our boss transferred her under my supervision.
She was a quick learner and very hardworking, so much so that she
got promoted twice a few months after her regularization. She was
assigned to another department earlier this year.
We used to eat lunch as a group, with our office mates, but
lately weve been eating alone together more and more frequently. I
guess its due mainly to our new schedules. We both have the same
lunch breaks now, which is an hour early from most of our
colleagues. We both get off from work at around the same time as
well, so we usually ended up taking our dinners together also.
I was the last person to leave the office that first night. I
closed all the lights in the entire floor, leaving only the front desk
lit up. I closed and locked the glass door and went down the
corridor. I took the elevator and got out of the lobby. The security
guard greeted me with a good evening and I stepped out of the
building and into the street. It was drizzling. A few people were
smoking and drinking coffee outside a resto bar. I didnt bring my
car to work that day. I figured its cheaper to commute since the
fuel prices have increased again a few days before. Besides, I lived
within the city.
And then a car pulled up in front of me. It was an old
Cadillac, with a green body and white top, the first Ive ever seen in
Cebu.
Hey, its me! Gee called out to me from inside. She
waved her hand and smiled.
Oh, hi! I said and smiled back, surprised to see her. Nice
car.
Thanks. Where are you headed?
Home.
Where do you live?
In Talamban.
Really? Me too. Where in Talamban?
Just after San Carlos. You?
Oh, okay. I dont know the name of the street, but its
before the Cebu International School.
Ah, okay. Thats quite far.
I know. Come on in, Ill drop you off.
I opened the passenger door and the first thing that greeted
me when I sat down on the leather seat was the scent of fruits and
wild flowers. The scent of apples, grapefruit, magnolia, rose, violet,
sandalwood and other fragrances Im not familiar with wafted in
the cool air inside the car. I took a deep breath and glanced at her.
Thank you, I said.
No problem, she said.
I noticed that her face was moist. Tiny drops of water
glistened from her cheek. She wiped them off with her hand. She
revved the engine and we drove off slowly. I saw you at your
cubicle on my way out. Busy day?
Really? You were at the office tonight? I didnt notice
you, I said. Yes, I will be very busy in the next few weeks. I have
plenty of deadlines to beat.
There was a short pause. Then I said, Hows work?
She glanced at me briefly. Oh, fine, fine.
Do you usually go home this late?
Not all the time. But often. Especially this month. And
maybe the next, as well.
How do you like your new boss?
Oh, Miss Lim? Shes great. I like her. I like her a lot. Shes
very spunky. Very funny, too. Are you friends with her? she asked.
I nodded. Yes.
There was an awkward silence. I looked outside the
window. I looked at the cars and the people walking along the road
and those crossing the streets. I wondered where they worked and
where they were going. Fine drops of water glittered from the
windshield like silver dust. The wiper moved and we could see the
road ahead more clearly now. I saw her eyes in the rear-view
mirror. Shes looking straight ahead, and then she noticed me
looking at her. I quickly averted my eyes and stared again at the
buildings and houses we were passing by. House music was playing
faintly in the background. She reached out and increased the
volume. The tempo was fast and the rhythm of the bass was deep.
Do you mind if I change the music?
No, not at all, I answered. Really nice car you have here.
Where did you get this?
Oh, its a gift from someone, a long time ago.
Then she pushed a cassette tape into the player and there
was a rapid spinning sound.
She laughed. Im probably the last girl on earth who still
plays cassette tapes.
Wow, was the only thing I managed to say.
Im old-fashioned. And I cant get rid of them. They have
sentimental value for me.
Cool.
But, then again, I may have to give in and buy a digital
stereo eventually. My friends make fun of me every time they see
this thing.
A familiar song began to play.
Well, it aint no use to sit and wonder why, babe.
If you dont know by now.
Bob Dylan! I exclaimed.
Her face brightened up. You listen to him, too? She
turned up the volume a few notches more.
Well, it aint no use to sit and wonder why, babe.
Itll never do, somehow.
Im a huge fan, I answered.
She smiled.
When your rooster crows at the break of dawn,
Look out your window and Ill be gone.
Youre the reason Ill be travellin on.
Dont think twice its alright.
We talked about Bob Dylans albums, and I asked her which
songs she liked best, and whether she has seen the documentaries
about his life and career.
Have you eaten already? I asked as we passed by the
Banilad Town Center.
