The Cleft, and Other Odd Tales

by Gahan Wilson

  She was almost, but not quite, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life, and I include in that count not only those I had observed and marveled at in the flesh, but the most legendary charmers of the films, not to mention the supreme exquisites represented in marble and paint during the Renaissance and in antiquity.

  Understand it was not that beauty itself, it was the excruciating nearness of the miss which so completely overwhelmed me. The tension between her actual state and her nearly achieved perfection put me into a condition of utter fascination which I had not experienced since I was a little child. Suddenly, and with the most remarkable, heartbreaking clarity, I could simultaneously remember gaping in the Christmas window of a department store at a madly desired toy and gazing open-mouthed at Disneys Snow White as she was discovered sleeping by the seven dwarfs.

  I was abruptly roused from this trance, for such it was, by the sudden, shocking realization that the young woman in question was gazing back at me, eye to eye, and by a gentle but decidedly authoritative touch upon my shoulder. I looked up and saw that the military gentleman was standing by my chair and looking down at me with a strange mixture of amusement and pity on his strong old face.

  "We noticed you sitting here alone, old chap," he said, speaking in a deep, oddly accented voice. "We wondered if you should like some company."

  "I should indeed," I said, barely avoiding a stammer and managing a credible smile.

  "Excellent," he said as I stood, and he led me over to the two women, who were now both studying me with a forgiving, kindly air.

  "I am Brigadier General Vasillos Konstantinides," he said, executing a courtly bow. "This is the Baroness von Liechtenburg, and this is Mademoiselle Denise Chandron."

  I introduced myself, using the distinguished name I had borrowed for the purposes of evading the law, and we settled into a pleasant little chat. They were old friends, these three, who stayed at the hotel often, "this time of year," as they put it.

  Eventually we carried our conversation into the dining room, and though it was unfailingly interesting, I was ever most conscious of, and most grateful for, the close proximity of the absolutely fascinating Miss Chandron.

  Toward the end of the meal I detected a certain awkwardness on the part of my new acquaintances. More and more they cast unobtrusive glances at one another and I caught an increasing air of thoughtful indecision on all their parts amid a growing number of conversational pauses. There was no doubt of it, some sort of unspoken question had begun to hover in the air.

  "I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed talking with you," I said, "and I very much hope we might do it again, perhaps even tomorrow night, but I must confess I'm quite exhausted from my journey. Please excuse me, I hate to tear myself away, but I think it would be extremely wise of me to retire early."

  The shared relief discreetly concealed under their murmured regrets and consolations showed me I had undoubtedly done the right thing. They had all been hesitating uncomfortably on—but not quite able to cross over—the edge of some decision. My exit was gratefully accepted and I was assured that we would, indeed, assemble in the salon the following evening.

  I had breakfast in my room before the French windows which looked out on a small, private balcony beyond. In season the windows would have been opened to allow a sun-warmed sea breeze, but I rather enjoyed them as they were, closed and snug against a gentle autumnal drizzle.

  I spent a lazy hour or more bathing and dressing and then began again to descend the marble staircase, this time with a book under my arm. My plan was simple and pleasant: I intended to find some quiet corner and read the book, or doze over it, until lunch.

  My tranquil mood was jarred, as was my elbow, when a group of porters bustled by me on the stairs bearing a chair with some difficulty. On the chair sat a grotesque figure, a hunched woman who was heavily veiled and whose thin limbs seemed to be bent at every angle possible, as were the clawed fingers she held tangled in her lap.

  The poor creature must have been in considerable pain for she moaned constantly as the porters carried her, and as she passed by me. the gray mound of veiling covering her face turned in my direction and she emitted a kind of keening wail which froze me where I stood so that I looked down still as a statue after her and her bearers as they completed their descent, passed through the lobby, and exited from the Hotel Splendide through its tall, crystal-paned doorway into the rain falling beyond.

