LiGa Page 11

  “Oh… well, thank you,” he managed in the face of her generosity.

  “It’s all right. You know, I’m just an old woman. I don’t have a lot of time left anyway. Life is for the young, isn’t it? You go and enjoy it, Frederick.”

  “Ah, well, yes. Thank you. Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Trahan?” he asked, “anything at all.”

  “Nothing dear,” she sighed. “Well, just a little thing maybe. Would you mind telling me about the other players? And the game itself. I’d love to hear your insights.”

  “Of course, but one minute–” Fred Heath replied, taking the phone to his study and closing the door.

  Cat smiled. LiGa had already agreed to postpone the next game for one week to give her time to familiarize herself with the competition – and vice versa – but there was nothing like getting information from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.

  “Where do you want me to start?” the senator asked.

  “From the beginning, naturally,” she replied. “I want to hear everything. All the way from when you got there to the time you left.”

  “I’ll tell you whatever I know,” he sighed.

  Lying on her four-poster bed in the bedroom of her colonial six-bedroom residence on a lush corner of St. Charles Avenue, Cat listened to him carefully. When he had finished recounting every last recollection of the game, she hung up and placed the phone in its cradle on her bedside table. Slowly, Cat raised herself from where she had been leaning against silken pillows and sat at her dressing table. She regarded her reflection thoughtfully. A small wrinkled face framed by white hair. She applied a dark rose lipstick expertly and scanned the neat rows of small nail-lacquer bottles before the mirror. Cat reached for one of the bottles: a barely translucent pearly white. She regarded it critically and laid it aside. It was not quite right … She could see it in her mind: curves of cold, ethereal, smooth marble.

  In her mind she saw the heart-breaking sculpture of the Virgin holding her dead Son by Michelangelo. The Pietà. A mother holding her dead child immortally cast in cold, white marble. A mother whose face held, in addition to natural grief and mourning, a clear and unflinching acceptance of all that this death implied.

  She selected a second bottle of a pale, crisp sky blue and applied the lacquer carefully to her nails. For the second layer, she used the pearly white she had selected first. Cat regarded her nails critically. Yes, it would do… A barely translucent white with no more than a glancing hint of icy blue.

  Cat looked at herself in the mirror and nodded slowly in full and clear acceptance of all that she was about to undertake.

  9

  “Baby–” Natalya cooed, nudging the still form of Sinclair gently. She was worried. It was past noon on Sunday and he had barely moved since falling into the bed the day before. She leaned close to check that he was breathing. He was, to her relief. Natalya sat back against the pillows, rubbing his inert back with her left hand. “Wake up, baby!” she cried out urgently, shaking him.

  “Wha–” Sinclair opened his eyes unseeingly for a moment before sinking back into a deep slumber.

  “Oh!” She cried out in frustration. “Come on, baby! Why are you sleeping so much?” Casting a concerned look towards him, Natalya got to her feet and stood irresolutely by the door, her hands resting on delicately curved hips, covered in a sheath of silky burnt orange. What am I to do? she wondered.

  *

  Helen knew exactly what she needed to do – at least for the immediate term: she must see him. She did not care what he said. She really did not care about his feeble protestations. She would see him as soon as possible. Her chin jutting out stubbornly, Helen sat on the train bound for Princeton, and thought of Storm. Out of the window, she idly watched the New Jersey countryside rush past… in fast motion, she thought. Accelerated into a blur of greenery and concrete. Accelerated, she thought with a pang, like time. Accelerated for Storm…

  She had a plan. She would go to Princeton, install herself in a hotel and see Storm.

  The first part of the plan was in motion – she was on her way to Princeton. And the second part had been taken care of with a reservation at Nassau Inn.

