HOMO SAPIENS: THE IMMIGRANT’S TALE*
CHAPTER 1
BUTTERFLIES AND BERGAMOT
Pedro was sitting in a lotus position in the exact Euclidean center of his living room when the emergency services found him. The fire department had to be called in as the front door to his apartment had been securely locked from the inside, at three different points and with three different locks, forcing the firemen to ram-open the door of his seventh-floor apartment. Once inside, the policemen and firemen noticed a subtle fragrance of what some thought to be to be bergamot, others claimed it was the smell of cloves or jasmine with a touch of orange zest, anything except the foul smell of death as one would expect when making such a discovery. Not only was there no telltale odor of a cadaver to be detected, but equally astounding was the fact that the room temperature was well above 70 degrees, yet, as they discovered later, the gas and electricity supplies had been turned off ten years previous to their find. Outside, the bitter wind of winter was blowing, and it was snowing heavily. It was reportedly the coldest winter in a hundred years. This was astonishing to the firemen and policemen, to say the least, however, the most surprising discovery was made when the officers and firemen entered the living room where the deceased was sitting.
The room was well lit, thanks to two large French-windows and the fact that the curtains had been left open, revealing a wondrous scene inside as they witnessed hundreds of cocoons, caterpillars, butterflies, and moths suspended from every piece of furniture, plants, walls, the ceiling, and the curtains. The cocoons were of all sizes and in various conditions, some empty, some still occupied, but stranger yet was to see butterflies and moths of all shapes, sizes, and colors flying to and from one flower to another, one plant to another or just fluttering in the air making the room seems to vibrate with their energy rendering an ethereal air to it. Indeed, there were many green plants and flowers of all colors and varieties in full bloom despite the apparent lack of a caretaker. Joaquin’s body was practically covered with butterflies and some particularly large moths leaving little exposed of his otherwise practically nude body as he had been wearing simple summer shorts when he passed away. For what seemed to be an eternity, the policemen and firemen stood still in awe and silence at the entrance to the living room contemplating the illusory space before them. Finally, one officer cleared his throat and softly said that it was like walking into an enchanted forest. Another commented that it reminded him of his first visit, as a child, to the butterfly room of the local botanical gardens in the town where he grew up. Yet a third officer stated that the surreal scene before them reminded him of when his mother read him fairytales before falling asleep. He added that it was like a dream. Indeed, the room itself looked somewhat like the interior of a giant cocoon or cavern enveloped in a surreal Hieronymus Bosch’s Paradise-like scene. The only exception being that there was a cadaver in the room, that of Joaquin, who had been missing for over a decade.
Ten years before he was found, Joaquin had assumed the lotus position on what he had previously calculated to be the very Euclidean center of his living room in order to meditate on the “external” as well as the “internal” aspects of life, as he would say when unexpectedly — and these things usually are — an insidious ictus set in resulting in apoplexy and death, leaving him in what he thought to be the state of absolute enlightenment, or nirvana, something that he had pursued most of his adult life through introspection, analysis and “extrospection” as he liked to call it. So focused and concentrated was he that he died in that very position with his eyes wide open aimed high up and slightly to the right, hands on his knees and thumbs conjoined with the index fingers to complete the circuit of life and conjoin heaven with earth”. The surprisingly good condition of the corpse was possibly due to the extreme effort of concentration and focus that Pedro obtained when meditating, or the favorable atmospheric conditions in the room. Another possible explanation was perhaps the somewhat spartan life he led during most of his mature years. Whatever the cause may have been, the fact was that the corpse was intact and neither the forensic police nor the post-mortem examination were able to reveal the true cause of the body’s preservation. The only certainty was the cause of death itself, a stroke.
Inexplicably, Pedro’s body did not seem to have changed at all since the day he died, ten years before. The texture of his skin was still soft and strangely moist as if exuding perspiration, his eyes still fixed to the spot slightly right of center, with his back straight and legs crossed he gave the impression that he had just sat down to meditate. Most strikingly, was the expression on his face, that usual half-smile that rendered him as being an affable man, a kind and likable man. He gazed intensely outward and was transfixed with a look of wonder or enthrallment as if he had indeed seen the invisible and understood the incomprehensible. So nonplussed were the coroner and his assistant that they decided to send samples of Pedro’s DNA to the Royal Society, in London, in search of an explanation in what they called, ‘spontaneous mummification”. The results of the biopsy were equally baffling as they revealed that there was nothing unusual about the cadaver’s DNA with the exception of one important aberration, they concluded that the stem cells of the deceased, specifically the totipotent cells, were still alive or in a state of hibernation, but they were certainly not dead — something they had never come across in the long history of the Royal Society Clinical Forensic and Legal Medicine department. Finally, the local police department duly closed the case, shortly after, Joaquin was entombed by the local authorities.
THE PYRAMID
Due to the body’s unusual lotus position, they decided to place him in a pyramid-like coffin made entirely of ebony to keep out the moisture, encapsulated by a simple cement mausoleum with an ordinary metal plaque bearing his name, date of birth, and the approximated date of death. No sooner was Pedro’s pyramid installed in the local cemetery when people, first in a slow trickle, then by the dozens, started to congregate around and in front of the humble pyramid-like mausoleum, attracting the attention of the local media and eventually the international press. His final resting place was rendered barely visible by the myriad wreaths of flowers, candles, funeral torches and statuettes of the Bodhisattva, Buda Gautama that kept coming. In time, Pedro’s final abode became something of a monument, attracting a steady flow of visitors or pilgrims that came to visit the triangular grave of this modern-day ascetic of a man about whom no one knew very well until his postmortem existence was made public by the press.
*A work in progress.
