LiGa

by Sanem Ozdural

  “–or utopias,” Cat added. “Young man, I have lived my entire life in politics, and I am done.” She shook her head firmly and rose. “I am going to pack my things and call for my car. I should be leaving on the first flight out to New Orleans. Thank you very much, but I am not interested in your visions of worlds like glass. My dear, you look like a rather dangerous person, if you don’t mind my saying so, and any world you envision is likely to cut like glass too!”

  “You are right, governor…”

  “Of course I am.” Cat regarded him impatiently, her arms folded. “But just out of curiosity, where exactly is this delightful new world order supposed to be, darling?”

  “Wherever we want,” Xavier replied. “But it is not an order as you say. There are no models. You cannot impose a model on nature. It is unnatural to impose man-made order; only that which is natural.”

  “Goodness! I’m happy that your visions of glass and what not keep you occupied, but I’ve had just about enough of all this nonsense. I don’t think I’ll be playing bridge for a very long time.” Cat sighed and looked around the room. “Bruce darling. Do look me up if your travels bring you to New Orleans.”

  “Good bye, Cat. I’ll be sure to stop by quite soon,” Bruce replied.

  “Roland, darling: don’t listen to Xavier. You already think far more than is good for you,” Cat continued, turning to the priest. “We played bridge and we won. That’s all there is to it.” As she walked towards the exit, Cat waved to Tanner and Peter. “Good bye Diarmid, Peter. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope I never see you again. Well, toodle-oo all!” She waved to the assembled group.

  “Good bye… governor.”

  She hesitated no more than a split second on her way to the entrance. Then the glass slid and Cat stepped outside.

  “I tend to agree with Cat,” Bruce said. “But I do have an intellectual curiosity about this vision of yours, Mr. Redd. I’m listening, but it doesn’t mean I have any intention of becoming involved, you understand? But I am curious, in a purely intellectual capacity.”

  Xavier smiled. “And you, Father Griffith?”

  Father Griffith shook his head, rising slowly. “I have responsibilities to this world, Mr. Redd. In this world. Good bye. Mr. Saber, it was a true pleasure meeting you and playing with and against you–” Father Griffith extended his hand to Bruce.

  “But the glass cube is in this world, and the world is in the glass cube–” Xavier said.

  “Good bye, Roland,” Bruce said, shaking his hand. “Good luck.”

  Father Griffith bid farewell to the rest of the group and walked to the entrance, with one last look at Xavier.

  Tom would be waiting in the parking lot, and they would drive away from the glass cube for the last time…

  “As you leave, Father, you are taking a piece of the glass cube with you. You cannot avoid it,” Xavier said.

  “I know,” Father Griffith nodded once as the glass slid aside.

  “Well …” Bruce leaned back in his chair. “It has certainly been a tremendously interesting experience.”

  “Keep in touch, Bruce,” Blanca said, dreamily.

  “You are still my client!” Bruce retorted with a laugh. “I have to keep in touch with you.”

  “Please visit Moonlight Farm again. Soon.”

  “Certainly,” Bruce nodded. “Well, Mr. Redd, it looks like you don’t have a lot of interest in your idea from our group.”

  “It takes time,” Xavier replied. “Good bye, Mr. Saber. You know where we are…”

  Epilogue 1

  On this, the Third Sunday of Advent, the Society of Jesus held a private celebration at the Church of the Gesù in Rome. Assembled within the sacred space were representatives of each of the Jesuit provinces in the world.

  They had assembled to welcome and to acknowledge a new reality.

  And he stood before them, these men, his fellow Jesuits.

  Father Roland Mikhail Griffith, S.J. (Imm.)

  “My brothers in Christ –

  May the Peace of our Lord be with you…”

  *

  “He died peacefully in his sleep. It is the best anyone can hope for isn’t it?”

  Mrs. Joanne Porter-Ward smiled a little at the elderly woman before her and nodded sadly. A thin, pale woman in her early thirties, she was dressed in dusty black and resembled a forlorn sparrow.

  “Thank you,” she said. But he was not old! She thought, rebelling against the gentle platitudes surrounding her.

