LiGa

by Sanem Ozdural

  He read the invitation and then appendices…

  *

  …You will not get younger by playing LiGa Bridge, but you can stop aging indefinitely – depending on your success. Theoretically, a player who wins enough Life Points will stop degenerating completely. This means that such a person should be unable to die of natural causes, although the body remains vulnerable to external attacks as well as bacteria and viruses…

  While it is not possible to conclusively determine the result of such a hypothesis, the tests we have conducted indicate that stasis (100% no degeneration) continues indefinitely. Yes, you may become immortal by playing LiGa bridge…

  *

  For the first time in his life, he thanked his grandmother for her remarkable foresight in teaching him to play bridge at the age of eleven – a game for which he had an uncanny affinity. A prodigy at twelve, he had disappointed Nana by giving up playing tournament-level bridge in favor of carting. It had been too stationary at that time for Storm and his insatiable desire for speed in general, and a fascination with motor sports in particular. He had continued to play over the years – during the off-season. He knew he could hold his own with the best. That did not worry him.

  Immortality? Storm leafed through the brochure. What is this LiGa? Is it legit? What if it is…

  “I see,” Cat nodded when he had finished telling her the story of the invitation. “It appeared out of the blue for me too. I also received it in April.” Storm looked at her expectantly, waiting for the story, which she readily told, including her role in the senator’s most recent attendance.

  “You know, when the senator left and Diarmid Tanner told me you would be replacing him, I thought it made sense.”

  Cat regarded him quizzically. “What do you mean, darling?” she asked wearing an innocent expression

  “He wasn’t good enough to play LiGa,” Storm said simply. “It didn’t make sense that LiGa would have invited him.”

  “Poor dear Senator Heath,” Cat sighed, shaking her head gently. “One should never get in over one’s head.”

  Storm raised a meaningful eyebrow, and continued eating. “Have you seen the grounds?” he asked between mouthfuls of tender Chilean Sea Bass. Cat replied that she had not had a chance to look around as yet, having spent the afternoon fast asleep.

  “I see they have a pond,” she nodded in the direction of the glass doors.

  “Yes, a pond,” Storm agreed. “Nice country around here – if you like that kind of thing. Do you like gardening, Mrs. Trahan?”

  “Oh please call me Cat, darling. There is no need to be overly polite. We are trying to kill each other after all!” She laughed. It was a sound of pleasure, with no hint of malice.

  Storm grinned. “We sure are, Ma’am. But I can’t call you Cat yet. We just met and you remind me too much of my Nana.”

  “Very well, darling. But for your sake, don’t think me too much like your Nana.”

  “I guess we really are trying to kill each other,” Storm mused, as if the thought was a new one.

  “Yes, dear,” Cat said firmly. “Don’t ever lose sight of that.”

  “LiGa’s more like war than racing, I guess …”

  “You were saying something about the gardens here I think?” Cat asked, maneuvering the conversation to one less filled with minefields.

  “Yes, they have tons of flowers,” Storm said enthusiastically. “I don’t know much about flowers, but – maybe you’d like to see them?”

  “I would love to, if you would be kind enough to show me around.”

  “Absolutely. Let’s go after dinner. It will still be light out.”

  Their unobtrusive waiter materialized to remove the plates, and to inquire if they would care for dessert and coffee.

  “I’ll have dessert,” Storm said, declining the offer of coffee. “Caffeine keeps me up,” he explained. “I never used to drink coffee in the afternoons on a race weekend.”

  “Very sensible,” Cat agreed, adding that she was partial to a cappuccino but could only partake of it in the morning hours. “Mint tea for me,” she told the waiter.

  Storm chose a creamy cheesecake from the dessert tray, which glided into view in capable hands.

  “Do you like your cheesecake?” Cat asked conversationally, sipping her tea. She was informed that the cheesecake was tasty.

  They rose. “That was delightful,” Cat told her companion. “I am so glad you invited me.”

  “Me too,” Storm said. “Shall we go outside?” Gently, he led her to the glass doors. “After you.” He opened the door for her.