  Nassau Inn was built as a perfect accessory for the town of Princeton – and the University – or perhaps they had simply grown up together. Reposing with an old-world, rustically opulent charm on a lawn in Palmer Square upon which small children played – which was also a stone’s throw from the University across the street – Nassau Inn catered to all the special events that took place at the University. It was to Nassau Inn that parents flocked at graduation; it was Nassau Inn that hosted the dinners and banquets and conferences of the University.

  Helen wondered if Nassau Inn also catered to the friends and families of LiGa’s victims… like her. Directing her thoughts firmly away from LiGa, Helen concentrated on the different steps of her plan. After checking into the hotel, she would call Storm… Well, I could call him now, she thought, checking her watch. It was past noon. She had called more than two hours ago without response. What had she said in the message? Had she told him she was coming to see him? Yes, she recalled, she had, but at that time, the part of the plan involving her staying at a hotel had not been worked out, so she should call to let him know that she was on her way, when she would arrive, and where she would be staying.

  It’s a good time to call, she nodded to herself and dialed the number she had discovered penciled into the last page of the invitation. Surely, if he had meant to keep it a secret, he would not have written the number where she could so easily find it, she reasoned. After all, he had given her the invitation to read… And he hadn’t sounded upset about her calling last night, had he?

  No, said the part of her that had insisted on making this plan, he sounded unwell. He’s sick… or worse. And she did not care if he thought she was meddling or being bossy, or any of the other things that he might find irritating.

  “…So call me when you get this message. I’ll be at Nassau Inn all afternoon. Please call. Love you. Bye–” She sighed, putting the phone away.

  *

  Father Griffith had preferred to remain in the city after all. The Jesuit retreat house in Manhasset was quite lovely: adorned with serenity and poise – complete with an outdoor labyrinth. It reminded him too much of LiGa.

  Death should not be cloaked, Father Griffith thought, recalling the natural beauty surrounding the glass cube. LifeGame should not be camouflaged with glittering sunlight and pretty flowers.

  It would be better to remain in the city, he thought. A small room in the church of St. Francis Xavier was all he needed. He had taken a room recently vacated by one of the priests who had been missioned to Africa. It was sparsely furnished but light, consisting of a narrow bed, a closet, a sink, a bookshelf, and a writing desk by the window. His few items of clothing were neatly arranged in the adequate, but by no means spacious, closet. His books – far more voluminous than the contents of his closet – graced the bookshelf. There was a certain comfort in those familiar volumes that had traveled and grown with him throughout his life as a Jesuit.

  Father Griffith sat at the foot of the bed and let his mind wander as he gazed at his books…

  A dog-eared volume of Plato’s Republic reminded him of university – introductory philosophy. He had read it, heavy with reservations. A utopia? It had seemed to him against the will of the Lord to form such a structured society.

  His gaze locked onto Dante’s Inferno, recalling the passion with which he had poured over the pages at the age of twenty. Wordsworth and Coleridge were there, beckoning to him with memories drenched in moonlight and cheap whiskey. Pretensions of youth, he smiled to himself, casting his mind back with indulgent wistfulness over the years of his life…

  And now I am here, he thought, rising and taking a step towards the bookshelf. These books are as buoys to anchor the steps of my time in this ocean of a life, and they have brought me to this place. To Now.

  He reached out a
nd, frowning, picked out a thin volume from the bottom shelf. This is no more than a piece of uninspired lurid writing that has nevertheless woven a world of its own and inflected the fabric of our culture, he thought, looking at an aged cover of Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

  Immortality. We have always cast it as both desirable and fearsome: as morally repugnant and tantalizingly free as a vampire. But now the Immortals walk among us, and they do not resemble vampires; they do not turn to dust in sunlight and they do not crave human blood. What do we think of our own Immortals?

  We do not know who they are for the most part, Father Griffith realized. There are those like Diarmid Tanner and Peter Krol who have attained a level of fame – or infamy as the case may be – particularly in Peter’s case. But who knows for sure that they are immortal? That they will live forever… LiGa tells us so, and the scientists have confirmed that Peter’s cells do indeed appear to have ceased to degenerate. But how long will that last? We don’t know. If what LiGa says is true, we cannot know within our lifetime – Father Griffith checked his thoughts. I am thinking as a mortal, he realized – which I am of course, for now. But I have accumulated 93 Life Points. I could be immortal if I win the next game. Then what?