  The woman – one of the countless, twinkling wives of Jacob Porter’s business acquaintances – patted her gently on the arm. I hate funerals, Joanna thought as she moved away with a polite smile. Poor Father. At least he hadn’t suffered…

  “Mrs. Porter-Ward?”

  Joanna lifted her head, wearing the same indistinct but polite smile reserved for acquaintances of Father’s, in the direction of the unfamiliar voice, and immediately took a step backwards.

  “Ye-es,” she stammered.

  “I’m sorry to startle you, Mrs. Porter-Ward,” said the man extending his hand in greeting. “My name is Bruce Saber, and this is my friend Catherine Trahan. We have come to pay our respects. We are truly sorry for your loss. We both knew your father well. He was a good man,” Bruce added.

  Cat nodded vigorously. “Yes, darling. Your father was one of the finest men I have met. A very good man.”

  Joanna regarded the pair with suspicion. They both looked utterly out of place in this comfortably genteel portion of Connecticut. They were both too … alive…

  The woman shone in a perfectly respectable black dress, accented with a diamond alligator brooch with sapphire eyes affixed to her right shoulder. Neither the demurely-cut dress, nor the flashing diamonds could camouflage the fact that this woman – with her hair that dazzled in gleaming chestnut and copper highlights, and an ivory and peach complexion that actually appeared to glow from within – was more than anyone else in the room, except perhaps the man standing by her side. More beautiful, more alive, more of everything possible.

  The man next to her – this Bruce Saber – wore a well-cut black suit. A black suit such as Joanna had seen on countless of her late father’s business associates. A handsome man in a black suit. That’s all, she told herself. He is just another of Father’s business associates. But she could not still the urge to scream and run away from him. It reminded her of one of the most fearful memories of her childhood: sitting with a broken leg listening to the rattle of a rattlesnake behind a rock. Joanna shivered, withdrawing another step.

  “Thank you,” she said, and with a brief smile, turned away. I don’t care how they knew Father! She thought, as she glanced at the pair out of the corner of her eye. They were now talking to an older man and a woman who looked to be his lovely young Asian trophy-wife. At least, that was something she understood. Something, however distasteful, that was at least expected.

  “Hello Davis,” Bruce said.

  “Saber,” Sinclair nodded in greeting. “You’re looking good,” he added dryly.

  I know, thought Bruce. “And you don’t look too bad either,” he said. It’s true. You look a lot better than the last time I saw you. Something has agreed with you. What did you do? Acyuta? Something else? You’re an old man, I can see that, but you don’t look as though you’re dying.

  “You’re looking good, Davis,” Bruce repeated. I am glad, he thought. I didn’t enjoy seeing you as you were at the end of the game. It’s a hard thing to watch a man die.

  He turned his attention to Natalya at Sinclair’s side. “And this must be your lovely wife,” he said gallantly. “Mrs. Davis, a pleasure to meet you.”

  Natalya smiled. A sweet, self-satisfied smile. “Mr. Saber, it’s wonderful to finally meet you too. I’ve heard so much about you from Sinclair.” She stood beside him, glowing in a muted, smoky gray, light woolen dress, and her words were uttered with the benevolent confidence of a proprietor.

  “Hello darling,
” Cat took Natalya’s hand warmly. “I’m Cat. Perhaps Sinclair has told you about me too–”

  Natalya turned her attention to Cat, sizing her up in an instant. There was frost in her look, naturally, for Cat was a rival like no other, but Natalya Davis had arrived. The frost melted and she embraced the woman before her warmly, knowing full well that at such close proximity she must dim in comparison to this creature that appeared to be carved out of ivory and shrouded in resplendent black.

  “Of course!” she cried. “The WildCat: I’ve heard all about you.” There was perhaps a shaded undercurrent of malice behind her smile, but again, it was a malice borne of the protective instinct towards what was rightfully hers.

  “You seem to have taken great care of our dear Sinclair,” Cat continued. “You must be quite the miracle worker. I haven’t seen him looking this well in – well, ever really!” Cat laughed, as Natalya slipped her right hand through Sinclair’s arm protectively.

