LiGa

by Sanem Ozdural

  I can’t believe I’m stuck with the senator on this last round. Sinclair tapped his foot in frustration. There’s no way I can win while playing with him.

  *

  Helen asked for the check as she gathered her belongings together. The game must have ended by now, or at least be about to end. I have to talk to him, she thought. I have to know how he is.

  Outside, the sun’s glare had waned to an early evening glow. Stuffing the newspaper and her notebook inside her bag, Helen started to walk.

  What happens now?

  *

  On board 26, East-West scored 120 for a contract of one notrump with an overtrick. The scores were increased by half a point each.

  *

  What do I say to him? Helen wondered. How are you? Are you all right? Her heart beat faster and her stomach tightened with apprehension.

  Are you all right?

  But I will know when I hear his voice – if he will talk to me. I will know…

  I wish this were just another race weekend, she thought fervently. I never thought I’d think that. Race day Sundays were always pretty dreadful until the race ended and I saw him climb out of the cockpit, dripping with sweat. Grinning, if he had done well, and scowling if something had gone wrong. It was the same to me, though. I was just happy to see him back safe. But I always knew, by the end of the race, I knew he was safe.

  Now?

  Helen took a deep breath. Are you all right, Storm?

  It’s horrible. She shuddered despite the warmth of the sun.

  *

  “What happens now?” Sinclair asked as Tanner collected the boards and score sheets. The final board of the game had ended.

  Tanner tapped on the small window between the two rooms. Peter slid aside the pane. “The game has ended,” he said.

  “Everyone must remain in their places until I return with your scores,” Tanner said. Peter nodded and closed the transparent opening.

  “But we know the final scores,” Sinclair said peevishly, pointing to the scoreboard.

  “Your Life Points,” Tanner replied curtly, limping to the door. The glass walls momentarily cleared as Tanner stepped through the sliding opening.

  “Well, I’m sure we can stretch our legs,” the judge rose from her seat at table 1. “We’ve been sitting for more than three hours.”

  She took a turn about the room, her heels rat-tatting with an even, solid timbre. No one spoke. At table 2, Sinclair maintained an air of injured silence as the room waited for the return of Diarmid Tanner.

  “When’s he coming?” the senator sighed, impatiently looking at his watch.

  They said nothing, waiting for the director’s return…

  The glass cleared, and he was back.

  “All right, now I want you to go to the room where you had the break,” Tanner told the occupants of room 2, “I will announce the results with everyone present.” He rapped on the glass window between the rooms.

  They rose.

  Bruce led the way, meeting their opponents from table 1 as the doors of both rooms slid open.

  “After you,” Bruce smiled politely, to the judge.

  The judge gave a fleeting, preoccupied smile, and muttered “thank you”.

  The buffet table had been cleared and the same five glass-topped tables lay about the room, just as they had during the break. The players distributed themselves about the glass room.

  “I will announce the four winners–” Tanner paused, looking around at the group. Father Griffith was standing serenely next to the wall, his hands folded. The judge was seated at the table she had chosen during the break. Her unfocused gaze was directed away from the other players.

  The senator stood straight and tall in the middle of the room, his hands in his pockets, wearing a vague smile. Danny slouched offhandedly against the northern wall of glass, while Sinclair sat in an easy pose at the table closest to Tanner. Storm stood near the priest, and Porter was seated at a table next to the judge’s, his left foot doing a little involuntary dance. Bruce, his arms folded, stood near the entrance.

  “The winners of Game 1 are: Bruce Saber, Judge Martha Other, Father Roland Griffith and Jacob Porter.” Tanner announced briskly. “These four players will return to the LifeBank to receive their deposit plus 24 Life Points.”

  “What about the others?” The priest asked quietly.

  “They will each lose one third of their remaining Life Points,” Tanner replied. “The transfer will take effect in three hours. The four losing players are urged to leave as soon as possible,” Tanner told the group. “You should go somewhere where you will be comfortable.”

