“Good afternoon, your Honor.” Blanca’s voice was deep and smooth, like granite, with an inflection that spoke to her eastern European origins.
“I want to know how and why you stole my rose, and what you intend to do about it!” the judge snapped.
“Please, come inside,” Blanca invited the judge into the room. “Thank you, Peter,” she dismissed him with a perfunctory smile.
“What have you to say for yourself, Madam?” the judge demanded haughtily, standing with her arms crossed in the middle of what was obviously a study. It was a large room with a floor to ceiling window. Bookshelves constructed of the same golden wood as the door, contained rows of neatly arranged volumes. Had she been paying attention, the judge may have noted that several shelves were devoted to the game of chess, and many others to the art of ballet.
Despite her preoccupation, the judge did notice two portraits on the wall, side by side. They were black and white prints and showed two faces. In the first, a woman with a severe expression and matching makeup, looked straight ahead, framed by a black feather headpiece. The other portrait also showed a woman’s face, but in profile, facing the woman in black. Her fine, aquiline features were suffused with an ethereal, soft-focus glow, and upon her head, she wore the same feather headdress in white.
Odile and Odette… thought the judge, without interest. The two swans from Swan Lake. Blanca Chevalier’s features in both. The same woman in both roles.
“Would you care to sit?” Blanca asked gesturing towards a high-backed armchair situated before the window.
“No thank you. All I care for is an explanation.”
“I see…” Blanca paused. “You want to know why and how, I am sure, we were able to grow Silver Dawn in our gardens–”
“The why is quite obvious!” the judge retorted. “Of course you wanted to grow Silver Dawn. She is a valuable flower! I have not chosen to commercialize her, and will take every legal step to stop you from doing so,” she concluded.
“But of course,” Blanca nodded. “Were we to attempt to commercialize your flower, we would expect nothing less from you, but we have no intention of selling Silver Dawn. That has never been our intention. In fact, you are welcome to dig it up and take her with you at the conclusion of the game.”
The judge was momentarily taken aback, but regrouped behind a derisive laugh. “Do you expect me to believe you?” she demanded.
“Whether or not you believe me is your business,” Blanca said, moving fluidly towards the window. She pointed to the glass cube.
“For Diarmid and I the aesthetics of a space are deeply important. As you know, Diarmid designed this glass cube out of a single piece of glass. It is a marvel of engineering and, in my opinion, expresses perfectly the vision of LifeGame. Its grace and beauty is bold and simple, and impossible to replicate.
“Diarmid and I have wondered whether the glass cube lacks adornment. You see there is nothing around the cube. We have not found any object or flower or tree that is quite perfect enough to accessorize where you play LiGa Bridge.
“There was nothing we could imagine… until two years ago, when one day he brought me a copy of a review of a rose from a rose show in Connecticut…”
The judge nodded knowingly. “So that’s how you found out about Silver Dawn.”
Blanca shook her head gently. “Yes,” she said, “that was when we realized that there could be a certain flower that would be worthy of being planted by the glass cube…
“A transparent rose.” She stopped and looked towards the cube. “But Silver Dawn is only partly transparent, your Honor,” she continued. “It would not do for the glass cube…”
“What do you mean?” the judge asked despite herself.
“I mean we had no intention of placing Silver Dawn by the glass cube. It is a beautiful flower, of course, and for any garden, it would be the crowning glory, but sadly, it is not fully transparent.” Blanca turned to face the judge. “We did not steal your rose, judge,” she said. “We recreated it from a fallen leaf we found at one of your rose shows. We analyzed it and recreated it in our laboratories to isolate the gene that makes the tips of the petals transparent. If you had a chance to look at the other flowers in the rose bed, you will notice that they are the results of our experimentation with transparency. Unfortunately, we have, thus far, failed…”
“Oh,” the judge felt deflated, uncertain.
“If you are able to create a fully-transparent rose, your Honor, you would find us prepared to pay any sum you wish for it to be placed by the glass cube. In the meantime, as I said before, you are welcome to remove Silver Dawn at your convenience.”
The judge sniffed. Money! What does that matter to me? “I’ll think about it,” she said, her voice less strident than before.
“Do. But right now, I urge you to find a comfortable place before the transfer goes into effect.”
“Yes, yes,” the judge said absentmindedly, her eyes roaming along the shelves, seeing them for the first time. She cleared her throat. “Yes, I will go,” she said, and asked, with her hand on the door handle. “You are an immortal, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you play LiGa Bridge?”
“No,” Blanca replied. “I played LiGa Chess many years ago…in a different country.”
The judge gazed intently at the two portraits: the severe angles of the black swan, and the frail, delicate thing in white gazing at her with longing.
“That is you,” the judge said flatly, not looking at Blanca.
“Yes,” Blanca replied. “I was a dancer…in another life.”
“And you probably still could be, if you so wanted – as an immortal,” the judge said sharply, opening the door and stepping outside.
On her way back to the parking lot, the judge took a detour to the rose bed. Yes, she thought, inspecting the flowers and their translucencies, she told the truth about having failed to create transparency. These are ugly deformities. They do not have my flower’s silver fire. They cannot grow roses as I can.
