Grace (22 page)

After an hour, Sylvie and I were up a hundred, but the game had grown tedious, and she wanted to raise the stakes. “May I?” She took a chip from our stack.

She bet a street on her birthday, and then a corner on our two birthdays, and we lost both. Next, she went with her number, which was not the dealer's, and so we lost fifty bucks in short order. We were still up fifty, and it was fun, so she took half what was left and played the centerline. We lost again.

“I am blowing all our money,” she said, as she took another chip.

“How are we betting the final one?” I asked, as she placed the last of our winnings.

She played it straight up on the day we met, and the dealer spun. The ball jumped up and the ball jumped down and the ball spun over the wheel, as our eyes followed the damn thing, projecting our desire and superstition, losing our money but having a blast.

Davidson and Elsa hit, and the croupier paid them out thousands, which was a nice pile of chips that they put right back on the table.

“Our dear friends are rich,” said Ingo.

Sylvie and I were down to what we started with, and Sylvie did not want to bet more, but we were having so much fun I insisted. She took it and played another street, but wouldn't tell me what it signified, and the dumb little ball danced over the big dumb wheel, and we laughed with merriment and joy when one of her numbers fell.

“Look, we won everything back,” she said. “Let's stop now.”

“What did you bet?” I asked.

“Isn't it crazy,” Sylvie replied, “how the brain looks for meaning, and looks for meaning, even where you know there is none.”

“So you bet?”

“I'm not telling, you. You would know too much.”

“Well, we are lucky,” I said.

“We are lucky,” she said.

“It's randomness,” Gabriel chimed in.

“We were having a moment.”

We turned back to the table, where Davidson and Elsa had let everything ride again, and lost it all again.

“Our dear friends are poor.” Ingo shook his head with exaggerated sadness.

They went further down from there, and wanted to play a new game with less chance. Sylvie went to cash out our chips. Ola went with her to find the others, who had wandered off. Ingo and I went with Davidson over to the poker tables to keep an eye on him, as he settled in against the dealer.

“When you were up thousands, why didn't you take some chips off the table?” I asked, after he had cut the cards.

Davidson took his gaze from the deck, and trained it on me. “I lost a woman once. You know what I mean?”

“We all have,” vouched the prince.

“I lost her when my chips were down. I did not have no chips, mind you. I had those on the table I was letting ride, to make the things I dreamed happen. But I was willing to follow that down past my bottom dollar, and off the edge of the earth if needed. That frightened her too much.”

“She was not the right girl,” I said.

“Too selfish.”

“No, she was the right girl. Lover's gamble. Whenever someone wants something as much as I did, part of it is about the thing, the rest is about the want. And, brothers, I wanted. No, she was an absolute champion of a girl, who had already run a pretty rotten race they cooked up for her. She had the head for it, and she had the legs for it. She just was not nervy for it again. She knew it about herself, too, and when she saw her chance she broke first thing for the exit.”

“Did she win her race?”

“In a kind of way—you can read about it in the papers—but she sold too soon to claim all she should have. But she was then more girl than woman.”

“Like you said, she was a girl.”

“Yes. A woman is a whole other order—.

“Yeah, she was the right girl, but she was just a girl, and never understood it was not the chips I was playing for then, but the whole crooked casino. Then again, maybe she did.

“Still, she got her chips, and she got in the papers, and I got my movies. It was not my time yet, and not the right one for us. Now it is my time. I have as many chips as I ever need. And I have a queen for a woman. Now I am going to spin the wheel, and spin the wheel, and play and win, and win, and win and never stop.”

“Elsa is good for you,” I said, as the next hand was being dealt. She had grown on me, which did not matter. What mattered was my friend was happy.

“Sylvie is good for you, too. The French girl—”

“Genevieve.”

“Yes, that one was too immature and self-involved. She still needed what I used to.”

“No, it was neither of us knew then that whatever we achieve pales next to life.”

“Whatever the case, Sylvie is more nurturing. She appreciates your interior life. For men like us that is the most important thing. She is smart and curious, too, so you will not become bored. Not that smart tells you anything about her heart. Trust me. I used to go with a genius. The woman knew everything but herself. Sylvie feels closer to the goddess. If I were you I would stick by her.”

“Davidson, the what?”

“The goddess. I can see these things. You do not have to understand them. She will give you a run for your money whichever way.”

“I'm glad you like her,” I said, falling into a melancholy silence.

“You still got it for Genevieve?”

“No, just thinking how unfortunate all of that was.”

“I hate to tell you, but you were not unlucky, my friend. You were unhappy, and the moral of that part of the story is when we are hurt we draw the damaged to us.”

“No,” I said. “It is that before we understand real compassion, everything good tilts away.”

He put a hand on my shoulder, and told me he disagreed. “There are all kinds of unsympathetic people who have the whole world sticking to their greedy little fingers.

“But, you know how it is when you are in a monastery, and you wake one morning from your dreams to walk in the gardens, and realize all of a sudden it is not your garden?”

“No.”

“Or else you are out in the desert, tripping your balls off on peyote, and you have walked across half of Potosí, and your shaman materializes to tell you look up into the night, which if you ever have the chance you should not pass up, and there you see them. All the luminous thousand faces of the gods, pulsating at you from the very depths of the universe. You search up in that sky in awe at each face and still you search and search, until you realize none of them is the god face you are looking for, the one your life has prepared you to see. Because, wouldn't you know it, the universe has a sense of humor. What it chooses to reveal to you are the Aztec gods of that desert. So there you are, looking up at the gods, and the glow of a love that has been there all your life and ever will be, and you don't even know its name.”

“That's too Delphic,” I said, watching his face to see if he was putting me on. “What do you mean?”

“It means I was searching the wrong desert,” he said. “Love is that way too.”