  “How will we know that the transfer has taken place?” Bruce asked.

  “It will be obvious,” Tanner said curtly. “Now, the losers will leave. You should go home, to a hotel, or to your rooms here–” he nodded at Storm. “Wherever. And remember that the next game is a week from today at the same time.”

  “Why should we leave?” Sinclair asked, his voice growing shrill. “How do we know they will get the right amount of Life Points? How can we be sure–” he continued jabbing his forefinger in Tanner’s direction, “that you will take the right amount of Life Points from me?”

  Tanner paused. Behind him the glass entrance slid aside softly.

  Like ripping silk, thought the judge.

  Three men in dark gray suits stepped inside. Although they did nothing threatening, their presence promised violence.

  “Peter will guide the winners through the LifeBank,” Tanner continued, “after the four losing players have left.” He paused again. “It’s time to go, Mr. Davis,” he said in a more gentle tone. “You only have three hours before the transfer takes place.”

  Darting a hostile look towards the directors, Sinclair strode towards the entrance. The glass slid, and Sinclair stepped outside, followed by one of the gray men.

  “See you next week,” Storm said to the room as he walked away with a steady, careless step.

  “I will also take my leave,” the senator said, with a graceful wave. “It was a pleasure to play against all of you.”

  “Mr. Cross?” Tanner looked at Danny expectantly.

  “You’re kicking me out?”

  Tanner looked impassive. Danny shrugged and ambled towards the entrance.

  Tanner watched him leave, once again followed by one of the gray men. “Peter will take you through the LifeBank,” he spoke to the remaining players. Peter, who had been standing unobtrusively behind him, came forward.

  “Follow me,” Peter said to the remaining players, as Tanner limped to the entrance.

  6

  Life Transfer

  Peter directed the judge to place her imprinted hand into the LifeBank.

  “How long will it take?” she asked.

  “Not long. Approximately thirty seconds,” Peter replied. “It’s done,” he announced.

  The judge withdrew her hand. I felt nothing, she thought, rubbing her palm, still crisscrossed with crimson. Nothing happened.

  “You won’t notice any change for three hours,” Peter explained, anticipating her question.

  “What will happen in three hours?”

  “Something exceptional,” Peter smiled faintly. “Judge Other, in three hours you will instantaneously receive 24 Life Points. This will mean that your total Life Points will increase to 72.”

  “We all – all the winners – gain the same amount,” she mused. That means the younger people – Mr. Saber and Father Griffith – will be very close to 100.

  “Yes.” Peter nodded.

  Without a word to her rivals, the judge walked to a dark blue Mercedes, glinting like a dragonfly in the parking lot, and drove away.

  “Father–” Bruce approached the priest as Peter led Porter to the LifeBank. “Do you realize that the next game could be the last if one or both of us wins?”

  “We had the same number of Life Points at the start of this game – 69. Now, after winning, we will both have … 93. Ye
s, Mr. Saber,” Father Griffith said. “This fact is unlikely to be overlooked by our opponents.”

  “I should hope not,” Bruce retorted. “That will make the next game even more exciting,” he grinned.

  He enjoys this game, Father Griffith thought. “You like a challenge, Mr. Saber,” he said out loud.

  “Do you disapprove, Father?”

  “No.”

  “I like to win,” Bruce said.

  “What if you lose?”

  Bruce laughed. “So long as you don’t win, I will have another chance.” As they spoke, the glass slid to reveal Porter genially rubbing his hands together.

  “Well that was as easy as falling off a log,” Porter quipped. “I felt nothing. I must say I did expect something a little more dramatic to happen when I gained life,” he chuckled.

  “In three hours, Mr. Porter,” Peter nodded. “Something rather dramatic will happen.”

  “I can’t wait,” Porter waved to Bruce and Father Griffith. “Well, I must go. I hope to make it home in less than three hours – traffic permitting!”

  “Good bye, Mr. Porter,” Father Griffith said.

  “See you next week,” Bruce added.