  I did find exactly the sort of quiet corner that I'd hoped for, but I derived very small enjoyment from my reading, not through any fault of the little book I'd brought, but because of the repeated interceding vision of the distorted woman in the chair which kept floating between its pages and my eyes.

  That evening when I arrived at the little salon I found the Baroness von Liechtenburg and General Konstantinides sitting beside one another exactly where I had seen them the night before and chatting in a sprightly way with one another. They looked remarkably better than I remembered them, more than merely well rested; it almost seemed as though they'd both shed years.

  Their brightening at the sight of me seemed hearteningly genuine and the General stood and took my hand firmly in a large, strong grip and bade me sit by them just in time for a gliding waiter to take my order for an Amontillado.

  "Let me put you out of your misery at once regarding Miss Chandron, my poor fellow," said the Baroness, patting my hand and giving me the kindest smile possible, "for I see you are anxiously looking about for her. Unfortunately, she will not be with us this evening. Let me comfort you in a small way at least by telling you that she was most insistent I make it clear to you that she hopes very much to see you again and regrets the necessity for her departure, which was extreme."

  "She lost heavily at the Casino, I am afraid," said the General with a sigh. He took a sip of his sherry and brightened somewhat. "But I am sure she will be back next year and, I am confident, have much better luck. Doubtless you will see her then."

  "Oh, yes," said the Baroness, looking around the salon. "We shall all be back next year. Without doubt. All of us."

  I expressed my regret at Miss Chandron's absence, and that regret was genuine in the extreme—so genuine, in fact, that it quite surprised me. I had realized in a vague sort of way that I had taken a fancy to Denise, but until my heart lurched so within my chest at the news of her absence, I had no idea how much she had come to mean to me in that short time which we had spent together.

  From the growing concern in my friends' eyes it dawned on me that I must have gone completely silent for far too long a time, and in an effort to break it I stirred myself to ask them about the casino they'd mentioned, though I really was not even slightly interested in the subject.

  "Ah, yes," said the General, "that's why we come here, you see. For the Casino, altogether for the Casino. It only opens this time of year. The regular one, the one that caters to the seasonal people, is closed, of course. The Casino Mirago only functions these last two weeks of autumn. Only these last two weeks."

  "We naturally assumed that you were also here for the purpose of playing at the Casino, and of course we thought of asking you to join us last night," said the Baroness. "But we supposed you'd already made arrangements, as most people do, so we weren't quite sure how to proceed. We should have bulled ahead and simply asked you to come along, of course."

  "Perhaps, though," the General murmured reflectively, more to himself than to me, "it was just as well you weren't there, as things worked out. It was quite distressing."

  "But tonight," the Baroness said brightly, "would you like to come with us tonight? I think you would fit in quite well at the Casino, you know? I'm sure of it. You seem—I don't know exactly why—you seem to have the air for it."

  "We should be delighted to have you come as part of our company," said the General. "They are somewhat hesitant when it comes to new faces, but we shall usher you in, never fear."

  "You must come with us and try your luck," said the Barone
ss with a finality which was past all resistance.

  My acceptance of their kind invitation opened a sort of floodgate and our dinner conversation was dedicated entirely to the topic of the Casino Mirago, which appeared to be a genuine obsession with both my companions. Every year they came and every year they gambled, and very heavily it seemed. I thought of the ridiculous amounts of money in my briefcase upstairs and decided I could imagine no more fitting fate for it than to throw it away at the tables of an odd and eccentric gaming establishment such as was being described to me by my two new friends.

  It seemed that the Casino Mirago had been in operation for an extraordinarily long period of time and that generations upon generations of important and occasionally downright legendary people had tried their luck with its croupiers through the years. But in spite of its great age and the dedication of its regulars, its reputation was, in fact, highly restricted.

