LiGa

by Sanem Ozdural

  It was the vision of a glossy black and tan form, leaping excitedly, that brought forth the smile to Bruce’s face. Sofia, sweetheart, let’s go for a run! Let’s celebrate. 83 Life Points, Sofia!

  As the Bentley disappeared from view at a corner they didn’t take, Father Griffith closed his eyes and prayed. Lord, have mercy on Sinclair Davis. He is suffering. Clear his mind, Lord. Let him accept Your guidance. His need is great, Lord. Amen.

  They drove for more than an hour in almost complete silence.

  “I’m sorry, Tom.” Father Griffith said. “I’ve been in my own world. I can drive if you want to switch.”

  “No, I don’t mind driving. It helps me think. I know you have a lot on your mind.”

  Father Griffith gave a light laugh. “I am sorry. This game has made me completely self-absorbed. I know I’ve been a terrible companion.”

  Father Tom did not answer immediately. He picked his words carefully. “I know this is not a game,” he said gravely.

  Father Griffith said nothing; he bowed his head. No, it is not a game.

  “Roland–” Father Tom hesitated as his voice filled with emotion, “I don’t know what will happen if – God willing – you succeed!”

  “If I manage to succeed – and that is by no means certain – I will merely be one of many people who cannot age. That’s all.”

  “You’ll be immortal!”

  Father Griffith laughed. “I doubt it’s nearly as exciting or glamorous as it sounds. For a start, it isn’t immortality in the popular mythological sense. It just means no aging. A person can still be killed by everything that kills mere mortals.”

  “Still …”

  “Think about it: for instance, have you any idea how many more people will want to see me dead when they think I can’t die? Right now I’m just an obscure priest. Nothing special. Going about my own business.

  “But if I’m known to be immortal – an immortal priest no less – the list of who doesn’t want me dead may be far shorter than the reverse!”

  “That is quite possibly true,“ Father Tom acknowledged. “Well, good luck. I suppose I shouldn’t say: rather you than me!”

  “Not unless you mean it,” Father Griffith replied.

  “In any event, you still have to decide where you want to go tonight. How long do you have before the transfer?”

  “A little less than two hours, but I’ll be receiving life this time, and I know how it feels. I don’t need special treatment. How about we return to the city? I’d like to pray at Xavier for a few minutes before the transfer takes effect.”

  “Done.”

  My eyesight has definitely worsened in the past week, Porter thought. I can feel my body aging daily. I will now lose another sixteen Life Points. Is it too much? What am I thinking: of course it is too much! By tonight, I will have only thirty-three Life Points left. Should I leave the game?

  I will die … yes, I will die early. I have two thirds of the Life Points I had when I started this tournament. I will live … a third less of my life? Less, perhaps. That is the reality. Look at Sinclair Davis: a young man aged in less than a month, right before my eyes! He did not age gracefully as he might have done with time. He was a nervous, confused wreck. Porter shook his head to clear the image. Is that what I want? Jacob, don’t fool yourself: that is what you are becoming. You will have about the same Life Points that Davis had at the start of this last game. It will not be a pretty sight…

  Porter removed his glasses and closed his eyes. Not a pretty sight. But I haven’t been a ‘pretty’ sight for many years… Perhaps I never was! A sad smile hovered about his lips.

  Well, such is Life… I have after all, seen much of it already and a great deal of it is not pretty…

  Porter looked into the hallway mirror at his reflection. The two-sided mirror. What did it mean, really? It had been a good gimmick. People loved looking at their own reflections. That’s what it meant, didn’t it? You face your audience with the two-sided mirror and it sees its own reflection. The audience sees itself. And you?

  I, Jacob Porter, see my reflection clearly. I am dying. If I play another game, I may well age further. That is the truth in the mirror. My opponents, we each see ourselves through this mirror called LifeGame.

  That is Life.

  GAME 4

  25

  The sound of the phone jerked her awake. Natalya fumbled noisily trying to locate the telephone by the bed.

  “Hello–” she mumbled.

  “Babe…”

  Sinclair! She was awake then, sitting up in bed. “Hi honey?”

