he
cold bit cruelly as Julian strode across the common. He ignored it. The match, the Royal
Game, had taken precedence again—its outcome imminent. He knew this next move was
likely to be the last—if only he could steel himself to see it. No seizures now. His
senses must stay absolutely clear. The pills! His step faltered. Had he taken them?…
Yes, swilled down with his morning coffee. His brisk pace resumed.
Melanie, having returned from lunch, was going through her drawings.
She had them carefully arranged—her farewell gifts—all around the room: Sisters
Zoe, Dana, Deborah, and Morgan, Mrs. Lowry, Mrs. Soames, and Mr. Jimmy, her six
self-portraits crowned by various coiffures, the sketches of Julian in all of his guises,
and finally Benjamin—the Miniature Man—Benjamin, her long-lost friend.
Odd that he had come back into her life. He had owned the shop beneath
their old apartment in the city, before she and her family had moved away. The hours the
two of them had spent together, the wondrous fun! All her fondest childhood memories
seemed drawn from times with him—dear, sweet, gruff, old Benjamin. Then one morning
he was gone—died in his sleep, her parents told her—though, at the time, she
found their explanation unconvincing. For Benjamin had promised her that he would be her
friend for always. "For always never ends or dies," he had said.
"So you’ve revived."
She spun around.
"Julian!"
He was standing in the doorway staring. Her first reaction was to cover
up her work. But that was useless; he had already seen. In fact, he stood right beside the
drawings she had done of him. She might as well just let him look, let him choose his
present for himself.
Then she saw what he was holding.
"Hey, that’s mine!"
She rushed to reclaim her journal.
"Here."
He gave it back.
"How could you!"
"Easy; you weren’t here."
"And so you stole it?"
"Borrowed. I haven’t even read it."
"Ha, I’ll bet."
She turned the pages, as if scanning them for his fingerprints.
Meanwhile, he continued his sidelong appraisal; she seemed strange.
Something in her nature betrayed a subtle alteration. What? A sketch arrested his
attention before he could decide.
"This is wonderful."
Melanie stopped her fussing.
"What is?"
"You’re quite good."
Stunned, and not a little flattered, she put aside her journal to join
him, as he made a pensive tour about the room. His focus was divided—half directed to
the work, half to its author. He paused.
"Who’s this?"
"That’s Benjamin. You don’t know him."
He studied her closely.
"Hm. The gatekeeper?"
"Who?"
"The whatdidyoucallhim, the Miniature Man?"
"Uh huh."
She seemed unfazed. He had read her journal, every last word
of it—just as he had memorized her file. More than that, the dream had taught him (in
upsettingly grim detail) about the rape. And toward his own ends, he had used it, used it
all, regardless of its impact on this girl—whose gaze was now a mirror for his…
whose mind, at last, had shed its austere guard… whose heart was opening, reaching
out, inching closer, closer, closer. Mentally Julian wrenched away; physically he did not
move. The portraits on all sides seemed to hold him prisoner. From the corner of his
shielded eyes he watched their faces watching… mute indictments… The Game, his
precious Game, the crime of which he stood accused.
Then, eerily, the charcoaled lips began to mouth reproofs:
Julian.
Julian?
J u l i a a a a a n.
The portraits called, each voice a breathy whisper.
You’re very clever, Mr. Papp. But are you bright?
You’re evil, Julian. Evil.
What gives you the right to yell at me?
Of what are you afraid?
… evil, Julian. Evil.
People who make fun of other people are just covering up for what they
don’t like in themselves.
Don’t let conceit deprive you of a helping hand; we all can use
one every now and then.
… evil, Julian. Evil.
I’ll beat you at this game some day.
You’ll never beat me, Marcy.
Why do you want to end your life?
You’ll never beat me…
… evil…
The smears of black and white increased their contrast—blacker,
whiter—then formed ranks, straight rows of alternating squares. Figures crept from
left and right and took up their positions, as pawns, Rooks, Bishops, Queens, and the
rival Kings—the Knights stood clear, as did six pawns, four white, two black—the
early casualties—expendable—in a contest wherein victory was all. The
seconds ticked. The board revolved… upon its pedestal… above the void… an
empty plane… or a plateau that stretched to infinity… or rather to the
horizon—sun-bleached, shimmering, vaguely visible in the distance, not so distant,
drawing near, revealing earth and grass and tree and leaf and cloudless sky… wind
breathing soft gentle meadowscents and meadowcolors walking (touch me touch me) passing
through the air molecules of air pulsebeat footfall time adrift
(Melanie) yes (touch me hold my hand) the meadow smiling as we walking floating reaching
touch to touching palm to palm two palm prints pressing lines whose fates conjoined
inscribe the way so clear so clear so clear
Of course.