  The very existence of the Casino was a great secret which was firmly and carefully guarded by an extremely jealous clientele and as I ate my dinner and heard more and more hints of the wonders of this apparently fabulous establishment, it dawned upon me that I was extremely lucky, and could be, perhaps, extremely unlucky, to be receiving this initiation into its mysteries.

  "It takes considerable nerve, the Casino does," the General said, studying me closely over the candles burning discreetly in our dinner table's silver candelabra. "But I have the most peculiar conviction, just as the Baroness expressed, that you are exactly the right sort of chap for the spot."

  "I must confess," I said, thinking of the vial of poison clipped to the underside of my lapel, "that from what you've said of it, there is nowhere on this planet I can think of which fits in better with my present mood."

  We traveled in the General's limousine, a fine old Bentley captained with consummate artistry by an elderly chauffeur named Sweeney, who had the bright eyes and beak of an eagle, or perhaps a vulture. The glow of the General's cigar shone and dimmed with almost a regular pulsing on my left while the Baroness, who had heretofore languidly puffed only the occasional long cigarette, chain-smoked relentlessly on my right.

  The rain and its attendant mists had blown away completely and as we drove alongside the sea a bright, clear moon coasted over it, glinting the low, slow waves and gliding so smoothly and steadily beside the car that I could almost fancy it was watching us.

  I could easily sense the excitement building in both my friends. Now and then the General or the Baroness would try to ease their tension by breaking the waiting silence with some odd story or practical hint concerning the Casino Mirago.

  "You buy your chips with money, of course, as in any ordinary place of its kind," observed the Baroness after puffing into life perhaps her dozenth cigarette. "But you may choose to take your winnings in a great variety of forms."

  "Ah, yes, that's the grand thing," murmured the General, giving a firm nod which made the glowing coal of his cigar describe two neat little arcs a half foot in front of his face. "That's what sets the Casino Mirago totally apart from all the competition, you see. You need only specify, dear fellow. Only specify and they'll give it to you. It's really quite remarkable. But it does take some getting used to. Ah, yes."

  "The really important rule to bear in mind is that once you've decided what you're playing for, that's what you lose," said the Baroness, and as her dark eyes turned in my direction I could see a reflection of the full moon shining brightly in each of her pupils. "That's what you lose."

  When I confessed I did not quite grasp her meaning she gave a soft, nervous laugh.

  "You will understand when you see the others coming and going," she said. "That sight will make it all come clear to you.''

  "And here is your chance to see it," said the General, "for we have arrived at last."

  I saw a pale building grow larger as the Bentley glided into a curving drive and eased to a halt before a row of tall doors with light streaming through the elaborate etching of their panes. Simultaneously with the chauffeur Sweeney stepping around to let us out of the car, the two central doors were swiftly and smoothly opened by attendants costumed in purple uniforms heavily decorated with golden buttons and braidings so that we entered at once in a sweep and I only had a chance for the most cursory glimpse of the Casino's exterior.

  The building was covered with marble which was fish-belly pale, smooth enough to glisten, and every inch of the stuff was carved in a complicated riot of Neptunes and mermaids swimming lustily through festoons of seaweed crowded with shells and alive with the paralyzed writhings of stone sea horses and eels. Obviously the intent of all this heavy-handed gaiety was to create a festive display, to make a kind of architectural wedding cake, but in the moonlight and the autumn cold and with the salt air blowing over all, it seemed to me more like mortuary art and put me in mind of some dismal, if gaudy, tomb.

  The interior was another confusion of rococo carvings, but these were old nymphs and satyrs executed in plaster and thickly coated with gold paint which had become dulled and dusky through the years. They pranced and posed around countless murals of their betters: divers pagan deities painted in once bright oil colors long gone sooty and dim. These old gods stood with their toes poking over clouds flaking plaster and they gazed down at the gaming mortals beneath them with smiles and gesturings which struck me as sinister and possibly contemptuous.

