"She's insisted? Who's in charge here?"
"It's true, I could have overruled. You are of age, and in our
care. But frankly, Mr. Papp, I feel this moratorium you've imposed is somewhat cruel. Your
mother needs some reassurance presently. Why deny it to her?"
He paused to weigh the advantages, and especially the disadvantages, of
his mother's incarnation as the Black King's Queen. For instance, she might pose a threat
to his continuing with The Game. It was she, after all, who had chosen St. Francis. It was
she who paid the fees. So it was she who could determine of her son would stay or
leave—thus underscoring another liability of Julian's eccentricities.
He had always refused to play for money. He had also refused to do
anything but play. Therefore, he was financially dependent on his mother, who had, in
this, indulged him absolutely.
"How much contact have you had with Mother Dear?"
"She telephones."
"Often?"
"Yes."
"Daily?"
"Not quite."
"And what's your diagnosis?"
"That would be presumptuous."
"You contradict yourself, Ms. Zoe. You've deigned to act
'therapeutically' where she's concerned; you must have come to certain conclusions about
her mental health—or lack thereof."
"Julian, your mother…"
His scowl reminded her of his insistence on "Mr. Papp."
"Oh, stop that! We know each other well enough to drop the
formalities, don't you think?"
"No, I don't. I know almost nothing about you."
"Only because you haven't asked."
"And regardless of all your copious notes, I doubt that your idea
of me is all that comprehensive. Especially if you've been listening to my mother."
"Admittedly, you remain something of an enigma."
"So?"
"So it is high time that you let down your defenses, opened up a
dialogue that's sincere. Your mother wants to take you home. I wasn't able to convince her
that you weren't ready. I'm not sure I'm convinced of that myself. How do you feel, really
feel?"
"It's too soon."
"Which means you're still disturbed about some things. What
things, Julian?"
He might well have asked himself what a longer stay would accomplish.
What was he doing there? Why did the thought of leaving stir a minatory dread? But
he did not ask. Instead he gave priority to The Game.
The nun somewhat softened her tone.
"Tell me about 'the meadow.'"
He tensed. He must be cautious here. Once before he had tried to
articulate that all-pervasive consciousness. He had been
misunderstood—disastrously—his metaphors dissected with a clinical precision
that undermined his faith in what they pictured.
"Timelessness. It's more than that, but I know my meadow is
outside time."
"Why is that important?"
"If you played tournament chess you'd know. The time clock is a
player's most relentless enemy—or ally, if he knows a way to nullify its power. I
knew how. While my opponents were sweating out the minute hand, I was somewhere
else."
"Can you describe it?"
"No."
"Yet you call it a 'meadow.'"
"A meadow in the sense that it represents a kind of
clearing."
He studied her reactions carefully before continuing.
"If somehow you were able to peel away your outer skin and feel
things as your body did the moment it was born, that would give you some idea of the
sensitivities there. A breath becomes a breeze. The air has texture. Thoughts are passed
by touches, not through words."
"It isn't a lonely place, then?"
"No. No, it's the only un-lonely place I've ever known.
Someone is there, a presence unlike my own… feminine, but kindred. It/she gives me
something I can't explain, something I carry with me when I go back to the game. A kind of
clarity."
"But this place, in itself, has nothing to do with chess?"
"Nothing. Except whatever it is finds chess a sympathetic medium.
But no, it isn't chess. It's even beyond winning."
"Winning isn't the most important thing to you?"
"It's not an issue; I never lose. Not when I'm in touch."
"And if you did?"
"I don't."
There was a pause. Much of what he revealed had not occurred to him
before.
"Thank you, Julian."
"For what?"
"For trusting me. For helping me to understand. I won't pretend I
do yet, not fully, but you've given me at least a sense of the loss you feel you've
suffered. Haven't you experienced even a glimpse since the onset of the seizures?"
"No. From aura, to fit, to nightmare; that's been the progression.
What do you suppose is next; insanity?"
"I doubt that. Not if we can talk about it, try to think it
through."
"And what about my mother?"
"I'll ask her to delay."
He was satisfied. Chances still looked good for White. In his mind, the
shadow of his hand reached toward the board.