You mean dinner? she asked in return.
Yes, I mean dinner.
No, not yet. You?
Me neither. I paused. Do you want to grab something to
eat? That is if its okay with you. I mean, if youre not in a hurry,
or if youre not meeting anyone tonight
She laughed. Sure, its okay. Im not in a hurry, and Im
not meeting anyone tonight. Besides, I wanted to ask you that, too.
Great.
Another pause.
 Do you like Korean? I asked.
Sure, she answered.
Theres a Korean restaurant under this overpass.
Under this overpass?
Yes, you can take a U-turn up ahead.
Alright. She gripped the steering wheel and pulled it hard
towards her left.
We ordered a Dakgalbi and a Ramyun. Only a few people
were in the restaurant with us, a group of Koreans. They glanced at
us occasionally.
Do you understand Bisaya? I asked her while we waited
for our food to arrive.
A little bit, she said. Kabaw ko gamay.
Youre a small carabao? I joked.
Huh?
I laughed. Kabaw also means carabao or water buffalo in
Bisaya.
She giggled. Youre silly. I know that.
So you cant be fooled, huh? Nor sold to anyone?
She smiled. Dili jud. Its more likely that I can fool
you. She picked up the metal chopsticks. Wow, these things are
heavy. I prefer the wooden ones. Do they have wooden chopsticks
here?
I dont think so, I answered. By the way, how long have
you lived here? Where are you from?
Is this another interview?
I laughed again. Yes.
Ive lived here after my freshman year in college. My mom
and I transferred here from the States.
Is she Filipina?
Wow, youre really serious, huh?
Im just curious. You seem to have a very mysterious aura
at the office. I ask on behalf of all the guys at work who are dying
to know more about you.
She giggled again. Just because Im often silent at work
doesnt mean Im mysterious. I just prefer working quietly. I only
speak when its necessary. I can be talkative if I want to.
Some guys found it unnerving.
Why?
Because it makes you look strict and unapproachable.
Im not strict. This is just the way I carry myself. And to
answer your question, my mom was half-Filipina and half-
Caucasian.
And youre dad?
Youre supposed to take notes. This is an interview.
Oh, okay. I pretended to take out a pocket notebook and
pencil.
 She smiled. Good, now write this down, sir. My father is But she burst out laughing. I told you, I can easily fool
Wait, why dont you take a guess? you.

Italian, maam? The waitress arrived and served us our meals, along with
some kimchi, bu-chu, and salad as appetizers. She loved her dinner.
No.
For the rest of the night, we talked about all sorts of stuff,
German? from current events and business, to films, music, and books. The
No. owner of the shop then asked us if we have any additional orders
because they were about to close at that hour.
French, Spanish?
We began meeting every week ends. We would either
No and no. watch a movie, try hole-in-the wall cafes, go to museums, scour
used book shops, visit the public library, or spend our hard-earned
I thought for a moment, then I cast a casual look at her eyes,
money on paperbacks from Fully Booked. Or we would go on a
nose, and mouth. Again, I caught a whiff of the fruits and
road trip somewhere in the provinces, start off before sunrise, and
wildflowers. My mind followed the scents and got lost in the
go back to the city after dusk. Or we would go to the beach. She
woods.
loved the sea. She loved to swim and she loved to lie on the sand.
She snapped her fingers. Focus.
Have you been to Bacolod? she asked me once on our
I blinked. Sorry. Russian? way back from a beach in Mactan. This time, her car was filled
with the smell of the ocean.
Youre moving farther and father up the hemisphere.
Yes, I answered. A long time ago. Have you been
I give up. there?
Indian. Not yet. They say its a very beautiful city.
Just like Norah Jones, I said, my eyes widening. I Oh, yes, you will love it, especially if you take the route to
felt the goosebumps rise up my spine, neck and arms. You know, Toledo and San Carlos. San Carlos is a very old city, and you can
Ive long wanted to tell you that, how uncannily you resemble her. still see some Spanish-era houses there. Its quite different from
How is this possible? Cebu or the towns South of Cebu. Its a bit like Dumaguete, but
way cleaner and quainter.
Maybe Im her long lost twin sister.
Have you been to Dumaguete?
It sounded too probable, and the more I thought about it and
the more I stared at her, the more I believed her.
 Oh, yes, many times. You should visit it some day.