  “Baby, I need you–”

  His voice: so soft and … tired. “Baby, I’m here–” Natalya clutched at the phone as if it would bring him closer. “Where are you?”

  “Going to the game… I don’t know… Don’t know if I’ll make it…”

  “Don’t go, baby!” she cried frantically. “You don’t have to go.”

  “I have to go,” Sinclair said. “But when I get back … I may be leaving, baby. Will you come with me?”

  “Yes, of course,” she clutched the phone. “Where do you want to go? Wherever you want to go, I’ll go with you. I’ll take care of you. I’ll be there for you. And we’ll go to Acyuta and they’ll get you all better! It will all be all right, baby… Honey? Are you there? Sinclair?”

  Sinclair’s weak voice sounded as though it had traveled a very long way to reach her. “Somewhere far away… We may need to go for a while. I want you to be there with me, baby.”

  “Yes, yes, yes. I’ll go with you. Can you tell me where?”

  “No, I can’t… I’ll call you after the game…”

  The line was dead. Natalya sighed and sank bank into the pillows. What time is it? She glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table: 11:15a.m. He must on his way to the game already, she thought, swinging her long, shapely, tawny legs out of bed. It’s time to get up. It’s late. “I want this game to be over!” she cried.

  *

  Dressed in a cream silken slip of a dress, Natalya felt the summer’s heat moisten her skin. Normally she would have taken a cab as soon as she left the apartment, but her hairdresser Henri was only three blocks away, with several well-placed shops on the way. As she walked languidly, she passed a critical, knowledgeable eye upon the window-dressing here and there.

  A sinewy, strappy number with soaring heels riveted her attention. As she gazed with proprietary interest upon the wild creature that could barely be placed under the heading of “a pair of shoes,” she stumbled. Attempting to move, she realized that she had inadvertently walked over a grating, which had caught one of her pencil-thin shimmering ivory heels in its sieve-like grasp.

  “Ah! My heel!” Natalya cried, clutching at her slim ankle. As she expected, her rescue was quickly and gallantly effected by a passing, eager young man. Natalya turned to face him, shaking her head just enough for the glossy black rivulet of hair to shimmer and ripple – as she knew it would. “Thank you,” she said – shyly.

  “You’re welcome,” said the man enthusiastically.

  But her attention had wandered to a point beyond the young man’s left shoulder. With a dismissive smile, Natalya stepped across him to a newspaper stand. Just an ordinary, unkempt stand such as she ignored daily. But today, her eye caught one of the many lurid titles that graced the covers of magazines and newspapers.

  “Move Over LiGa: Finally, a Chance at Eternity Without Games!”

  She stared. What did it mean? Hurriedly paying for the newspaper, Natalya hailed a cab. Life had suddenly acquired too much purpose to walk even two more blocks…

  A cab scooped her up. Giving the driver directions, she leaned back. The paper lay beside her. Natalya did not believe in reading in cars, prone as she was to motion-sickness.

  The cab – disgruntled at the length of the trip – deposited her at her destination seconds later.

  Comfortably seated, Natalya reached for the glass of martini, iced and sweating at he
r fingertips, as Henri ran his fingers expertly through her hair.

  “Surprise me,” she said coyly. “I have to look good tonight.”

  “You always look good, my love, but tonight, you will be ravishing!” Henri – né Adam Mallory of Birmingham, Alabama – smiled conspiratorially. “Who is it? A new boy or are you still with the delicious banker?”

  “Still Sinclair…” Natalya replied demurely. “Henri, I have some reading to do!” She waved the paper in her lap.

  “My love, you are reading a newspaper? That is news all by itself!” He lifted a practiced eyebrow, and pursed his lips theatrically.

  “Oh, stop! You do my hair, and I’ll get on with my reading!” she laughed, spreading the newspaper on her lap.

  Henri leaned forward. “More immortality?” he laughed derisively.

  “Why do you laugh like that?”

  “I wasn’t laughing like anything, my love,” Henri returned to the important business of Hair.