If there is to be a truly transparent rose, I will create it, not that woman and Diarmid Tanner. And definitely not in a laboratory.
18
Bruce entered his spacious two-bedroom apartment and greeted Sofia without his usual enthusiasm, although the dog, perhaps in tune with her beloved human’s preoccupation made special efforts to engage his attention.
“Sorry, girl,” Bruce said. “I don’t have the energy to take you for a run now. We’ll go for a walk in ten minutes– Ten minutes, Sofia!” he laughed at the young dog’s antics. “Give me a minute, girl. I’ve had a hard day.”
Bruce took off his suit jacket and flung it on the back of the couch in the living room and made his way to the wet bar. He selected a bottle of vodka: Grey Goose. He poured out a measure and brought it to his lips and paused. He placed the glass on the counter, looking thoughtful. Leaving the vodka untasted, Bruce walked over to the couch where his black jacket lay sprawled. He reached into the breast pocket and retrieved two pieces of folded paper, which he smoothed out. These were the afternoon’s hand record and his personal score sheet.
I have been remiss, he thought, sitting on the couch. “Sofia, I didn’t do well this afternoon…” he scratched the dog’s head affectionately. “I have to do better next time!”
Bruce laid out the two sheets on the glass coffee table, and in the surface of the glass he caught sight of an object. It was the reflection of distilled, stilled power.
It was his most prized possession, and more…
Bruce looked up and into the curving blade of an enormous tachi: a Samurai’s sword from the fourteenth century. It hung from the ceiling, supported by virtually invisible chords, and was illuminated by recessed lighting. The blade was naked. It had no hilt or scabbard. It brooked nothing extraneous.
The planes of the blade that saw direct light gleamed polished silver, but the underside – the part of the blade away from the light – glared nightmare
gray. The hamon – the brushed tempering pattern – on the edge of the blade was a work of art in itself, consisting of interwoven waves and irregular, flowing patterns.
Like a shooting star whose tail glows crimson through the atmosphere, this blade had scorched a bloody path through the centuries. It was written that it had, on at least one occasion, sliced all the way through two tables, a chair, and the person cowering beneath in one blood-curdling blow.
It was a fine blade. It was strong and sharp.
Bruce had always held that a trial attorney is, at his most fundamental core, a naked blade. Some are better, he thought. They are sharper and stronger than others. Some are dull or weak to start with, and others are dulled through misuse, abuse or neglect.
An attorney’s battlefield is the courtroom. And the trial is the battle, at the end of which the verdict delivers everything from a death knell or a glancing blow to an outright victory, thought Bruce, his eyes not leaving the blade.
The verdict is in: I have lost. I have not been as good a blade as you, Sword.
A trial is lost.
Was this a trial? Bruce wondered. Well, a trial is a test.
This is a test. Bruce gazed at the blade suspended in a shaft of light. You have been tested, Sword. And you passed.
What about me? I have been used as a blade countless times. I have proven that I was the better sword in countless battles, perhaps. Have I? Yes, I have won trials. Many of them. I was, perhaps, better than a lesser blade … but many factors make up a successful trial; the blade is but one of a myriad conditions that must be filled. And the test of a blade …
This, he thought, this game, is the test of the blades. Eight blades.
I have been found wanting. I am but a dull blade.
I must be sharper and I must be stronger. Sofia loped to his side, and affectionately started to chew on his hand.
“Stop! Stop, Sofia!” Bruce laughed, shaking her off.
He reached for the glass of vodka and held it before his eyes.
What did I do wrong? Where did I miscalculate? I can see each hand here, in front of me, and I know how they played out… It’s easy now, to say ‘I should have bid that or I should certainly have played this card,’ but I did not do it then. I could go over these hands all night, and study thousands more before the next game. Would it help?
Bruce sat on the couch and spread out the hand record and his own score sheet containing the list of contracts bid at his table.
No, he thought, rising. It will not help because I did not lose for lack of knowledge or skill… I have played this game for years. I know how to play bridge. But playing bridge in a tournament or for money is not the same as playing for your life…
I played it as a game.
I need to play it as Life.
There must be a reminder for me, every time I pick up the cards from the sleeve that my death could be imminent if I am too dull a blade.
He walked slowly to the bathroom, and looked at his reflection in the mirror. I look – no I am – younger than I was two weeks ago, he thought examining the texture of his skin, the disappearing crow’s feet. And in another three hours, I will start to revert to myself of the past two weeks. I will lose the life that I had gained. For several moments, he gazed levelly into his reflection, and then opened the mirrored cabinet. He searched the middle shelf and found what he was looking for.
Bruce pulled out a packet of razor blades from the shelf and walked back to the living room. Sitting on the couch, he tore open one of the packets and removed a fresh blade. He hesitated, looking into the glass filled with clear fluid. It was the vodka he had not yet drunk.
He dropped the blade into the glass, watching it sink to the bottom. He lifted the glass to his lips, and paused. It could be very messy, here on the couch. Bruce was fastidious about such things. He rose and returned to the wet bar and stood over the sink.