Bacolod, too. The trip across Negros from San Carlos
is exhilarating. There are so many beautiful things to see there, tall
trees, mountains, waterfalls
You should come with me.
I looked at her. Her face and arms began to tan. Her hair
swayed with the wind. She rested her left arm on the cars window
frame.
I dont think its safe for you to do that, I said. A car
might hit us and
She straightened her arm immediately. Yes, sir. Right
away, sir.
On Sundays, we would go to Church together in the
morning and in the afternoon wed go window shopping or go to
her place to play chess, listen to music, or read each other short
stories and poetry.
We were inside a boutique in Ayala when she first brought
up the idea.
Do you think I look good on this? she asked without
looking at me. She held a green blouse against her chest and
examined her reflection in the mirror.
Yes, I answered. That looks nice.
Really? she asked.
Yes, I answered. You look good on anything.
She looked at me and smiled. After a few moments, she
said, Hey, you havent seen my place yet, havent you?
Yes, I said, a little surprised. I mean, no, I havent.
Do you want to see it?
Sure.
Okay. Can you hold this for me? she handed me her
shoulder bag. Ill go try this on in the back. Can you give me five
minutes?
Of course. Her bag felt light. She then disappeared into
one of the fitting rooms inside the store.
The first thing she did after we entered her apartment was
approach her pianoforte. She opened the lid and then the fall, and
sat down on the bench.
Have a seat. Make yourself at home, she said, flipping the
music sheet in front of her.
I sat on the only couch in her living room. It was rather
large. I didnt know you can play the piano.
Really? Havent I mentioned it to you before?
No, you havent. I looked around. Behind the instrument
is a picture of a lady in black and white singing in front of a vintage
microphone. She had a flower pinned to one side of her head.
To my left were two large bookcases. I saw Gees photo on
one of the upper shelves. There was another picture beside hers,
that of a middle-aged woman in a blue, polka-dotted dress. Stacks
of books were neatly arranged on the floor. More books lined the
walls beside and behind the couch. Still more were stacked beside
the piano. On the center table were back issues of The New Yorker,
Time, The Economist, The Philippines Graphic, National
Geographic, Zee Lifestyle, Entrepreneur, and various assorted
magazines. On the opposite end of the living room was a divider,
on top of which was a stereo and a TV. Cases of CDs and DVDs
were kept inside plastic racks beside the speakers.
She stood up momentarily and turned on the stand fan.
Sorry, I forgot to turn this on.
I wiped the sweat off my brow using my hand. Thank
you.
She sat down on the stool again and tinkered with the
keyboard a little bit. Then she started playing a tune by Aretha
Franklin. She then played a few more songs by Billie Holiday, Nina
Simone, and, yes, Norah Jones. She turned around and gave me a
sly smile.
I sat very still and kept quiet. Her hands were white against
the gathering darkness inside the apartment. They moved slowly
from left to right, and vice versa, and her smoky, languid voice rose
above the melody she was creating:
I wanna walk with you on a cloudy day,
In fields where the yellow grass grows knee-high,
So wont you try to come?
Sometimes, she would hum. Sometimes, her words were
indistinct; they were too delicate for me to hear. Her long hair fell
on her back and her shoulders shone against the fading light. Then
she played a Mozart sonata.
Are you hungry? she asked.
Um, no, I answered. Im okay, thanks.
Are you sure? We can eat here. Ill cook us a Biryani.
A what?
A Biryani. Havent you tried it before? She stopped
playing and stood up. She went to the kitchen and I heard the sound
of the faucet as she opened it.
No, not yet. Whats that?
Something I learned from my father. One of the few things
I remembered from him.
Where is he now?
She didnt answer.
After dinner, we played chess. I lost all four games. She told
me she gave me every opportunity to win. I said I really am not into
chess that much. She chuckled.
I can teach you to play better, she said.
Can you teach me to play the piano? I asked.
No, youre too old for that, she answered. Just kidding.
Yes, of course, if you really want to. We can hang out here every
week if you like.
Our office mates eventually noticed my unusual activities.
Where were you last Saturday, bro? I thought you were
coming with us? Miguel said.
Sorry, Migs, I had something else to do, I said.
Thats a first, he said, thoughtfully.
Maybe Im just getting old.
One is never too old to party.
I shrugged my shoulders.
 Whats up with you, Luc? Samantha said, smiling. You
dont go out with us anymore. Have you become a recluse?