  “Sinclair is very healthy now,” she said defiantly. But inside she felt almost grateful to this woman. Had he not lost…

  “It’s a shame Roland couldn’t make it,” Cat said, changing the subject. “I know he wouldn’t have missed the funeral unless he was really busy.”

  “You know he’s busy,” Bruce turned to her severely. “I told you he had to go to Rome for a special ceremony. The Jesuits are installing him as an Immortal. He asked me to relay his condolences to Mr. Porter’s family.”

  “That’s right, dear. You did tell me. My mind is like a sieve still. All this getting younger plays absolute havoc with the body! What about that dear Danny Cross? Has anyone heard from him?” Cat continued brightly.

  “Acyuta,” Sinclair replied curtly.

  “Ah… the rest cure…” Cat smiled knowingly. “Well it seems to have worked for you, darling,” she said addressing Sinclair.

  Sinclair glared at her. “I didn’t go to Acyuta,” he said quietly, as Natalya tightened her grip on his arm. “We tried a new treatment,” she said primly.

  “And Storm is happily back at Formula One,” Bruce interjected. “But this time in an advisory role.

  “Well I’m sure it’s a great relief to his girlfriend,” Cat said. “So what are they doing with Roland in Rome? Bruce, darling, what did our immortal priest tell you?”

  “He’s being installed – I think that’s what he called it – as an Immortal. It’s a special ceremony they created for him, he said. He was very proud, but quietly so. He feels it is a great responsibility, I’m sure.”

  “He always did take the whole thing ever so seriously,” Cat sighed.

  “Yes,” Bruce nodded. “I’m glad he did. And still does…”

  “What will he do next, I wonder…”

  Bruce looked earnestly at Cat. “I don’t know. What will we all do next?”

  “Well, I know I shall be going back to LiGa headquarters next week,” she smiled slyly at Bruce. “Surely, you must have received Xavier’s letter, darling…”

  “Yes. And Roland will be there too…”

  *

  As I stand here before you, my brothers, who have journeyed far to be here this evening, I am reminded of a poem by T.S. Eliot. There was a birth and a death, says the poet. We know the birth to which he referred. And the death. As these old men, old kings of an old world, journeyed far and wide to witness the miracle of the birth of our Lord, they also mourned the death of their own kingdoms, their ways of life.

  In this season of Advent we look, with our hearts filled with joy, to the birth of Jesus Christ, our Lord. I wish to speak, fittingly, of birth and death, and also of life.

  I will speak to you also, of glass.

  What is glass?

  This is a question I asked myself over and over again this past summer.

  We are familiar with the substance. It surrounds us. We use it daily in countless ways.

  Glass can be transparent, which we want when we need to see through it.

  Glass can be opaque, which is useful when we want something hidden.

  Glass is brittle; it breaks unless reinforced. It can cut, stab and pierce.

  Glass is a mirror.

  Glass is magnificent: tinted, cut and blown, it glitters and shimmers, reflecting and refracting light.

  Glass is a powerful symbol. We see it in many places, including the Book of Revelation.

  The kingdom of God is described as a perfect cube, ‘like unto clear glass’.

  The vision of life everlasting is as clear as glass.

  But the paths of our lives are anything but clear as glass. There is no glass to show us the future, and the lens through which we look to the past and present is distorted, cracked and smudged with the debris of our individual experiences, thoughts, fears and hopes. The transparency and clarity of glass are symbols of what we feel we do not have; what we think we cannot have in our worldly lives.

  But the world, with its variety and lack of clarity, is the way God made it. It is His will that surrounds us with absolute clarity, although we don’t always recognize it as such.

  The clarity of His will is not brittle, like glass; it does not cut, stab or pierce.

  His will is transparent, but not like glass.

  With our imperfect vision and our imperfect understanding we resort to familiar symbols to describe what we imperfectly comprehend.

  We resort sometimes, to glass.

  And the danger of a symbol is in cleaving to it too firmly, with insufficient understanding of what it is meant to signify. Yes, we know glass. For all its chemical and molecular complexity, we understand it well enough to manipulate it to suit our needs, and our wishes. So, when we cannot fully understand His will; when He seems elusive, mysterious and, at times, cruel, there are those who are tempted to look to a beautiful symbol that is, moreover, eminently accessible, to formulate a vision.