  “Your turn,” Peter said, looking at the two remaining players.

  “After you, Mr. Saber.”

  “As you wish, Father.” Bruce strode after Peter. The glass slid, enclosing those within in a cloudy cocoon.

  The priest stood before the opaque wall.

  On one side: glass.

  Transparent glass.

  If I step through this transparent glass … Into a world I know. A life I know. The terms of which I know. The boundaries of which are defined. A life that began outside my consciousness. A life that will end – that will surely end – whether or not I want it to. The great cycle we know as Life. We have always known it. It has existed since the dawn of time. Time.

  Through this glass …

  Lies the promise of Your kingdom.

  There are no secrets in Your kingdom. Yours is the kingdom of eternal life. Eternal life of sweetness and light. There are no shadows in the eternal life.

  On the other side: glass.

  Secretive glass.

  Behind this glass is the possibility of eternal life. A different eternity. This one demands a heavy price. A conscious price. And its terms are uncertain. I know it, Lord. I have accepted it. I have chosen the path that may be long and hidden, and strewn with shards of glass.

  Lord, I have chosen this path that I may better serve you. Teach me Lord; show me. Let me be open, Lord, let me see.

  Solid and brittle. Transparent and opaque.

  It is all glass.

  The wall slid, baring the room. A man strode forward confidently.

  “All yours, Father,” Bruce said. “See you next week.”

  Father Griffith stepped inside the room, and the walls fogged around him. The priest touched the glass. Cool, solid glass. “Do you know what time it is, Peter?”

  “6:15.”

  “My ride is supposed to arrive at 6:30. I have a few minutes to kill.” Time to kill… The Priest smiled ruefully at the curious figure of speech. It is true: this is the Time to kill … and all this extra time to spend… to kill.

  “You’re welcome to wait here, Father. Please place your hand in the LifeBank.”

  Father Griffith placed his hand, palm down, in the place Peter indicated.

  I feel nothing.

  “You won’t feel anything,” Peter explained, noting the puzzled expression on the priest’s face. “Not for three hours.”

  “Why three hours? Is there a significance to that amount of time?”

  “No.” Peter shook his head. “The transfer could be instantaneous – it has been so in past games – but it was decided that three hours was an appropriate amount of time to wait to ensure that the players would have time to go home – or elsewhere.”

  “I see … But how is the lag in transfer regulated?”

  “It has already been configured,” Peter replied.

  “As I mentioned, my ride won’t be arriving for a few minutes. I hope I won’t be in your way.”

  “It is not a problem, Father,” Peter replied serenely. “We will let you know when your ride arrives. Feel free to wait here–” he indicated the room beyond the opaque wall, “and if you need anything, please ask one of the gentlemen in the gray suits you might have seen earlier.”

  Yes, I have taken note of the ubiquitous gray men. “Thank you, but I think I’d like to take a short walk after sitting all afternoon.”

  “Of course,” Peter smiled. “As you wish.”

  The glass slid aside as the priest walked towards the exit.

  *

  What I need now is a drink, Sinclair thought. Away from the ‘country.’ He looked at the receding trees with distaste. Why do this in the middle of the country? Probably a scam, he shrugged. Life transfer! True, he had paid ten million dollars, which he would ask to be returned – doubled of course – once the so-called transfer ‘happened.’ He looked at the palm of his right hand. Still red. Good dye-job, he thought. I’m sure it will wash off.

  I need to be in the city, he thought impatiently. I need a drink.

  What else?

  Natalya. She would be waiting for him at his apartment. That was something he did not want, right now. He tapped on the steering wheel. I shouldn’t have told her about LiGa. It was not something she needed to know.

  Senator Heath turned his cell phone on as the black Porsche Cayenne crunched away from LiGa. One message. He listened to it, and shook his head as he heard his wife’s voice. “Fred, honey–” ‘Honey?’ She wants something, he thought.

