LiGa Page 8

  “Yes, Father,” Storm nodded. He was carrying a black helmet and wearing a leather jacket.

  “I hope you have an enjoyable ride,” Father Griffith continued, to break what was likely to turn into an uncomfortable silence between them. He averted his gaze towards the less demanding vision of the flowerbed by the door.

  In a haphazard bed of roses, flowers were in full bloom. Father Griffith did not consider himself a horticultural expert, but had always appreciated the beauty of the rose: the slim but sturdy stem, studded with thorns like barbed wire; the voluptuous and graceful bloom in all the colors one could imagine. During his preparation for LiGa, he had spent the better part of a week studying Judge Martha Other’s profile, in which roses were a prominent feature.

  Father Griffith turned to the rose bed…

  Blessed Virgin!

  Father Griffith gave a start, took a step back, and crossed himself in a reflexive gesture.

  “What’s wrong?” Storm asked.

  “I think there’s a pebble in my shoe,” the priest explained, turning away from the flowers with an abrupt laugh. “Caught me off guard.”

  Was that it? Storm wondered, scanning the vicinity for anything that would have startled the priest. All he saw were the flowers, a door, nothing that he had not noticed before.

  “I’d better go,” Father Griffith said. “My ride should be arriving any minute.” He does not believe my explanation, the priest thought. Mr. Drake will not leave until I do. In his mind an image had been seared: a flower in full bloom by the wall, neither hidden, nor displayed with care or prominence. In the warm light of the waning sun, a flower with a slim, straight stem of dark forest green swayed gently. A rose with large velvety petals of a delicate ivory-pink hue. The tips of those petals aglitter as though encrusted with diamonds…

  “Yeah, and I need to get going too. See you next week, Father.”

  They walked to the front of the building. Storm strode to his bike while the priest took a seat on a bench in front of the parking lot.

  It cannot be true! Father Griffith thought, listening to the jarring sound of Storm’s bike as he rode out of the driveway and into the serene countryside. Could there be another flower that so resembled – that could rival – Judge Martha Other’s celebrated Silver Dawn?

  Perhaps it wasn’t the same flower after all. Perhaps it only seemed transparent around the edges because of its age, or just a trick of light. He rose. Storm was gone, and all the other players had already left.

  He walked back to the flowerbed and leaned forward to examine the rose at the back more carefully.

  He noted the fresh delicate color: a creamy ivory pink, with perhaps the slightest suggestion of green towards the end of the petals. And the ends of the petals – an area about an eighth of an inch wide – were transparent. In the sun the flower radiated innocence and purity, crowned with a halo of shimmering light.

  Father Griffith rose and took a deep breath. Yes, without a doubt, it was Silver Dawn. But how?

  Does the judge know? he wondered, thinking back to the conversation before the game. Did she give them permission? If she hadn’t, how had LiGa obtained this, of all flowers?

  What about the others? Father Griffith turned his attention to the deep, sooty red of the lovely flower in the front row. A ‘black’ rose, if he was any judge; its velvety petals curving swan-like, a dark, saturated red bleeding coal-black at the outer edges, and yet the flower looked … defective. A portion of each petal – a vertical stripe in the middle – looked as if it had been neatly cut out, but the petal was still intact, he noted with curiosity. The petal was not, as he had suspected, missing a portion. It was simply that a portion of the petal was translucent. The yellow rose, too, had not lost a petal; it was translucent like the clouded glass of the LiGa walls during a game.

  Father Griffith, puzzled, looked at the other roses, and saw a variety of flowers in a myriad colors: opalescent white, canary-yellow, fuchsia to salmon-pink. Further scrutiny revealed that each flower had a similar “defect.” The fuchsia blooms were horizontally striped, while the yellows – if one concentrated – appeared to have an entire petal “missing.” Father Griffith thought he could see the missing petal, or rather see through it as one would, through the translucent flesh of a jellyfish.

  What about the other flowers? They had been engineered, he thought with revulsion.