Before I could speak, Noel interjected, Maybe theres a girl
involved. Maybe hes finally dating someone.
They laughed and teased me until the truth finally slipped
out of my mouth by accident a week later.
Gee. Her name is Gee, I said.
They were incredulous. Geetali Thomson from
Operations? Manuel asked. Miss Norah Jones herself? You mean
her?
Oh my goodness, Luc! Samantha exclaimed. Is that
true? You and her? How did that happen?
Oh, you dog! Im so proud of you. Youre learning from
the master. I thought you were a hopeless case, Manuel said.
Sam, hes a smooth operator, isnt he? You know, Im finally
beginning to see that theres some truth to the idea that shy guys are
usually the most lethal when it comes to well, love and
romance, Manuel said.
Oh no, its not what you think. Its nothing romantic. Not
at all. Were just close friends.
Suuuure, Noel said sarcastically. The typical excuse.
Close friends, Manuel repeated. How close? Two inches
close?
You know, Luc, you two look good together, Samantha
said. Youre a perfect pair. Youre both introverts, youre both
intelligent, and youre both kind-hearted. But youre luckier, you
know, because shes more than all of that. Were actually good
friends. But I wonder why she never mentioned you before. Come
to think of it, she was never open about her personal life.
Shes also hot, Manuel said, raising an eyebrow. Very,
very hot. Extremely hot. In fact, I regret it that I didnt make my
move sooner. Just kidding, bro. He tapped me in the back.
I assure you we are just friends, I said and smiled.
Were happy to know that youre going out again, Luc,
after what happened with you and Rica Noel began to say until
Samantha tapped his arm. Um, yeah, were happy for you, Luc,
she said.
It bothered me that my friends are thinking that Gee and I
are something of an item. Could the same thing be on her mind? I
looked forward to seeing her every single day. Every minute or so I
would stretch my neck and look over my cubicle to see if she was
at the far end of the office. She never approached me in my corner
of the room. She always appeared distant and indifferent at work.
And we never got the chance to talk because there were so many
people to watch out for. I never noticed her glance back at me. Not
once. All I could do was imagine that she was just standing beside
my desk, handing out a report or whatnot, or asking me a question.
She never emailed me, either. Every minute I longed to hear her
voice, but she never came over.
She makes me happy, and I want to be with her. But I also
do not yet want her to get drawn in to me in a more intimate way, at
least not until I could explain to her my peculiar situation.
And I have figured out a way of doing just that.
The following Saturday afternoon, Gee was a bit pensive.
We were eating warm brownie cups in La Marea.
 I just added a few more books to my to-read list, I said,
trying to cheer her up. I havent had the time to read them yet.
Most of them are new.
She didnt say anything.
Ive read rave reviews about them. I have A Visit From the
Goon Squad, The Fault in Our Stars, Mr Penumbras 24-Hour
Bookstore, Cloud Atlas, Bring Up the Bodies. Have you read any
of these?
She scooped a spoonful of blueberry ice cream from her cup
and brought it to her mouth slowly.
Gee, are you okay? I asked, anxiously. Whats wrong?
She finally smiled, albeit weakly, and looked at me. You
know, Luc, Ive always wondered why you always wear those same
rubber shoes whenever were together.
I looked down at my feet. Theyre my only shoes. Ive had
them for the longest time. Theyre actually running shoes.
Really? she asked. Why dont you buy a different pair?
They look kinda old. How about leather shoes? Dont you like
leather shoes?
I dont know. I guess theyre nice. They look good.
Theyre nice to look at. But I cant wear them. I mean, I cant see
myself wearing them, I said.
Why? I bet you look good with leather shoes.
I dont know.
Im going to buy you a pair, whether you like it or not. Do
you love running? Ive never heard you talk about running before.
Did you use to jog or join marathons?
Not really. But I do jog, sometimes. Do you jog?
Oh, yes. We havent done it yet, havent we? How about if
we go jogging tomorrow morning?
Sure, if you want to.
Id love to.
Shes silent again for a few minutes. I looked at my empty
cup, drank the service water, and looked at the people passing by
outside the shop.
Do you want another cup? I asked her.
No, thanks. Im good. Ive already fulfilled my quota of
one brownie cup per month, she said and laughed.
I laughed, too. Okay. I could go for a second cup.
I bought another cup and finished it in a hurry. I have a
surprise for you
Her face lit up. Really? What is it?
