*
What a glorious day to be alive! Jacob Porter thought, comfortably laid out on his favorite chaise longue on his porch, a cup of coffee by his elbow, the Sunday newspaper draped over his lap. He had more energy than he had had in years, and was enjoying the sensation by basking in the sun, lazily looking out at the sparkling blue of the swimming pool. It was noon, and he was prepared to remain in this position indefinitely.
In the distance, he heard a sound. It’s the phone, he thought, feeling too comfortable and lazy to answer it.
But the phone kept ringing.
Jacob Porter laid aside the newspaper and rose to his feet, enjoying the sensation. I feel more limber already, he thought with delight, and ambled in a leisurely pace to the phone.
“Hello? Yes, it’s me,” he said happily. He listened, nodding at the information the speaker was imparting. “I see. Another player,” he said mildly. “Catherine Trahan… I’m trying to place her … I– yes, thank you, the former governor of Louisiana. Of course! Will that affect the next game?” Porter listened with equanimity. “I see, one extra week. That makes sense,” he said agreeably. “And you will send out her biography as soon as possible, I assume. Yes, of course, you may fax it to me.”
So, the senator has left the game… Porter laid the phone down thoughtfully. Interesting. And we have a new player. Mrs. Trahan is 70 years old. She will be the oldest player. How will she fare?
Porter drew a deep breath. And it means I will have an extra week to enjoy this new state. Who knows what the future may bring? Who will win and who will lose the second game is unknown. The present is what matters. With such thoughts did Porter stroll back to his perch overlooking the pool.
10
The House of Acyuta.
A white marble hourglass on Park Avenue.
The words MEMENTO VIVE engraved above the glass entrance. Remember your life. Remember that you are alive. Today, and tomorrow…
The gleaming marbled entrance that Natalya and Sinclair entered at 4 P.M., was manned by a young plastic-looking beauty in a white, fitted dress. A perfect hourglass in white. Her pale gold hair was knotted on top of her head.
“Mr. Davis,” she smiled, showing perfect white teeth, framed by pale apricot lipstick, beckoning them to enter the glass elevator behind her.
Natalya, dressed in an unadorned Vera Wang creation in muted dove-gray that hinted at the curves beneath the soft, silken fabric, laced her arm through Sinclair’s, and pulled him gently towards the open doors of the elevator as her three-inch taupe Yves Saint Laurent heels echoed on the white marble floors. She shook her head lightly sending a ripple through the blue-black sheath of hair that cascaded down her back.
Following a smooth, noiseless ride, the elevator doors opened again to reveal a second smiling hourglass of a girl in the same fitted white dress. The only discernible difference lay in the coloring of their hair. This one was a redhead.
“The doctor will be with you momentarily,” smiled the redheaded hourglass.
“May I get you anything while you wait?” she asked ushering them towards a room decorated in plush fabrics in varying tones of white.
With a peremptory shake of her head indicating she did not want Miss Hourglass to bring her anything at all, Natalya took a demure seat on a curved chair upholstered in ivory leather. Sinclair chose to pace about the room arhythmically.
Natalya watched him with her hands folded neatly in her lap, and said nothing.
After what seemed like a lifetime of waiting – although it was no more than a few minutes – the sound of the elevator door opening brought forth a man in a white coat. Built of a comfortable solidity, he possessed none of the sleek charm of the hourglass girls. He was not elderly, but leaning heavily in that direction. His graying hair was thinning, and he wore half-moon glasses, behind which steady brown eyes looked kindly and normal, Natalya thought with surprise. This perfectly ordinary-looking man – who looks exactly like a normal doctor – seems out of place here, she thought.
“Good morning Mr. Davis–” the man said, extending his hand in greeting. Turning to Natalya, the old man smiled affably, “–and Mrs. Davis– I’m Doctor Finchley.”