  “You must lead the way, dear,” Cat said. “I don’t know this place at all.”

  “I thought we’d just walk around the building first,” Storm said nonchalantly. “Come, let’s go this way.”

  Slowly he led her around to the side door. She would be a good test, he thought. She had not met the judge or the priest, or any of the other players. She hadn’t been present at the game last time, and had therefore not heard the conversation about the rose.

  The sun was setting, lending a golden sheen to everything it touched.

  “You can use this side door,” he told her, standing a foot or so from where the priest had stood earlier that afternoon.

  “How helpful,” Cat said, looking round.

  “And this is one of the flowerbeds,” Storm waved in the direction of the roses. One bed among many, the wave said. Not that I care or know anything about flowerbeds.

  “How interesting.” Cat looked around, smiling politely.

  As Storm rambled forth about how colorful the roses were, he noticed that Cat was not listening to him; she was gazing intently at the flowerbed.

  “Do you know anything about roses, Storm?” she asked quietly.

  He shook his head. “Not really, no.”

  “You wouldn’t know then, that the flower at the back – that little pinkish one, the one with the halo – is called Silver Dawn, would you, darling?”

  “It is, isn’t it?” he asked eagerly, abandoning the mask of ignorance.

  “Yes,” she said. “At least, I believe so. I couldn’t say for sure because I haven’t attended any of Judge Other’s flower shows. But, the description fits.” She looked at him questioningly. “When did you see it?”

  “After the first game.” He told her how he had examined the flowers, omitting the priest’s presence.

  “You are right,” she said, marveling at the strange inhabitants of the flowerbed.

  “I thought perhaps they were trying to recreate Silver Dawn…” Storm hazarded.

  “I think you are right.” Cat repeated, scrutinizing the roses. “Does the judge know?”

  Storm shook his head. “I’ve no idea. Before the game she said she was very careful not to have it stolen – but it’s possible, I suppose, that she gave it to them.”

  “A cutting, you mean?”

  “Excuse me?” Storm found himself at a loss.

  “She would have given them a cutting from a bush, so that they could graft it to one of their bushes.” Cat explained. “That’s how you breed the type of rose you want. At least that’s the normal way–”

  “Oh. Ok. So that’s how they produced those other flowers?”

  “Well, darling–” Cat delicately stifled a yawn. “I must thank you for this unexpectedly instructive walk. Maybe we can walk more after tomorrow’s game. I am getting tired. I’m an old woman, dear. I need to rest for tomorrow.”

  “No problem,” Storm nodded. “I’m going to be turning in early tonight.”

  *

  In the cab, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Natalya’s familiar number. “Hey babe, you busy?” He leaned back comfortably as she answered.

  “I am busy,” she replied coyly, “Why?”

  “Too busy for dinner at Picholine?” he countered, knowing her penchant for French cuisine – of the expensive sort.

  Natalya sighed languidly.

  “I know I haven’t pai
d enough attention to you this week, babe,” Sinclair continued. “Let me make it up to you tonight?”

  The second game is tomorrow, calculated Natalya. It was true: she quite enjoyed French food, although it all tasted the same after a while, but Picholine was one of the best restaurants in the city and there was a new Gucci dress in the closet that she had been dying to wear for a week, and she wanted to find out as much information as possible about the game. Sinclair had not been forthcoming all week. Perhaps she could get him to loosen up over dinner.

  “I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

  An evening of good food and the company of a pretty woman. He hoped it would be enough to finally shake the fatigue that had hounded him since the first life transfer.

  *

  The dark green, iridescent sheath accentuated her streamlined curves, and fit in all the right places. Her luxurious black hair fell in glossy waves down the creamy olive of her bare back. Natalya tasted a spoonful of fresh, buttery goose liver, marinated in light bouillon. She laid down the spoon and leaned towards him, a glass of Dom Pérignon glittering in her hand.

  “Baby, you still look tired,” she said, letting her hand rest lightly on his wrist.