I took a notebook from my backpack. I wrote you a short
story
She smiled and her eyes looked at me expectantly. Wow,
really? About what? Let me hear it.
Not sure yet. Its not yet finished. Its a work in progress.
Hmmm, I see, she said thoughtfully. Am I in it?
Of course. Like I said, I wrote this for you.
She blushed a little. Whats the title?
Not sure yet. Its either Voices or Tattoo.
 Interesting.
I cleared my throat and began reading:
Every lady has a poem, a voice whispered, and it echoed
inside my head like residues of a dream. I looked at Gee, but she
was poring over the magazine. I lowered my book and scanned the
room. Two girls were sitting at the far end of the shop, near the
counter. The barista was cleaning the portafilters. The tables next to
us were empty.
But they dont see it, the voice continued. They cant
hear it. Someone somewhere has written them a poem and
somehow the letter was not sent, or was sent but never received, or,
in some cases, the pen never even touched the paper, that is to say,
the author didnt even get to write the poem. But its never really
lost. No poem, however bad, is ever lost. It always survives and
stays above the concerned ladys head as a swarm of verses, like
bees that dont sting.
Whos there? I mumbled, bewildered.
Huh? Gee looked up. Did you say something?
Nothing, I said, a little embarrassed. She went back to her
reading.
I stopped reading and looked at her. She laughed.
Interesting. Whats the plot going to be? she asked.
Im still trying to figure it out, I replied.
But whys it called Tattoo?
Hang on, I said, smiling. Im getting there.
It all started when I got a Jane Austen tattoo, the voice
went on. I dont know what the connection is between Jane Austen
and poetry. As far as I know, Jane Austen wrote very few poems,
none of them romantic. Who on earth gets a Jane Austen tattoo?
my best friend asked me. I do, I answered defiantly.
I looked at Gee, but she was not looking at me anymore.
She was inspecting her fingernails. She was again thoughtful. But I
resumed:
I consider myself a hardcore Austenite, so one fine day,
after finishing Emma, I simply got out of the house, looked for a
tattoo shop downtown, and got myself a Jane Austen tattoo. I
showed the tattoo artist a copy of Austens portrait, the one drawn
by her sister Cassandra, and he asked me whether it was my
grandmothers. I protested, No!, and was about to lecture him but
I held my tongue because he looked like he was competing in
Mixed Martial Arts.
Suddenly, Gee interrupted me, Luc, theres something I
need to ask you. She bit her lower lip.
My heart jumped. What is it? I asked.
She looked around. The other tables were empty. The
waitress was talking to someone in the kitchen. The late afternoon
sunlight made the cars parked outside glow with a golden hue. A
woman walked by tagging along a funny-looking poodle.
She fixed a lock of hair from her forehead over her ear. Her
face was bright but there was something soulful in her expression.
Her hair was long and elegant and her dark eyes sparkled. I looked
at her eye brows, nose, cheeks, lips, chin, and neck, and my heart
raced within me. Then her hands moved ever so slowly over the
table to reach mine. This was the first time I ever felt her touch. It
sent electric currents up my spine and I shivered in secret. Her
index, middle, and ring fingers stayed a while at the back of my
hand, and then she opened my palm and pressed her thumbs against
it.
What are we? she asked in a soft voice.
My heart skipped anew. What do you mean? I answered,
with a dry smile.
I mean, what are we?
Human beings, of course. The joke fell flat and did not
change her facial expression.
She sighed and the ground beneath my feet trembled a little.
With fresh patience, she asked, What am I to you?
I looked at her face and eyes. I felt delightfully bewildered
and joyful, but at the same time I felt a deep melancholy and even
despair. Already, I felt nostalgic. At the top of my mind awaited the
short story I wanted to finish reading out loud that would explain to
her my situation. At the tip of my tongue awaited three dozen
poems that I havent told her Ive written for her.
You My eyes wandered and settled down on our hands
clasped together.
She pressed my hand a little harder. Look at me. Tell me.
You I spoke the most beautiful word Id ever known,
second only to her name. Gee. I could pronounce it again and
again for hours, days, months and for eternity.
Yes babe?
I looked at my shoes and my knees. I drew my hand back as
slowly and as gently as I could and immediately I heard the sound
of glasses crashing inside my chest. I fixed my collar and closed
my hands. I opened them again and began to rise from my seat. I
felt the full weight of my body in my shaky legs.