Natalya had risen upon his entrance, and at his greeting, took her place by Sinclair’s side, wearing a worried smile. Mrs. Davis, she thought, her heart racing, as she laid a tender hand on Sinclair’s arm. Yes, I should be Mrs. Davis, she thought, allowing her lips, shaded a deep burnt rose – darker than her usual shade – to tremble ever so slightly.
“Is this appointment for both of you?” the doctor asked.
Sinclair shook his head promptly. “No. It’s for me,” he said.
For now, thought Natalya, behind a supportive – wifely – smile, taking a seat on the white chair as Sinclair was led away to an inconspicuous door next to the glass bank of the elevator.
Inside was a large office carrying the same theme of white on white – except for the startling, angular black desk behind which Doctor Finchley now sat.
Sinclair glanced about him with a hurried look. “So what do you do here, doctor?” he asked in a tone that suggested that whatever it was, Sinclair Davis was unlikely to be impressed.
“To put it simply, we extend a person’s life indefinitely,” the doctor replied.
“Indefinitely?” Sinclair asked sharply. “I thought you people could only extend life by a few years at a stretch–”
Doctor Finchley nodded. “That’s true. You see–” he began, and explained that scientists at Acyuta had developed the means to clean up the damage to cells caused by both the aging process as well as exposure to both natural and man-made toxins. “As a result, the cells of a person that have been rid of toxins and damage essentially become younger cells and begin their processes anew.
“For optimal results, the process is repeated every two to three years, indefinitely.”
“Indefinitely?”
“I was a little misleading, I’m afraid. I didn’t mean to imply that Acyuta, in its current form, guarantees an indefinite lifespan. That would be irresponsible.
“The science behind Acyuta is our lives’ work. I am one of the co-founders of Acyuta, and am very proud of our achievements. In just twenty years, we have refined our processes to the extent that we are now able to repair more than 20 per cent of the damage that a cell has incurred!” Doctor Finchley smiled proudly.
“You can’t remove all the damage?” Sinclair asked.
“No, not at the present time. But the progress we have shown means that as we continue to refine our process, we will be able to repair more and more of the damaged cells.
“Currently, the amount we can clean up the cells depends on how badly damaged they are in the first place. For instance, the cells of a man in his eighties are simply too frayed; there is too much degeneration to repair effectively. There will be some benefit, of course, but it would be short-lived.
“On the other hand, a man in his forties – such as yourself – is an ideal candidate for our process–”
“How so?” Sinclair asked again, leaning back nonchalantly. His left hand gripped the side of the chair on which he sat.
“Someone of your age – assuming your cells have not been compromised or stressed beyond their natural rate–”
“What do you mean?” Sinclair asked quickly.
“Mr. Davis–” Doctor Finchley looked every bit the kindly family doctor. “There’s only one thing, I’m afraid, that the Acyuta process is unable to repair effectively – the damage caused by playing LifeGame.” He shook his head sadly.
“Why not?” Sinclair cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“Well, firstly, we cannot use our treatment on a person who is engaged in a LiGa tournament because the imprinting process acts as a protective barrier on the physiology. No drugs – or diseases – can penetrate the imprint. It’s what LiGa calls fair play…
And once the game is ended, typically the degeneration of the cells of the losing players is
simply too fast for our process to handle.”
Sinclair shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“The degeneration could be reversed – at least partially – if a player comes to us before the game ends. Players are permitted to leave the game at any time, and I sincerely wish more people would take advantage of that opportunity.
“Do they? I mean do the losers come to you after the tournament?” Sinclair punctuated the question with a short, sharp laugh.
“Sometimes,” the doctor nodded, and “better yet, some of them come to us after they’ve lost one, maybe two games, and decide to leave the tournament altogether.” His smile was encouraging.
“Stealing from your competition. Get them when they’re down – good call,” Sinclair winked conspiratorially.