  “Mother called. She’s not feeling well. I told her we would drive up this evening.” He shook his head. That was it. We have to go to Mother’s? Tonight? No! Elizabeth’s Mother. “Call me when you’re done playing golf, honey,” she continued. Still in the same sweet, wheedling tone. Golf? He glanced in the rearview mirror and sighed with relief at the sight of the clubs protruding conspiratorially from the bag.

  “I know how you hate going, but I just couldn’t say no when she said she wasn’t feeling well …”

  Elizabeth could never say no to Mother. How can I get out of going? he wondered trying out several scenarios in his mind that he might use to escape the distasteful obligation. The impending life transfer was not one of them.

  *

  I want to play, Danny thought. His right hand – the Shooter’s hand – shook in anticipation. Danny’s red Ferrari spun away from the parking lot with a loud whine.

  To Atlantic City! To shoot dice!

  Danny had a special way with the dice.

  “Die or bust!” he yelled as the driver’s side window slid down. He laughed at the rush of air and heat.

  Remember their faces. Ecstatic faces watching the Shooter.

  He could picture the dice catapulting from a twist of his wrist to land a hard ten – just as he had bet. Misdirection. You scream and it distracts them from the flick of your wrist, the position of your fingers. But not the cameras. He knew that the cameras always watched, and did not care how loudly he yelled. And he liked the way the cameras made him feel. And he liked the way the audience fawned over the Shooter with the magic touch. His hands didn’t twitch when he was winning.

  “Atlantic City!”

  The craps tables were his kingdom. He would win there…

  *

  Father Thomas Morton (no, not Merton, as he delighted in explaining, “I’m the one that likes to talk!”) was scheduled to pick him up at 6:30. Tom probably lost track of time in the recesses of Firestone Library, Father Griffith thought affectionately. Tom Morton. Gregarious, voluble, loyal friend. A greater contrast could not be imagined to the silent, reflective image of Thomas Merton, the Trappist monk, known for his unequivocal silence.

  Tom Morton was a few years older than Roland Griffith. They had met during their regency and then lost touch, until they had disc
overed that they were both part of the New York diocese. When the superior general suggested confiding in a friend during the games, it was Tom Morton’s perpetual smile that came to mind.

  Here, outside the glass cube, the wait in the golden light of the setting sun was not a chore. He felt a need to walk away from the glass. The priest looked around. The gray men were not visible. But they are everywhere, he thought. Wherever I walk, they will know. They will see me. Where shall I walk?

  Behind him lay woods. Ahead, lay two buildings and the parking lot. The marks of our known civilization, he thought. A perfect irony. The woods behind me are more familiar to me than the man-made buildings in front of me. The Natural Order is a familiar mystery.

  But I am in an unfamiliar space now. The blue sky and the whispering trees are reflections of another place – a different time. These are the images of my life before I played LifeGame. They still exist of course, but they are changed for I am changed. I am no longer part of the Natural Order. I am no longer part of Life as I have always known it.

  The path of my life is unclear and uncharted. I could liken it to one snaking through the meandering woods behind me, but that would be incorrect. No. My path is the one that cuts through glass. My path wends through the man-made buildings in front of me. Those are the mysteries I must uncover now.

  Father Griffith deliberately turned towards the building ahead and to the left. That is where Storm Drake is staying during the tournament, he thought. My adversary. I should know where he walks and sleeps and thinks. Where he lives.

  Father Griffith walked slowly around the building. Camouflaged, he thought. The walls merge with the foliage. He noted the apparent haphazard structure of the walls and windows. Two stories high. Higher in parts. A window jutted out, branch-like, while a protrusion of wrought iron, like a filigreed bird’s nest, formed a balcony facing the glass cube. Sharp triangles of glass scattered glittering light along the length of the wall towards the woods.

  Flowers surrounded the building. The priest looked at them with appreciation and lack of expertise. As he rounded the corner, an oval side door of Cypress wood opened and a figure dressed in black stepped out.

  “Hello Mr. Drake,” Father Griffith cleared his throat. “Going for a ride I see.”