Gee Im so, very sorry but I have to go, I stammered.
She looked at me, unable to speak.
I picked up my backpack and moved away from our table.
Then I opened the glass door nervously and stepped outside the
shop. The buildings looked down at me accusingly.
I started walking. I left The Walk with unbearably light feet.
Then after some minutes I started jogging. I didnt look back, I just
jogged. After sometime, I began running. Then I ran faster and
faster until I.T. Park faded behind me. Taxis and jeepneys whizzed
by from opposite directions but all I heard were the sounds of
humming and singing. I paused for a few seconds to catch my
breath and began running again. I ran the whole length of Salinas
Drive and then rested outside J.Y. Square for a few minutes. Just
then, my phone vibrated inside my pocket. I ignored it and resumed
running towards Busay. The road uphill was very difficult. I had to
slow down significantly until my running was reduced to a walk.
By the time I reached the gate of Marco Polo Plaza I was totally
exhausted, out of breath. I was drenched in sweat. The security
guards eyed me suspiciously. One of them sneered. The K-9 dogs
growled. I began moving again, albeit this time ever more slowly,
as if I was dragging along a dying body.
My phone was still vibrating but I couldnt stop running
now.

THE LADY OR THE TIGER Frank Stockton
In the very olden time there lived a semi-barbaric king,
whose ideas, though somewhat polished and sharpened by the
progressiveness of distant Latin neighbors, were still large, florid,
and untrammeled, as became the half of him which was barbaric.
He was a man of exuberant fancy, and, withal, of an authority so
irresistible that, at his will, he turned his varied fancies into facts.
He was greatly given to self-communing, and, when he and himself
agreed upon anything, the thing was done. When every member of
his domestic and political systems moved smoothly in its appointed
course, his nature was bland and genial; but, whenever there was a
little hitch, and some of his orbs got out of their orbits, he was
blander and more genial still, for nothing pleased him so much as to
make the crooked straight and crush down uneven places.
Among the borrowed notions by which his barbarism
had become semified was that of the public arena, in which, by
exhibitions of manly and beastly valor, the minds of his subjects
were refined and cultured.
But even here the exuberant and barbaric fancy asserted
itself. The arena of the king was built, not to give the people an
opportunity of hearing the rhapsodies of dying gladiators, nor to
enable them to view the inevitable conclusion of a conflict between
religious opinions and hungry jaws, but for purposes far better
adapted to widen and develop the mental energies of the people.
This vast amphitheater, with its encircling galleries, its mysterious
vaults, and its unseen passages, was an agent of poetic justice, in
which crime was punished, or virtue rewarded, by the decrees of an
impartial and incorruptible chance girlplays.
When a subject was accused of a crime of sufficient
importance to interest the king, public notice was given that on an
appointed day the fate of the accused person would be decided in
the king's arena, a structure which well-deserved its name, for,
although its form and plan were borrowed from afar, its purpose
emanated solely from the brain of this man, who, every barleycorn
a king, knew no tradition to which he owed more allegiance than
pleased his fancy, and who engrafted on every adopted form of
human thought and action the rich growth of his barbaric idealism.
When all the people had assembled in the galleries, and
the king, surrounded by his court, sat high up on his throne of royal
state on one side of the arena, he gave a signal, a door beneath him
opened, and the accused subject stepped out into the amphitheater.
Directly opposite him, on the other side of the enclosed space, were
two doors, exactly alike and side by side. It was the duty and the
privilege of the person on trial to walk directly to these doors and
open one of them. He could open either door he pleased; he was
subject to no guidance or influence but that of the aforementioned
impartial and incorruptible chance. If he opened the one, there
came out of it a hungry tiger, the fiercest and most cruel that could
be procured, which immediately sprang upon him and tore him to
pieces as a punishment for his guilt. The moment that the case of
the criminal was thus decided, doleful iron bells were clanged,
great wails went up from the hired mourners posted on the outer
rim of the arena, and the vast audience, with bowed heads and
downcast hearts, wended slowly their homeward way, mourning
greatly that one so young and fair, or so old and respected, should
have merited so dire a fate.