  It was like a laboratory where pristine beauty had been transformed into a beast. He wanted to tear away that innocent flower at the back before it could be defiled by its deformed kin.

  The judge surely did not know the abuse her cherished flower had been made a part of…

  Quietly, he returned to the bench in front of the parking lot to await the arrival of Tom Morton. In due course, before the shadows grew cool, Father Tom drove up in the serviceable Honda Accord.

  “Hey Roland!” he waved jovially from the open window. “Sorry I’m late,” he added, a note of concern creasing his forehead.

  “Don’t worry, Tom. I didn’t mind waiting.” Father Griffith climbed into the passenger seat.

  “How did it go?”

  “Fine,” he nodded.

  “Did you?–” Father Tom ventured hesitantly.

  Father Griffith assured his friend that he had, indeed, prevailed in the recent game.

  “I knew you’d do well, Roland,” said his friend, displaying a wide grin. “Where are all the others? I didn’t see anyone else. Was I that late?” he asked, alarmed.

  “They left before you came, and don’t worry, you weren’t late,” Father Griffith paused. “The losing players left before the winners,” he added, looking away from his friend. “I was the last of the winners to … receive Life Points.”

  “I see. Well, I wanted to see them. Are you allowed to talk about it?”

  “Of course. What would you like to know?” Father Griffith laughed guardedly. “It’s not a secret, Tom.”

  “I want to know everything. Who played? What they were like? How they played. How you played. What the game was like–” Father Tom flashed a mobile smile. “Whatever you can – or want – to tell me, I want to hear.”

  “I’d be happy to tell you anything you want to know.” Except the roses, he thought.

  “Well then, start from the beginning, and start talking, brother!”

  “Okay–” Father Griffith took a deep breath and settled into the seat.

  “Wait, before you start, we have to figure out where you want to go. You told me you hadn’t decided when we drove earlier this afternoon. I checked – they are ready for you at Manhasset if you want to spend the night there. But it’s ok if you don’t.”

  Father Griffith was silent. He was thinking about the 87-room, Jesuit retreat in Manhasset, Long Island. A rambling mansion in the style of an English country-house. “I don’t know, Tom,” he said quietly. “I won’t know for another three hours or so. Let’s drive back to the City now. I’d like to pray before…” he left the sentence unfinished. Before the life transfer, he had meant, of course. “It will probably be too late to go to retreat tonight. I can go tomorrow. You don’t need to come with me. You’ve already gone to too much trouble for me. Really. Thank you, Tom.”

  Father Tom shook his head. “You know Father General’s orders: ‘Father Griffith can do whatever he wants during the LiGa tournament,’” he intoned in a mock-regal tone. “No seriously, Roland,” he continued earnestly, “We all know how hard it will be. You know I’m more than happy to help in any way I can.”

  “Ours is to obey–” Father Griffith laughed.

  “OK. To St. Francis Xavier then?” Father Morton asked, referring to the church where they were both stationed. Father Griffith had only been there since … well, since the letter from Rome last March. The letter from the superior general recalling him from Colombia.

  “We all mourn the loss of Father Oleg Alexandrovich…” the superior general had written.

  But the work they had begun together could have
continued. I did not want to leave, Father Griffith thought on this languid summer’s day.

  “… It has been decided that it is not appropriate for you to remain in Colombia…”

  And he had obeyed.

  He had not been ordered to a particular post. That was not the modern Jesuit way. A man’s wishes were to be considered. He had been given a choice: one of two parishes in New York City.

  He had chosen the church downtown. “Do you mind if I open the window?” he asked his companion.

  “Um … well, it’s hot outside. Isn’t the a.c. cold enough?”

  Too much glass, thought Father Griffith. “The a.c. is fine,” he replied, as the car sped along smooth asphalt, skimming green countryside.

  “Well open it if you’d like,” Father Tom relented. “Whatever you want, Roland.”

  “I’d like to feel some air,” Father Griffith said. Hot humidity filled the car. “Sorry, Tom. I’ll close it soon.”