  “You just said Immortality–” she attempted to emulate his voice, “and laughed. Why did you laugh?” she persisted.

  “Immortality is for vampires,” he replied with a dismissive flourish of a pair of flashing scissors.

  “It is real, you know,” Natalya continued defensively, “LiGa is real.”

  Unused to the serious note in her voice, Henri sought to lighten the atmosphere. “Bridge-playing vampires! Doesn’t sound much fun to me. Now, tell me more about that delicious banker of yours–” he urged.

  “Oh Sinclair…” Natalya said vaguely. “I’ll tell you after I read this article…”

  “Well read it out loud at least. You know how I get bored when my girls aren’t talking to me!”

  The headline was prominently displayed on the front page.

  “Move Over LiGa–” Natalya began reading.

  Henri busied himself with her hair. “Immortality?” he shrugged.

  “You don’t believe it?” she asked with evident surprise.

  “Well, honey! It’s the most outrageous thing I’ve ever heard in my life! Sure, maybe I’ll believe they make people live a few years longer – that’s just medicine – but immortality? Give me a break!” He glanced at her reflection in the mirror before them. “Did I upset my lovely Natalya?” he drawled, stroking her hair. “Don’t purse your lips at me, love. I’m just kidding. I’m sure they’re all immortal.” Henri rolled his eyes.

  “What if they really can do it?” Natalya asked quietly.

  Henri shrugged one shoulder draped in burgundy silk. “Who wants to live forever? How boring it would be after the first two hundred years – maybe I could manage it for three hundred…” Henri paused, lifting his hand to his forehead as if to look theatrically into the horizon.

  “I’m going to read the article. Do you want to listen or not?”

  “Oh why not?”

  “Long Life Without Games… that’s just the headline,” Natalya explained.

  “Uh-huh, I got it. Go on, love…”

  “Doctors at– I can’t pronounce it, it’s some foreign place–” Natalya explained, “Well, anyway, doctors at something or other University have announced that the life of an end-stage cancer patient has already been extended by one year without actually affecting the tumor!”

  “That doesn’t sound immortal to me!” Henri quipped.

  “I haven’t finished. Listen…”

  “The patient, suffering from an aggressive form of pancreatic cancer, was diagnosed eighteen months ago in the advanced stages of the disease, and given at most six months to live after the tumor was found to be inoperable. Following radiotherapy, the patient was transferred to–” Natalya paused. “Oh it’s another word I can’t pronounce,” she cried with exasperation. “I’m just going to call it X University, ok?”

  “Henri shrugged silkily. “Whatever you want, love.”

  “So…” Natalya resumed reading. “To take part in a clinical trial to test a new drug designed to extend the life of a person at the molecular level. Doctor – uhm, he’s going to be called W because his name begins with W and I can’t pronounce the rest – chief oncologist for the patient admitted to the clinical trial, stated that it was a decision taken with the full consent of the patient and the patient’s family. ‘We felt it was the only option left for him,’ Dr. W said. ‘What else was he going to do? Play bridge for his life? He wouldn’t have survived one of those games,’ the doctor continued, in an obvious reference to the infamous LiGa Bridge tournaments. Upon being asked to speculate on the likelihood of LiGa extending an invitation to one of its games to this patient, Dr. W acknowledged that the possibility was remote, at best, given the patient’s socio-economic status. ‘Let’s face it, LiGa isn’t in the business of philanthropy,’ Dr. W stated.

  “The truth is as stark as LiGa’s trademark glass cube: LiGa is not in the business of helping a simple man in the fight for his life. The patient, who is still battling the ravages of cancer, will be undergoing further treatment with the new life-extending drug to extend his life further, giving medicine a chance, perhaps, to cure his cancer.

  “‘There are serious side-effects,’ warned Dr. W, the head of the clinical trial. It is uncertain by how much time the new drug can extend a person’s life. ‘It would depend on a person’s overall health and age,’ Dr. W explained. As for the cost of the new treatment? ‘It’s cheaper, that’s for sure, and that’s not something you can often say about new medical technology!’ laughed Dr. W, when asked to compare the cost of administering the drug to the cost of entering one LiGa Bridge game. ‘But then, do we definitively know that LiGa extends life indefinitely?’ he speculated.