  On the whole we think of the immortals as little as possible, he concluded. It was easier when they were purely the subject of fiction. When the image of an immortal included fangs, bats and a cape, he was a glamorous creature to be feared, but nectar for the imagination too.

  Now our image of an immortal wears a tailored gray suit and a smug smile for the cameras on the courthouse steps after a murder trial. He has no fangs, but he still sucks blood, does he not? This blood is not messy and does not leave a stain, but it is still blood, which we must never forget.

  We all have blood on our hands. All of us who play this game. Father Griffith replaced Bram Stoker’s tale of the bloodthirsty count on the highest shelf, next to Plato’s Republic.

  *

  Helen had been rewarded for her patience with a call at 2pm! Storm had finally called, and most importantly, sounded, if not exactly like his old self, then at least less unwell than the previous evening. Helen fidgeted impatiently on the bench. She had decided to wait for him outside. The hotel was suffocating with its rustic charm. Even the tasteful floral arrangements reminiscent of the whimsically haphazard beauty of an English garden felt stifling.

  A low rumble… A growl, almost. She smiled happily with anticipation, two seconds before Californian Lightning glided into view trailing thunder.

  She ran to him.

  Looking as fresh and lovely as a summer’s day. Her long, blonde hair was pulled back into a gleaming ponytail. Her skin, untouched by makeup, was ivory. Her large, pale violet-blue eyes looked happy and worried all at once. She wore a simple, white dress that left her arms and neck bare as she ran to him. She was almost everything he loved most in the world.

  In his arms, she smelled better than all the prettiest flowers in the world.

  He’s not well, she thought, pulling back to get a good look at him. “You look tired, sweetie,” she said gently, knowing that a lot more than fatigue ailed him.

  “Yeah, still a bit tired,” Storm said dismissively. “No big deal. It’s great to see you!” He pulled her close, willing away the feeling that leaden weights were pinning his arms to his side.

  *

  “You’re up baby!” Natalya jumped up from the couch at the sound of the bedroom door opening.

  Sinclair groaned in reply as he slumped towards the kitchen.

  “I’ll get you whatever you want, baby. You sit down.” Natalya pulled him towards the couch.

  “Aspirin,” Sinclair muttered. “I need coffee and aspirin.”

  “I’ll be right there…” her voice trailed off as she ran lightly, on slippered feet, to the kitchen.

  Sinclair sank into the warm comfort of the couch she had just left.

  She returned within minutes carrying a tray of hot toast, coffee and a glass of water. “Here you go baby: breakfast. I bet you’re hungry.” She laid the tray on the coffee table as she perched next to him. “I’ll make you an omelet if you want–”

  Sinclair shook his head. “What’s this?” he demanded, holding out a torn piece of paper on which she had written down a name and number.

  She took the paper from him and sighed. “I made an appointment, hon,” she said hesitantly. “With Acyuta.”

  Sinclair turned away.

  “Do you know about Acyuta?” she continued, nestling closer to him. “They make people younger. Their ads are all over the place. I called them–”

  “It won’t work–” Sinclair interrupted her, running his hands through his hair. “Nothing works while I’m in the game.”

  “No, baby no!” She cried. “It will work. I called them. We – you – have an appointment. Today! At four this afternoon. They’ll help you, sweetheart.”

  Sinclair let his hands drop by his side. He was too tired to argue.

  “Here’s your aspirin,” Natalya urged, handing him the glass of water and two pills.

  *

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Father Griffith said.

  “Hi Roland,” Father Tom grinned in the doorway. “What are you doing? Do you mind some company?”