But Doctor Finchley’s expression grew grave. “I don’t consider LiGa to be our competition. As a matter of fact Acyuta’s work isn’t about competition. We don’t offer gambles or bloodthirsty games to determine who is worthy of a better, longer life. We don’t issue invitations to a select few. And we certainly don’t kill people! It’s not who we are, Mr. Davis, but if you want the hollow promises that LiGa offers, by all means return to your tournament. I wish you luck, but I warn you that after even one loss, winning becomes far, far harder.” Doctor Finchley paused, letting Sinclair digest the implications of the last sentence.
“It’s not that the bridge becomes more difficult–” the doctor continued, “but the change in the physiology is of such magnitude and so abrupt that a person who has low endurance or is unaccustomed to dealing with stress – particularly physical stress – finds it very difficult to adjust to the demands of, what is, essentially, a slower, more labored body. Concentration is lost; memory is impaired. These are essential elements to succeed in a game of bridge. The result, too often, is a further loss.” Another pause.
“It’s your choice, of course…”
Sinclair tapped his foot lightly and looked away. “How did you know I’m in the tournament?”
Doctor Finchley smiled with a hint of sadness: “A number of our clients are former LiGa players, and as a result, I have a great deal of experience in treating and recognizing LiGa-induced degeneration.”
“But you can’t help me–”
“Not while you’re playing, No.” Doctor Finchley shook his head gently.
“And if I quit? What can you do then? Can you extend my life?”
“How many games have you lost?”
Sinclair’s foot tapped more rapidly. “One,” he said.
“That puts you at … let me guess … around 50 or so Life Points? Correct?”
“48.”
“And you are still imprinted?”
Reluctantly Sinclair unclenched his left hand to reveal a palm covered with a large Band-Aid.
“No need to remove it,” the doctor shook his head. “I assume you have the typical network of lines that characterize the LiGa imprint. Now, to unblock the imprint, your hand will be placed in the LifeBank one last time. Once the imprint is removed, we can get to work on rebuilding your cells.” The doctor beamed.
“How much time can you give me?” Sinclair wanted to know.
“Well–”
“Well? Well what?” Sinclair asked impatiently.
The doctor sighed. “Mr. Davis, we do not work miracles, and we do not promise miracles. That is one of the major distinctions between Acyuta and LifeGame–” he chuckled as though at a private joke. “Many of us consider it an insult to be compared to that other–” he shook his head with dissatisfaction, “to LiGa. Mr. Davis, we do not promise immortality, and quite frankly, I don’t know that LiGa can either.”
“Their method’s been tested and shows that cells have ceased to degenerate in the immortals,” Sinclair countered defensively.
“Well, yes, to a certain extent, that’s true,” the doctor conceded. “The cells of one immortal – Peter Krol – were tested over a period of months, and only because he was in jail at the time. I don’t know of any other immortal that has been subjected to such testing.
“Besides, immortality? How can we possibly know that the so-called immortals will never age? I’m sorry. I don’t want to get too technical but the bottom line is that LiGa’s claims of immortality are not necessarily as well-established, as confirmed as they would have everyone believe.”
“Hmm… That’s all true, doctor, but you still haven’t told me how much time I will gain by giving up LiGa. That’s the bottom line for me. I’ve lost a large part of my life. Can you give it back to me? Can you give me more? Can you offer me more than LiGa?”
“I can offer you some of your life back without games, Mr. Davis. I can offer you some. Not all. Probably not more. But I offer it to you free of risk. Here, you will be assured that no one will take your life from you. It’s your choice.”
“You can’t give me back my life even if I leave the game.” It was a statement of fact, which the doctor did not refute.
“Only LiGa can give me back my life.” Sinclair said. “Thank you, doctor. I’ll think about it.”
*
“What did the doctor say?” Natalya urged tentatively as they left the building.
“He said exactly what I thought he’d say,” Sinclair replied sharply. “He can’t do anything while I’m playing.”
“Why not?”
Sinclair was silent.
“Baby, talk to me–” she pleaded, clutching at his arm.
“I’m tired,” he replied curtly, hailing a cab.