  “It’s been a long week,” Sinclair forced a smile. “Work was hard.”

  “Don’t work so hard!” she rubbed his forearm gently… with the hint of physical pleasures…

  He forced down a forkful of buttery sweetbreads. One of his favorite dishes and tonight it tasted like melted paper.

  Tasteless. The food, arranged so elaborately on fine china, was a deformed mass of entrails. Tasting of paper, clogging his throat. The champagne sparkling in her hand… vapid… empty. Little bubbles of air stuck in liquid that would surely give him a headache… but the headache had been there since the transfer…

  He shoved the plate away with sudden violence.

  “Ah!” Natalya cried out, spilling her drink.

  “Shit!” he exclaimed, not looking at her.

  He scowled as the waiters cleaned the table and sulked while they replaced her glass. He negatived helpful suggestions to accommodate his lack of enthusiasm regarding the most recent choice of food.

  He was not to be pleased. Natalya regarded him tentatively, afraid of angering him further.

  “Let’s go home, honey–” she said quietly, laying a hesitant hand on his.

  They went home. Perhaps to sleep, he thought. I am tired. So very tired…

  GAME 2

  13

  Father Griffith rose at dawn. He opened the window to feel the balmy, fragrant summer air. He breathed deeply and made the sign of the cross on his lips with his thumb.

  Lord, open my lips.

  And my mouth will proclaim your praise…

  It was the start of a beautiful day. He had the entire morning to himself. There was plenty of time to meditate and pray.

  *

  It was quarter to seven when Bruce Saber awoke, as evidenced by the clock on the bedside table. Same time as yesterday, he nodded appreciatively. Fifteen minutes earlier than a week ago. The best part was that feeling of complete refreshment. No longer did he want to lie in bed for an extra quarter of an hour to acclimatize to being awake.

  He sat up, whistling tunelessly, waiting for her.

  “Good girl, Sofia.” Bruce said, laughing, as she clambered onto the bed. He scratched the ebullient, sleek dark head nuzzling affectionately against his chest.

  “Run, Sofia?” he asked, getting out of bed. “Shall we go for a run?”

  Princess Sofia, with all of her sixty pounds of toned muscle and two-year-old bubbling personality, positively bounced with excitement at this unexpected treat. She was, quite possibly, the happiest Doberman ever.

  “All right, girl. Wait. Sofia. Wait!”

  It took Bruce two minutes to get dressed, and another ten to get Sofia still enough to be leashed.

  They ran along the river in Riverside Park.

  “I’m running faster, aren’t I, girl?” Bruce asked his ecstatic companion. Same distance, but faster. And in only two weeks. LifeGame really worked! Bruce laughed, feeling almost as exuberant as his companion.

  He must really thank Blanca for the LiGa invitation…

  Blanca Chevalier. Running with ease by the water, he let his mind wander to the end of the Chevalier case. After two years of battling a circus he had finally gotten her what she wanted. He recalled that final letter on her behalf: a successful end to the case.

  *

  SABER & SHIELD, LLP

  1 Gauntlet Row

  Odinshall

  January 7

  Dora Gauld, Esq.

  Gauld & Luut, LLP

  1000 Grand Ruby Road

  Sticksburg

  Re:Chevalier takeover

  Hello Dora:

  I am in receipt of your letter dated January 4.

  It is a rare and happy day when the right thing to do merges seamlessly with that which is profitable.

  Mr. Maidenlore did the right thing by applying to Chevalier, Inc. to champion his delicate horses. Blanca Chevalier’s devotion to the survival and happiness of rare racehorses is unparalleled. The impending doom surrounding NightMare’s “lethal whites” was exactly the type of cause that ignites my client’s passions. She simply would not rest until she had secured the survival of those ephemeral creatures under the best of conditions. “I want them to fly under the stars and bathe in shimmering moonlight” she said to me, more than once. Nothing was too good for her “Moon Whites.”

  In closing, I leave you with the image of what we have accomplished: beautiful white horses galloping by starlight. Safe, healthy and free.