“I do not presume to know all about how love is.”

“That is what Paul said. ‘Though I speak with the tongue of men and of angels, and have not love.' So you do know.”

I pondered this new koan as the others arrived at the table. Sylvie squeezed in next to me to watch Davidson play at the high table. It was midnight by then, and Sylvie began to worry about getting too late a start on the slopes the next morning.

The two of us left the others there, and took one of the cars back to the hotel, under the still high moon, perfect as the sky is in the West.

The next day it was as she feared, and none of the rest made it out to the mountain, except Ingo, who wanted to get in as much as he could, since he claimed it was better than the skiing in Europe. But he had made plans with a group of ski bums we'd met the first night of our trip, the Kings of the Mountain taking the Prince to the wilderness to test what he was made of. Sylvie went with me down the intermediate slopes, so we could spend the morning together.

“I have finally found something you are not good at,” she said, as we prepared for our final descent of the day.

“I am terrible, but give me a couple of seasons.”

“Maybe I'll give you more than that,” she said. The snow was icy and no longer pristine, but the moon rose cold and high, as the fat red sun sank over the horizon. We kissed before launching off the mountain between the two. Sine and cosine of our daily bread. The sun was still impossible to look at full on as we made our final run down the slope. The moon was bright and irresistible as molten silver. Our blood swelled like the tide when we reached the bottom, where we stood watching until the sun was finally gone, the moon at full height, and the sixty seconds of perfection on the horizon, after the sun has disappeared and you can look at the whole sky and still see as much of the sun as you can bear.

We returned to join the others for dinner. As I waited for Sylvie to change, the telephone rang. It had been three days without it, and the sound jolted me in the deep silence of the countryside. In another day I might have realized I could go without it at all, but I was not away long enough yet and so still addicted to the thing, answering from the daze of habit.

“Hi, Bea,” I greeted her.

“Are you still done with the serious life?” she asked.

“Forever and ever,” I said. “I ran away, and I'm never coming back.”

“I heard something about L.A. Well at least don't forget the way back.”

“I'm out west now.”

“Where?”

“In America. The golden land of opportunity, where we will all make a new life.”

“Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita, mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, ché la diritta via era smarrita.”

“I don't speak Greek,” I said, “only American.”

“Let me help you. It's Dante.”

“Sounds Greek to me.”

“I won't insult you by translating, because I know you'll look it up. Just as I know, when you get tired of all the fun, you'll be back. Just you watch. You'll be back before you even know you left.”

“Why would I ever do such a thing?”

“I still have an assignment for you.”

“Not interested.”

“There was a village razed last week, by the guerrillas you were following in a past life. Everyone was left for murdered. Except the killers went about things in too much of a hurry, you know how mass murderers are, they have no eye for detail, so they never quite manage to kill us all. In the morning there were several people alive who had hidden away in the fields, including one young man who witnessed everything. He was shot, hacked, and thrown into the grave with the others, but bless him he was still alive. When the soldiers had gone, he crawled from beneath all the dead over him in the grave, and later walked five miles, through the night, until daybreak, when he appeared at the medical tent of a refugee camp. He was so bloody with machete cuts, and stricken with absolute fear that the white vest who first saw him thought he was a ghost. But he was alive.”

“Who was behind it?”

“I thought you might go and find out what's going on.”

“Oh damn it, Bea, I can't,” I told her.

“I'll pay hazard rates.”

“It's not compensation enough.”

“Compensation? Since when is that the first thing on your mind?”

“It is what you get to make you forget you are on the losing side of the war. I'm sorry, Bea, but even your highest rates won't make me forget.”

“You've gotten cynical, my dear.”

“Yes, I went into my first war when I was twenty-eight. I was thirty-five when I came out, and by God, I was cynical.”

“It is just a phase you're going through.”

“That part of my life is over.”

“Someone has to bear witness.”

“Yes, and it is someone else's turn. Listen.” I held the phone aloft.

“What am I supposed to be hearing?”

“The sound of quiet. Of quietude.”

“I hear it, honey, but I'm not sure you do. Go on, though, have fun in your new country. Have as much fun as you can bear, and for as long as you can stand it. You deserve that much. Call me when it wears thin, and you're ready to do something meaningful again.”

“I may have found a different meaning, Bea.”

“Yes. I know. You'll get your fill of it.”

“It may take a while.”

“However long it takes you will tire of it, because your standards are too high. At least they used to be. You used to have such beautiful standards, you know that? Too beautiful. Now you're disappointed with the world, because it did not live up to them and prepare something better for us all. So you're burned out, and hard of sight for a spell. You got burned bad is all, and it may take a while to recover. Is that it, honey?”

“Sounds like you know.”

“I do know, and it is also fine if you never go back. But one day, I think, at least it is my hope for you, you'll see how perfect the world is again, even with all its lousy standards, and even if it is full of brutality it forces us to know without succumbing. It's still a perfect place, and you're perfect, and Bill, you remember him? That pompous nitwit? He's perfect too. And Jen, who has no self-esteem even though she is just perfect. Steve is a hopeless lush, and he's perfect. Joe is a sanctimonious boor; Jane is a prude and a snob; Mary had two abortions, and Gil is such an unhappy bastard he has something malignant to say about every man he knows, and every woman not in love with him; and because he is brilliant does not excuse it, but because they are all perfect human beings does. Phil would do whatever he thought he could get away with, if he thought no one was looking, would just rip your throat clear from your neck if it would help him get ahead. Simon thinks the problem with the whole world is he doesn't run it, and boy if he isn't just the answer to a problem none us know we have, poor thing. Leah has nothing at all she believes in, and not a friend left, because she hit on all their husbands. That's just how it goes, and they are all still perfect.”