  A vision of glass.

  This vision will be, by its very nature, like glass: transparent and hidden, hard and brittle. By its very nature, a vision of glass will be, at times, a sharp place.

  But the Kingdom of God is not filled with sharpness or hardness.

  No. It is filled only with love. The truth of His love. His everlasting love.

  His love is boundless; it is limitless, and it encompasses all of us. Just as a gardener tends to all the roses in his garden with infinite love and patience.

  But I have seen a world in which men and women cleave to the image of glass as an ideal and as a result they perhaps reject the true clarity of the world.

  You have heard of these people. They walk among you, and they are, in a great many ways, like you. They are the LiGa Immortals, and yes, I am one of them now, but I am also, one of you. I am still one of Us.

  And yes, these people may very well be the harbingers of a new world, for they – including me – are now living beyond the normal confines of Time. But let us not fear them or despise them for the difference that they bring.

  Let us instead embrace them and seek to teach them that the clarity of Truth does not lie within the confines of a piece of cold glass.

  Our Lord asks only for each one of us to walk our own individual path to the best of our abilities. However long that path may be.

  However long my path may be, I shall endeavor, to the best of my ability, to walk upon it with Truth and the love of our Lord, Jesus Christ, in my heart.

  Epilogue 2

  Poem:

  A haiku of a rose, this hybrid tea, reposing elegantly on a dark-green stem and semi-glossy foliage, is the impossible made possible. Taking a line through the White Queen, upon gazing at this remarkable flower, we too, can believe any number of impossible things – before and after breakfast. A transparent high-centered bloom that begins as an iridescent lilac bud, and slowly opens from a crimson base to spiral through orange and fuchsia to a deep gold. No veins are visible in the velvety petals, which are of a uniform and average thickness. This flower will certainly be the centerpiece of your garden. For best effect, plac
e it where it will receive optimum light and simply marvel at its ethereal glow. Daylight enhances the flower’s warm hues, turning it into a beacon of crimson and gold, but moonlight will bring out a soft silvery blue glow. This is a sturdy flower that is best suited to the Northeastern climes where it was born. Kudos to Judge Martha Other, its hybridizer, who has stubbornly refused to reveal this remarkable flower’s parentage. I would be as reticent in her position, but oh boy, do I want to know how she did it!

  Acknowledgements

  All my thanks go to Ralph Rivera, S.J., for, above all, his friendship, but also his insights, humor, grace and constant patience in dealing with my incessant questions and requests regarding the Society of Jesus.

  To Jeffrey Hearn, for his kindness and encouragement when I first walked into the Manhattan Bridge Club to learn this game.

  To Joseph Byrnes, Sherry Ann Kavaler and Zeus Arias for making something of a bridge player out of me.

  To the memory of Daniel Levine: dear friend and bridge partner.

  To Kris Wolff, for her support and friendship, of course, but also for putting me in touch with John R. Bolger, who graciously shared his wealth of knowledge on motorbikes.

  Thank you, Peter and everyone at Elsewhen Press, for your kindness and professionalism, and for turning the publishing process into an unending source of delight for me.

  Elsewhen Press

  a small independent publisher specialising in Speculative Fiction

  Visit the Elsewhen Press website at elsewhen.co.uk for the latest information on all of our titles, authors and events; to read our blog; to find out where to buy our books and ebooks; or to place an order.

  Elsewhen Press

  a small independent publisher specialising in Speculative Fiction

  LiGa™

  Sanem Ozdural

  Welcome.

  You are hereby invited to compete in a tournament of LifeGame™ Bridge (“LiGa™ Bridge”)…

  Have YOU had your invitation yet?

  Literary science fiction, LiGa™ tells of a game in which the players are, literally, gambling with their lives. Sanem Ozdural’s debut novel is set in a near-future where a secretive organisation has developed technology to transfer the regenerative power of a body’s cells from one person to another, conferring extended or even indefinite life expectancy. As a means of controlling who benefits from the technology, access is obtained by winning a tournament of chess or bridge to which only a select few are invited. At its core, the game is a test of a person’s integrity, ability and resilience.