  “Of course not. Come in. It’s good to see you. I was just …” he laughed, waving with a deprecatory motion towards the bookshelf, “reminiscing. All my books. I’ve taken them everywhere I go. I just don’t seem to be able to let go of that attachment!”

  “Books are grounding,” Father Tom nodded appreciatively. “I understand. So… I wanted to ask you, but I understand if you don’t want to talk about it of course–”

  “The transfer?” Father Griffith forestalled his friend’s question.

  “Uhm …Yes.”

  “I was just thinking of Dracula…” Father Griffith said, walking towards the writing table, on which were arranged, as though at an altar, a rosary of polished black beads with an almost translucent center, two icons in the mold of the Eastern Church – one of the Madonna and Child, and the other, Christ, as King.

  Father Tom cleared his throat. “Why?” he asked. “Halloween’s not for another four months!” he laughed.

  Father Griffith picked up the rosary and turned to his friend. “My mother gave me this rosary in her last illness,” he said. “She told me that the beads are black diamonds. I did not entirely believe her, but I never had them tested. They could be black diamonds–” he held them out in his open hand.

  “I don’t know,” Tom said. “They could be I guess. I don’t know anything about black diamonds. And I’m still waiting for the connection to Dracula … If you don’t want to talk about the game, you just have to say so!” he grinned.

  “I don’t know how to–” Father Griffith paused. “In fact, I’m trying to talk about it by using familiar things. It’s not like anything I’ve ever felt before, Tom, and at the same time …” Father Griffith shook his head. “At the same time, it feels as though it’s the most natural thing, the natural complement.

  “I think I thought of Dracula – not the book, but the character – for the first time as I expect he might have felt–” Father Griffith paused, feeling embarrassed. “Anyway. Forget all that. I’m talking nonsense…”

  “It’s all right, Roland,” Tom said with mischievous smile, “You already have the gaunt, black and white color scheme going. You’re practically a vampire as it is!”

  They both laughed uncomfortably.

  *

  At nearby Winberie’s, they were seated at a booth by the window. The food they had ordered grew cold, untouched. They were not interested in food. She reached across the table and held his hand.

  “It’s good to see you,” she said, looking into his face searchingly. She squeezed his hand and bit back the torrent of questions she dared not ask.

  “It’s great to see you too,” he smiled. A tired smile, she thought with concern. He�
�s trying not to show how awful he feels…

  “How are you?” she asked gently.

  “Fine,” he replied, pulling his hand away.

  “You don’t look fine,” she retorted. “I know you’re not fine! I’ve been worried sick about you, Storm!” she cried.

  “I know,” he said quietly, looking down.

  She paused and gazed out of the window unseeingly. “You don’t have to keep playing… You could end it here, you know.” She turned back to face him, leaning close. “I know you’ve lost a third of your life–” She continued, her chin thrust forward with earnest determination. “If you play again, you might lose again!”

  Storm took a deep breath, and reached for her hands. “I have lost before,” he said. His voice was steady and his blue gaze was clear and unfettered. “I have also won before. It’s what I do. It’s what I have always done. It’s how I live.” And you are so lovely, he thought, with a touch of wistfulness. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose my life. I want to live for a long time, and I want you near me.

  But…

  “I have to practice,” he said. “I have to prepare for the next game.”

  She recognized the expression she knew so well: it was the one he reserved for his engineers as together they discussed strategy for the upcoming race. Serious and all-consuming. It was what made him great. After Monza, after his discharge from hospital… where she had seen him in person for the first time. She had been part of the media circus that had accompanied his return to racing.

  After that terrible accident. After facing death at close quarters for the better part of a month, he had been asked: how did you do it, Storm? What were you thinking about? Did you think about death?

  With that same expression, he had calmly replied: I thought of the next race. I was preparing for the next race.

  It is what makes him a survivor, she thought, relaxing a little.

  “I know,” she nodded, resigned. I understand, love.