  “A spokesperson for LiGa declined to comment on the potential impact of the new drug. The spokesperson likewise declined to comment on the likelihood of extending an invitation and a waiver of the steep entrance fee for the patient.”

  Natalya lowered the paper.

  “I suppose if you’re desperate like that poor cancer-ridden man … you would have no choice but to try that drug…” she mused. “I wonder how much it costs… Not that cost would matter to Sinclair.”

  “An arm, a leg and your kidney, I am sure!” Henri snorted. “Cheaper than what LiGa charges! You know, I could probably buy a small country that would cost less than LiGa’s entrance fee.” He laughed derisively.

  “So you think this new drug is expensive?” Natalya asked quickly.

  Henri’s eyebrow rose in an eloquent expression of affectionate mockery. “My love, the word expensive would be an understatement, in my opinion. But now, let’s get back to important matters. Layers or no? What do we think?”

  “Layers,” Natalya responded automatically. “The way you did it last time. I like the swing.”

  “I agree.”

  “What time is it?” she asked impatiently.

  “Do you need to be somewhere? It’s barely one thirty in the afternoon,” Henri glanced at the clock on the opposite wall. He adjusted her head gently to one side, reaching for the martini glass. “Have a drink, love. Relax…”

  “I have time,” Natalya murmured, taking a thoughtful sip.

  *

  One by one they arrived; they all arrived. The cars glittered side by side in the parking lot.

  The slightly battered, dark blue Honda Accord pulled into the parking lot a shade after 1:30pm. Father Griffith opened the driver’s door.

  “Good luck, Roland,” Father Tom Morton held out his hand. “I will pray for you.”

  “Thank you, Tom.” He scanned the cars in the lot.

  “Who’s here?” Tom asked.

  “I see almost everyone’s car: Daniel Cross’s Ferrari–” he pointed to the red car in the far right space. “The judge’s Mercedes, Mr. Porter’s Lexus, and the Bentley must be Sinclair Davis’s driver. Looks like everyone’s here again… I’m surprised.”

  “What about Storm Drake?”

  “He is staying here. I would be shocked if he’d left. All right, Tom, I should go in.”
They shook hands.

  “Good luck, brother.”

  *

  In her quarters, Cat was putting the finishing touches to her outfit. She had chosen a dress of dark green silk threaded with gold, and had pinned the diamond-studded alligator to her right shoulder. Before the mirror she turned this way and that, scrutinizing this new body of hers, which had, within the space of two weeks already endowed the dress with a great deal more shape. Cat smiled happily at her reflection until she caught sight of her hair. Roots! Her dark chestnut roots were showing through the fluffy whiteness. She wished she could will her hair to grow even more quickly, for the effect was not becoming.

  After this game, she thought. I must win this game… I must.

  She regarded her nails… For this game she had chosen the perfect glaze: it was a translucent gold that she had named Renaissance.

  *

  Even Sinclair Davis is back, Father Griffith mused as he walked towards the glass. He stopped a few feet away from the entrance. I can see them. Through this transparent glass, I see them all. They are having coffee and sandwiches.

  ‘This is not a game,’ you said, Tom. You are right. But it is disguised as a game. We have coffee together; we eat together. We talk to each other. We congratulate each other on our successes. And then we go forth to two rooms of clouded glass, and we spend hours trying to kill each other. It is not a game. What is a game?

  I correct myself: a disguise it is not.

  LiGa is clear; LiGa is transparent. LiGa is honest. It is called LifeGame.

  What is a game?

  “Welcome, Father Griffith.” The glass slid.

  “Hello, Peter.” Father Griffith walked to the entrance. Within, the players paused momentarily to look at him, just as he had expected. We are adversaries still.

  How changed we all are. It has been barely a month since we started. Changed and changing.

  Sinclair Davis is seated now. His arrogance was but a fleeting mantle. I had hoped he would not come. Daniel Cross is also here, as is Jacob Porter, sitting by the judge.