But, if the accused person opened the other door, there
came forth from it a lady, the most suitable to his years and station
that his majesty could select among his fair subjects, and to this
lady he was immediately married, as a reward of his innocence. It
mattered not that he might already possess a wife and family, or
that his affections might be engaged upon an object of his own
selection; the king allowed no such subordinate arrangements to
interfere with his great scheme of retribution and reward. The
exercises, as in the other instance, took place immediately, and in
the arena. Another door opened beneath the king, and a priest,
followed by a band of choristers, and dancing maidens blowing
joyous airs on golden horns and treading an epithalamic measure,
advanced to where the pair stood, side by side, and the wedding
was promptly and cheerily solemnized. Then the gay brass bells
rang forth their merry peals, the people shouted glad hurrahs, and
the innocent man, preceded by children strewing flowers on his
path, led his bride to his home.
This was the king's semi-barbaric method of
administering justice. Its perfect fairness is obvious. The criminal
could not know out of which door would come the lady; he opened
either he pleased, without having the slightest idea whether, in the
next instant, he was to be devoured or married. On some occasions
the tiger came out of one door, and on some out of the other. The
decisions of this tribunal were not only fair, they were positively
determinate: the accused person was instantly punished if he found
himself guilty, and, if innocent, he was rewarded on the spot,
whether he liked it or not. There was no escape from the judgments
of the king's arena.
The institution was a very popular one. When the people
gathered together on one of the great trial days, they never knew
whether they were to witness a bloody slaughter or a hilarious
wedding. This element of uncertainty lent an interest to the
occasion which it could not otherwise have attained. Thus, the
masses were entertained and pleased, and the thinking part of the
community could bring no charge of unfairness against this plan,
for did not the accused person have the whole matter in his own
hands?
This semi-barbaric king had a daughter as blooming as
his most florid fancies, and with a soul as fervent and imperious as
his own. As is usual in such cases, she was the apple of his eye, and
was loved by him above all humanity. Among his courtiers was a
young man of that fineness of blood and lowness of station
common to the conventional heroes of romance who love royal
maidens. This royal maiden was well satisfied with her lover, for he
was handsome and brave to a degree unsurpassed in all this
kingdom, and she loved him with an ardor that had enough of
barbarism in it to make it exceedingly warm and strong. This love
affair moved on happily for many months, until one day the king
happened to discover its existence. He did not hesitate nor waver in
regard to his duty in the premises. The youth was immediately cast
into prison, and a day was appointed for his trial in the king's arena.
This, of course, was an especially important occasion, and his
majesty, as well as all the people, was greatly interested in the
workings and development of this trial. Never before had such a
case occurred; never before had a subject dared to love the daughter
of the king. In after years such things became commonplace
enough, but then they were in no slight degree novel and startling.
The tiger-cages of the kingdom were searched for the
most savage and relentless beasts, from which the fiercest monster
might be selected for the arena; and the ranks of maiden youth and
beauty throughout the land were carefully surveyed by competent
judges in order that the young man might have a fitting bride in
case fate did not determine for him a different destiny. Of course,
everybody knew that the deed with which the accused was charged
had been done. He had loved the princess, and neither he, she, nor
any one else, thought of denying the fact; but the king would not
think of allowing any fact of this kind to interfere with the
workings of the tribunal, in which he took such great delight and
satisfaction. No matter how the affair turned out, the youth would
be disposed of, and the king would take an aesthetic pleasure in
watching the course of events, which would determine whether or
not the young man had done wrong in allowing himself to love the
princess.
The appointed day arrived. From far and near the people
gathered, and thronged the great galleries of the arena, and crowds,
unable to gain admittance, massed themselves against its outside
walls. The king and his court were in their places, opposite the twin
doors, those fateful portals, so terrible in their similarity.
All was ready. The signal was given. A door beneath the
royal party opened, and the lover of the princess walked into the
arena. Tall, beautiful, fair, his appearance was greeted with a low
hum of admiration and anxiety. Half the audience had not known so
grand a youth had lived among them. No wonder the princess loved
him! What a terrible thing for him to be there!
As the youth advanced into the arena he turned, as the
custom was, to bow to the king, but he did not think at all of that
royal personage. His eyes were fixed upon the princess, who sat to
the right of her father. Had it not been for the moiety of barbarism
in her nature it is probable that lady would not have been there, but
her intense and fervid soul would not allow her to be absent on an
occasion in which she was so terribly interested. From the moment
that the decree had gone forth that her lover should decide his fate
in the king's arena, she had thought of nothing, night or day, but
this great event and the various subjects connected with it.