  Why New York? He had wondered. He had no ties to the city, and there didn’t appear to be a priestly-shortage. During his years in Colombia he had grown unaccustomed to diocesan life. It would be an adjustment, he thought. Why, though, was he sent to New York? With his language skills and multicultural experience, he was surprised that they had not chosen a different post for him.

  And then the second letter from Rome arrived in a hand-delivered envelope marked “CONFIDENTIAL” in large red letters.

  LiGa had been the reason. I would have been pulled from Colombia even if Oleg had not died, Father Griffith realized.

  “Can you at least leave it mostly up?” Father Tom implored. “I hate the heat.”

  “Sorry Tom.” The glass slid to seal the opening.

  7

  It was quarter to seven when Storm returned to LiGa. There would be time to shower and rest before the transfer.

  But there was one thing he would do before going inside. He walked around to the flowerbed where he and the priest had stood earlier in the afternoon. Although Storm knew next to nothing about flowers, including roses, he did know a great deal about competition. And he instinctively paid attention to anything and everything his competitors said and did.

  What had startled the priest? Storm stood exactly where he remembered Father Griffith had been standing, facing the flowerbed. The roses were growing with random profusion before an unadorned wall. Storm scanned the wall carefully, but could find nothing unusual. A blank, windowless wall. He shifted his attention to the roses.

  There were dozens of roses jostling for space in lively array. And yet even at a cursory glance, one rose in particular grabbed his attention. He saw it resting shyly near the wall, wearing a silvery halo, its petals a delicate shade of ivory-pink. Storm leaned closer to examine the flower. Brushing the other roses away, he held the ivory flower in the palm of his hand.

  In his mind, he reenacted the scene before the game: everyone standing around the buffet table; the judge with a cup of coffee held aloft delicately; Saber and the priest talking about the flower …

  The tips are transparent.

  Yes, the ends of the petals were transparent – the way a diamond is transparent.

  Was this then… Silver Dawn?

  Whatever it was – and in all probability it was the same flower – it would appeal particularly to a priest, Storm thought with a grin. With that thin, brilliant halo…

  If it was Silver Dawn… Curious, he leaned towards the flower. The ends of the petals were transparent, with the brilliance of cut glass. And here it was, growing in plain view – if it was indeed Silver Dawn. Perhaps it was a different flower. He could not be certain, since he had never seen the flower in person.

  How had LiGa gotten hold of the flower? Did the judge know? Had she given permission?

  As he thought about the ivory flower, his eyes wandered aimlessly about the rest of the roses. They appeared ordinary by comparison. That deep red rose, for instance, in front of him: beautiful, but such a one might be purchased at any decent florist. Maybe not, upon a second glance, for the flower appeared to possess a flawed petal. Without curiosity, he looked carefully at the flower.

  Interesting…

  Methodically, he examined most of the roses in the flowerbed.

  Very interesting.

  The red rose, for instance, had a translucent petal. One whole petal shaded a faded, dirty pink – as though the rich red color had been diluted. The veins in the petal were unattractively visible and the translucency possessed a muddy quality; it lacked the glittering purity of the ivory flower. And the red flower was not alone; all the roses contained a translucency “flaw”. It might be a vertical stripe (a salmon pink flower), or a horizontal one (canary yellow), or even a tiger-striped effort in – mostly – fuchsia.

  “What are they trying to do?” Storm wondered aloud. “Looks like an experiment.”

  Satisfied that he had at least been able to decipher the priest’s actions, Storm opened the side door and stepped inside. Even Storm, who had a serviceable photographic memory and a talent for spatial visualization, had found the layout of this building curiously puzzling and difficult to memorize.

  The first floor – as far as Storm had been shown – consisted of a dining room, living room, in the middle of which reposed a billiard table, a gym, which included a lap-pool, and a kitchen. It felt like a home rather than a hotel. The furniture, which was spare but functional and comfortable, matched the earthen tones of the walls and blond-wood flooring, except for a general feeling that the interior of this home had been washed in ivory.