He put his lips to the rim of the glass and drank the cool fluid; fully aware of the way it flowed into his mouth, tasting the sting of the vodka on his tongue, prepared for the fluid to flow from his throat to his stomach. And all the while knowing that in that familiar, clear fluid was something that could kill him.
He was aware, in those few moments, of all the movements of his body: his heart, beating ever faster, his limbs, taut with tension, his tongue, ready to block the blade, his teeth that felt like a shield. And in an instant it was over as he clamped his teeth inexpertly on the blade. Bruce exhaled deeply and spat the blade into the sink. It clattered to a stop, smeared with blood.
This is LifeGame, he thought, rinsing out a mouthful of blood with water. I have played too casually. I have played it as if it were a regular game of bridge. It is not. If I am to win – if I am to survive – I must always treat this game as I would a razor blade in my drink.
“Come on, Sofia,” he called out. “Let’s go for a walk… before the life transfer makes me a debilitated wreck.”
*
Helen hung up the phone, sighed and closed her eyes, as relief warmed her whole being in ways the summer sun could not. She smiled. It was just a small smile and the people who passed her by on the park bench in the middle of Palmer Square would not have known the immeasurable joy that vibrated through her still form.
He won! It was a dancing joy but she did not need to dance to feel it. She could sit quietly in the sun now, and wait for him. It did not matter how long she would have to wait. She could wait, with this joy, all night if necessary…
*
Sinclair threw his jacket on the back of a nearby chair, poured himself a large measure of whiskey and collapsed onto the couch. He held the glass at eye level and squinted through its amber-gold glow into the dusky light, that barely managed to insinuate itself between the heavy drapes veiling the windows. He brought the glass to his lips and drank. Closing his eyes, he could feel every drop of the stinging warmth of the whiskey in his throat. He leaned back into the couch and sighed, as the empty glass slipped from his grip and clattered across the hardwood floor.
His mind was elsewhere.
It would cost a great deal of money…
So did LiGa, he thought.
This could cost a lot more than LiGa – in the long run. And still, there may be no need for it…
But what if LiGa does not work out? It had not thus far. LiGa had been a gamble. And he was clear-sighted enough to realize that it could fail…
Sinclair Davis had not built his reputation on losing gambles. He had not amassed a fortune by letting Lady Luck have her way. There are many ways to hedge your bets, and Sinclair prided himself on having invented a few of them.
It was just a form of insurance after all, and he could afford it. He hoped it was more effective than Acyuta…
Sinclair pulled out his cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number.
19
“I’m worried about Roland.” Father Tom was glad to have the opportunity to voice his concern to a receptive audience. He, Paul, John and Darren had once again congregated at the Old Town Bar. They were seated in a row at the counter.
“Yes, I’m sure you are,” Father Paul nodded solicitously.
“He hasn’t left his room since–” Father Tom sighed. “–Since the game two days ago.”
“Did he lose?”
“I – I believe so–” Father Tom hesitated. “Yes, he did. He lost.” He said quickly with the air of one out of whom valuable information had been wrested.
“Well he probably needs to be alone for a while. Maybe he’s meditating,” John suggested. “I mean that’s probably what I would do under the same circumstances–”
“Did you see him after the time transfer?” Father Darren interrupted his friend, unwilling to listen to one of John’s well-meaning, self-involved tirades.
Father Tom sipped his beer. “No.” He shook his head. “I haven’t seen him – except for a glimpse in the hall – since the game.”
“I don’t think Roland’s all that sociable at the
best of times,” Father Paul pointed out. “At least, he hasn’t spoken to me other than a casual ‘hello’ since he’s been here.”
“Don’t hold that against him, Paul!” Father Darren laughed. “He probably just doesn’t want to talk to you. Doesn’t mean he’s antisocial.”
“I think it’s the game,” Father Tom said, ignoring the banter. “Roland’s pretty easy-going under normal circumstances. He’s introspective but not a loner. But since the beginning of this game, he’s been… like this. Well, no, he’s worse now! At least after the first game, he still spoke to me.”
“What did he tell you?” Father Darren asked sharply.
Father Tom shook his head. “He talked to me. I’m not going to betray a friend’s confidence–”
“Oh right…” Father Paul motioned to the bartender. “Another round, Joe–”
“No, it won’t work to get me drunk!” Father Tom laughed.
“Come on Tom, let’s have a drink!” Paul slapped his friend on the back. “Who wants to talk about Roland all the time? Although–” he began, as a new idea appeared to occur to him, “we don’t count, but if there is something you’re worried about – say anything that concerns you about Roland – you should probably tell Father Norwood. What happens to Roland is Father General’s business.”
“Maybe you’re right…” Father Tom nodded, looking worried.
GAME 3
20
Upon this, the second hour of the afternoon of the third Saturday of June, I am charged with a task.
Father Adam Norwood, Provincial Superior for the New York province sat at a small writing table in the library of the Jesuit residence of St. Francis Xavier. Before him lay a sheet of blank paper. It was a rare pleasure, in these days of computers and a myriad other technological advances, to write a letter. Just to write a letter.
But there was no pleasure in this letter he was to write this afternoon. Duty and responsibility held his hand over the paper.
LiGa Page 20