Possessed of more power, influence, and force of character than
any one who had ever before been interested in such a case, she had
done what no other person had done - she had possessed herself of
the secret of the doors. She knew in which of the two rooms, that
lay behind those doors, stood the cage of the tiger, with its open
front, and in which waited the lady. Through these thick doors,
heavily curtained with skins on the inside, it was impossible that
any noise or suggestion should come from within to the person who
should approach to raise the latch of one of them. But gold, and the
power of a woman's will, had brought the secret to the princess.
And not only did she know in which room stood the lady
ready to emerge, all blushing and radiant, should her door be
opened, but she knew who the lady was. It was one of the fairest
and loveliest of the damsels of the court who had been selected as
the reward of the accused youth, should he be proved innocent of
the crime of aspiring to one so far above him; and the princess
hated her. Often had she seen, or imagined that she had seen, this
fair creature throwing glances of admiration upon the person of her
lover, and sometimes she thought these glances were perceived,
and even returned. Now and then she had seen them talking
together; it was but for a moment or two, but much can be said in a
brief space; it may have been on most unimportant topics, but how
could she know that? The girl was lovely, but she had dared to raise
her eyes to the loved one of the princess; and, with all the intensity
of the savage blood transmitted to her through long lines of wholly
barbaric ancestors, she hated the woman who blushed and trembled
behind that silent door.
When her lover turned and looked at her, and his eye met
hers as she sat there, paler and whiter than any one in the vast
ocean of anxious faces about her, he saw, by that power of quick
perception which is given to those whose souls are one, that she
knew behind which door crouched the tiger, and behind which
stood the lady. He had expected her to know it. He understood her
nature, and his soul was assured that she would never rest until she
had made plain to herself this thing, hidden to all other lookers-on,
even to the king. The only hope for the youth in which there was
any element of certainty was based upon the success of the princess
in discovering this mystery; and the moment he looked upon her, he
saw she had succeeded, as in his soul he knew she would succeed.
 Then it was that his quick and anxious glance asked the
question: "Which?" It was as plain to her as if he shouted it from
where he stood. There was not an instant to be lost. The question
was asked in a flash; it must be answered in another.
Her right arm lay on the cushioned parapet before her.
She raised her hand, and made a slight, quick movement toward the
right. No one but her lover saw her. Every eye but his was fixed on
the man in the arena.
He turned, and with a firm and rapid step he walked
across the empty space. Every heart stopped beating, every breath
was held, every eye was fixed immovably upon that man. Without
the slightest hesitation, he went to the door on the right, and opened
it.
Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come out
of that door, or did the lady ?
The more we reflect upon this question, the harder it is to
answer. It involves a study of the human heart which leads us
through devious mazes of passion, out of which it is difficult to find
our way. Think of it, fair reader, not as if the decision of the
question depended upon yourself, but upon that hot-blooded, semi-
barbaric princess, her soul at a white heat beneath the combined
fires of despair and jealousy. She had lost him, but who should
have him?
How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams, had
she started in wild horror, and covered her face with her hands as
she thought of her lover opening the door on the other side of
which waited the cruel fangs of the tiger!
But how much oftener had she seen him at the other
door! How in her grievous reveries had she gnashed her teeth, and
torn her hair, when she saw his start of rapturous delight as he
opened the door of the lady! How her soul had burned in agony
when she had seen him rush to meet that woman, with her flushing
cheek and sparkling eye of triumph; when she had seen him lead
her forth, his whole frame kindled with the joy of recovered life;
when she had heard the glad shouts from the multitude, and the
wild ringing of the happy bells; when she had seen the priest, with
his joyous followers, advance to the couple, and make them man
and wife before her very eyes; and when she had seen them walk
away together upon their path of flowers, followed by the
tremendous shouts of the hilarious multitude, in which her one
despairing shriek was lost and drowned!
Would it not be better for him to die at once, and go to
wait for her in the blessed regions of semi-barbaric futurity?
And yet, that awful tiger, those shrieks, that blood!
Her decision had been indicated in an instant, but it had
been made after days and nights of anguished deliberation. She had
known she would be asked, she had decided what she would
answer, and, without the slightest hesitation, she had moved her
hand to the right.
The question of her decision is one not to be lightly
considered, and it is not for me to presume to set myself up as the
one person able to answer it. And so I leave it with all of you:
Which came out of the opened door - the lady, or the tiger?