  A tall, astoundingly thin man in white tie and tails glided toward us and brushed aside the fawning attendants so that he might take personal charge of the General and the Baroness, who were obviously both old and highly valued regulars of the Casino. I was introduced and accepted and doubtless permanently noted as he guided us almost reverently through a series of outer rooms filled with gamblers playing a greater variety of games than I had known existed.

  It became ever clearer that the Casino Mirago catered to a highly eccentric, not to say bizarre, clientele. The usual grim seriousness which underlies the mood of all gambling places, however jolly their superficial air may seem, was here most extraordinarily heightened. The customers all played with such highly focused attention that it seemed their gazes would burn holes into the green felt lining the card tables and singe the ivory dice as they flew. I had never before in all my life seen so much desperate intensity.

  A good many of the players appeared to be ill, a number of them shockingly so, and not a few of these were afflicted so severely that I was astounded that their care givers had permitted them their ill-advised expedition to this crowded and stressful place.

  At one point I saw what I believe was the oldest man I had ever observed being guided, perhaps it were better to say carried, by three of the purple-clad attendants.

  His head was totally hairless and its flesh was such a cascade of wrinkles that the definition of his face was almost completely obscured by the complicated patterns of its saggings and wattlings. His little feet in their shiny patent leather pumps turned pathetically this way and that over the thick carpet as the attendants dragged him along hurriedly and with little ceremony.

  I found myself shuddering when his limp body was brushed against mine as they dragged him past us, and I could see the wrinkled gap of his drooling, toothless mouth working obscenely and actually smell his sour, winy breath as I heard his high, thin, piping voice monotonously reciting, over and over and over again, the same series of numbers.

  The General looked after him, shaking his head sadly, but not without a trace of sardonic amusement.

  "I believe he is reviewing his bets," he whispered to me.

  On the other extreme of age, and perhaps even more grotesque, was the sight of a child, a young boy, throwing a kind of fit by the side of a dice table while the spectacularly beautiful woman who was clearly his companion desperately tried to calm him, but with a total lack of success. The boy was weirdly attired in impeccable evening clothes which were at least three sizes too large, and as I watched, he heaved the dice clumsily onto the numbered table before him, observing t
hem bounce with a lunatic glee in his crazily bright young eyes.

  The woman looked up and saw me staring. She started to reach out toward me as if to grasp my arm, but her gesture faltered as we passed her and she began to weep and to wave her hands aimlessly in the air.

  "He won't stop!" she wailed hysterically. "Why won't somebody make him stop?"

  As we penetrated deeper and deeper into the establishment the rooms grew smaller and more elegant until we arrived at a jewel of a chamber which contained but a single roulette table whose wheel sparkled magically as it spun under a gorgeously subtle chandelier.

  Our host seated us carefully at three empty chairs which had apparently been waiting just for ourselves; at his nod there was no question of credit and the croupier pushed a sizable stack of counters toward each one of us across the green baize.

  The croupier's skin was as smooth and of the same bone color as the little ivory ball he tossed at his wheel. His face was completely devoid of expression, save for an ever vigilant watchfulness, and all his gestures were so quick and efficient that his hands and arms seemed to blur as they moved. He never stood but remained fixed to his chair like one of those mechanical fortune-telling gypsies you sometimes come across in old, failing amusement parks sitting dustily in their glass boxes.

  "Mesdames, messieurs, faites vos jeux,” he intoned like a priest at his service, and set the wheel spinning.

  The roulette wheel was a kind of masterpiece, as skillfully crafted as a bejeweled egg made for a czarina, and I would not have been in the slightest surprised to learn that it had been executed by the hand of Faberge himself.

  The colors of it seemed to flicker and shift subtly in tone as you watched it whirl; only its sparkling gold bandings—looking like the lines of magical circles holding demons and angels in check—remained constant. Unlike any other roulette wheel with which I had played, this one moved with total silence; no matter how smartly the croupier spun it, the thing whirled without a sound from the start of its rotation to the finish.