  Cordially,

  Bruce Saber

  cc:Blanca Chevalier (Imm.)

  *

  The agreement was done. Nimrod Maidenlore and NightMare – his patented elixir – were now controlled by Bruce’s client, Blanca Chevalier. It was all for her “Moon Whites”; no expenses spared. It had taken him two years to acquire the destiny of a handful of sick white horses.

  The agreement was exactly what she wanted. She would control 80% of NightMare, Inc.’s outstanding stock, and obtain ownership of the NightMare patent. And the horses would live and race at Blanca’s Moonlight Farm. Night races.

  Maidenlore’s attorney had written to him. An obsequious letter, ending with:

  “…My client is relieved that this two-year ordeal is finally coming to a close, and is looking forward to working closely with Ms. Chevalier to ensure the continued survival of this rare and beautiful horse that, without Chevalier, Inc.’s generous support, was threatened to live only in our imagination.”

  Blanca had invited Bruce to Moonlight Farm for the maiden race. A cool, clear night in April.

  The stands were empty on this cool starlit night; a pregnant moon cast a solemn, melancholy glow. The Blue Ridge Mountains provided the requisite looming, jagged backdrop.

  Against the mountains they glowed, and their manes and tails flowed–

  as they galloped.

  They looked like the spirits of horses.

  “Thank you, Bruce,” Blanca sighed, turning away from the horses to look at him, “thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Blanca.”

  Together, they watched the race at Moonlight Farm. The race of the ‘lethal white’ horses, that were no longer consigned to a death warrant at birth, thanks to NightMare, Inc.’s genetic breakthrough, and allowed to roam free and healthy at Blanca Chevalier’s farm instead of performing tricks at D.R. Agone’s circus – courtesy of Bruce Saber.

  “It is just so,” she whispered earnestly, gripping the railing with both hands, “It is just as it should be.”

  He studied Blanca Chevalier next to him: a slim, willowy woman standing ballerina-straight, wrapped in a soft, silvery-gray shawl, her blue-black hair trapped and coiled in a tight bun. When she turned to look at him again, her large dark eyes, soulful by day, were transformed into black diamonds: ancient, intense, and ine
xorable. She was exquisitely beautiful and as unreachable as the stars. And then she smiled.

  “You made my dream come true,” she said simply reaching out to touch him with an ethereal hand.

  “It’s my job,” he said. “It’s past midnight,” he added, stifling a yawn. “I must go. I have to be in court tomorrow morning.”

  “Wait one minute, Bruce,” she said in a faraway voice, “I have something to give you. You have earned it,” she added after a moment’s pause. He followed her lithe form to the stands where she had placed a large tote bag. From within the bag she brought out a slim volume bound in matte black embossed in gold with one word.

  “My dear Bruce,” she held it out to him.

  With great satisfaction, Bruce noted the matte blackness embossed in gold.

  “You have been invited, my dear,” she said. “Don’t worry, it’s bridge,” she added with a mischievous smile.

  Bruce watched her walk away. Her feet did not appear to touch the ground as she moved gracefully to her guard-post: a silvery spear watching over this shard of a world that she had created, built out of rolling hills and purple craggy mountains to preserve the beauty of a creature that was never meant to live.

  He walked to his car: a silver Maserati draped in ghostly mourning. With one hand resting on the cold, hard metal, he opened the cover and read the words he had been waiting for since Peter Krol’s trial three years ago.

  Welcome.

  You are hereby invited to compete in a tournament of LifeGame™ Bridge…

  Bruce closed the document, unlocked the door, and laid it down on the passenger seat. The car growled to life as it pulled away from Moonlight Farm, leaving behind stardust and fantasy, held together by moonlight.

  Blanca Chevalier (Imm.), the worldwide director of LiGa Chess, had personally invited him to a LiGa Bridge tournament. He was no good at chess, she knew.

  A slow smile of deep satisfaction settled on his face.

  Bruce’s attention was jerked back to the present with the full force of a Doberman’s energetic leap at a passing poodle and its frightened owner.