“Don’t be moody, hon–” she nudged him playfully in the cab. “I’m sure they can make it all better–” Receiving no response from him, Natalya tried a different angle. “That was funny when the doctor called me Mrs. Davis, wasn’t it?” she laughed lightly. “I guess he thought we make a great couple!”
“You’d like that, would you?” Sinclair asked.
Natalya laughed. Of course, I would, dummy, she thought.
“The doctor said they could reverse some of the damage if I leave the game.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” she clapped. “Please, baby, leave this game. I was reading their brochure while I was waiting for you. They can do wonderful things. They can make people live longer! That doctor – he’s actually 65, according to the brochure, but he’s been using their procedure and he even looks younger, doesn’t he? This is a great opportunity! It’s much better than LiGa. You don’t have to play any nasty games or anything–”
No games or anything, thought Sinclair. That’s a good thing if you don’t care about the rate of return. But I care. I care very much.
I was invited to be immortal. I paid good money for it. Do they really think I’m going to piss away the chance of immortality for this? There was too much to think about.
*
Helen was waiting for the train to take her back to New York City. They were sitting together on the bench. She laid her head on his shoulder and held his hand. “Catherine Trahan…” she mused referring to the newest addition to the tournament. “I know that name, but I can’t place it somehow. Who is she?”
“She’s the former governor of Louisiana,” Storm said, explaining that he had known very little about her before being presented with the extensive biography the previous afternoon. “I remember reading about her years ago,” he admitted.
“The WildCat?” Helen cried, laughing. “Now that’s something,” she nodded slowly.
“She’s 70 years old!” Storm offered.
“Really? Yes, that sounds right. She must be one of the oldest players.”
Storm nodded. “She’s the oldest.”
“I’ll be back not next Saturday but the one after,” Helen sighed, remembering that they were given an extra week to prepare for the newcomer’s arrival. Storm was happy to have more time. He would practice, he told her, and review the new player’s profile to understand her; to understand how his new opponent would play…
“Yes.” He put his arm around her shoulders a
nd kissed her forehead.
I want to tell you to leave this game and come back with me, she thought. But you won’t. You have to play, don’t you? It’s not even about the immortality right now. You have to race, I know. You won’t even see me while you’re in training…
“I’ll be back,” she said. The train was approaching.
11
There is a bar on 18th Street between Broadway and Park Avenue. It proclaims its existence by means of a bright fuchsia and green neon sign. It has been a staple of the neighborhood for more than a century. Between its white tiled floors and the hazy recesses of its tin ceiling, the soles of countless souls have passed.
Some of those souls have belonged to the denizens of a church located a couple of blocks to the south. That church is the church of St. Francis Xavier. And this bar is the Old Town Bar.
The bartender slid four tumblers of amber fluid across the bar.
“Here you go, Father.”
“Thanks.” Father Paul Worth, tall, fair and angular, gripped the glasses in his large bony hands after handing the bartender a credit card. His destination was a booth across the bar at which were seated three fellow priests who called the Jesuit residence, next to the church of St. Francis, home.
They each reached for a glass of whiskey. The last of the day’s sunlight slanted through the seldom-washed windows: a beam in which specks of dust sparkled like stardust. The stream of light that turned amber whiskey into honey-gold, flashed uncomfortably into the eyes of Father Tom Morton.
“The sun is in your eyes, Tom. Do you want to change places?” Father Paul offered solicitously.
“No, I’m fine,” Father Tom shook his head, moving a few inches out of the reach of the sun.
John Park looked concerned. He was sitting next to Father Paul, diagonally opposite from Father Tom. John was the only member of the quartet who was not a priest. He was in the final stages of his regency.
They were here for one reason and one reason only.
Father Tom smiled. A little smugly, perhaps. They, too, smiled in encouragement.
Father Tom took a sip of whiskey. Next to him, Father Darren McMillan, a small, pugnacious redhead whose temples were showing the first signs of gray, downed his shot of whiskey in one quick gulp.
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