  Storm’s suite was on the second floor, and consisted of a bedroom and living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out towards the woods. He threw the leather jacket and helmet on the couch. There was something he had to do before the transfer. His personal score sheet from the recent game lay on a teak coffee table. Retrieving a note pad, he sat down on the couch and wrote out each hand of the game, including a play-by-play analysis. Like the races, he thought, his mind drifting to his days at the paddock. The debriefing that took place right after the race and before the champagne-laced parties. Finish the race, wipe off some sweat, and huddle with your engineers. It had to be done while the memory of the race was fresh. While the bond between you and the burning cockpit was still a physical thing. You and cockpit were one, and the track was under your wheels, and you were the physical link between the track and the engineers. You had to translate the language of the cockpit. Now.

  Now, each hand was visible in his memory. The ride on his motorbike helped. Speed and the hot summer wind unlocked the mind, and smoothed its coils. Board by board, he wrote out the bidding and the play, thinking and analyzing his moves and, more importantly, those of his opponents. How did they play? What did each person play? When? Why…

  After an hour, he was finished. How much longer before the transfer? He checked his watch: the game had ended at close to 6:00 P.M., and it was now eight o’clock. An hour to go…

  *

  Martha Other lived in Brooklyn Heights, in a large, two-story, six-bedroom brownstone off Atlantic Avenue. Behind her house was a retractable greenhouse. It was her haven and laboratory. She grew her roses there.

  It was almost dark by the time she absently slipped a key into the front door lock. Her heels sounded a military beat on the pinewood bare floors as she made her way to her bedroom on the second floor. On her way she gazed upon the familiar sights and smells of her home as a spectator, as though the frames on the walls, the walnut dining set, her living room, were a theatrical set… Unreal.

  In her bedroom, Martha Other changed into her gardening clothes. Even these items that she wore every day to tend to her roses, these clothes that were more a sanctuary than an outfit, felt like a costume in a play.

  How much longer? She wondered, sitting on the edge of her bed. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table: 8:30. Thirty minutes…

  *

  I hate waiting, Storm thought impatiently as he lay on the bed after h
is shower. 8:33 – there was still just under half an hour to go … Next to him lay the black LiGa brochure. The invitation …

  Storm thrust the brochure onto the bedside table.

  Helen … I can’t call her now. This isn’t the right time. Later. After the games are over… Then I can explain it to her. What am I going to say to her now?

  Don’t think of Helen. Think of the transfer. How will it feel? The LiGa brochure had not been informative on the topic. The Appendix had explained that the impact of the transfer depended on individual physiology.

  Monza. Surely, it couldn’t be more challenging than that.

  As he lay on the soft bed, Storm Drake let his mind travel back in time. Years ago…

  Monza: the home turf of the Scuderia and the Ferrari fans – the Tifosi. And for Storm: his first season with Ferrari. His first race at Monza in a Ferrari… Pressure?

  The Italian circuit was one of the fastest. Long straights allowed the cars to reach top speeds of over 200 mph. Race weekend was set for mid-August. Qualifying had gone well on Saturday. He had taken pole position, and the fans were going wild.

  Californian Lightning in the Ferrari was on pole. Philip Ford in the McLaren had qualified second, and the Red Bulls had taken the third and fourth places on the grid.

  Sunday. Race day. The cars on the grid glittered under a cloudless sky of brilliant blue.

  It was a good start. He took lead on the first straight, pulling past Ford’s McLaren.

  They were all behind him after that. The whole pack. He was quick. He felt it. Watch the brakes, his engineer told him over the radio. Monza’s hard on the brakes. Conserve the brakes. He felt good. He could push the car to its limit without breaking. Without braking.

  He pitted on the 38th lap. It all went according to schedule. Smooth. A few seconds for refueling, and he was on his way. He had the pace, and he was headed for victory. Fifteen laps left, and the pack was still behind him…

  On the radio, his engineer told him Roni Slatt’s Renault was getting close. Roni was a kid, and he wasn’t really experienced. Barely twenty-one years old, and he’d just graduated to Formula One from GP2 a year ago. Kids do stupid things sometimes because they don’t really know, they don’t really understand the track.