As though nothing had happened Gerald complained that he couldn’t find a pencil.
‘Use matchsticks.’ Miranda pointed to the fireplace, again as though there had been no scene between them.
Gerald took the box and threw it on the table. ‘Say that each represents five pounds?’
‘I don’t have that sort of money to play with,’ Lucian was horrified.
‘What’s the point? A pound then?’
‘Okay,’ he conceded, knowing what cards he had. ‘But only a couple of hands, and then I’m going upstairs.’
Gerald Kent resumed his chair and lit a cigarette from his own packet. As he exhaled, the smoke wafted in Lucian’s direction and made his eyes sting. In a Pavlovian reflex Miranda took a cigarette from the remains of the mutilated packet in her hands.
The painter stared suspiciously at the cards in his hand:
‘Do you want another?’ he asked Lucian.
Lucian said no and Gerald dealt himself a court card. Immediately he threw down his hand in disgust. Lucian showed him his and Gerald simply threw a matchstick across the table at him.
Gerald dealt once more and lost the hand again. For a while they seemed to win alternate hands although Lucian remained slightly ahead. It was about ten minutes into the game that Gerald decided to raise the stakes to five pounds. His opponent was wanting to go up to Elizabeth so he agreed to two more hands only, calculating that he could lose them both and come out owing nothing.
They started to bet with several matchsticks at a time, and twenty minutes later Lucian was able to triumphantly declare:
‘There, I’ve cleared him out.’
He piled his matches neatly and put the cards on the table between them. He stood to leave and looked expectantly at him.
‘Cleared me out of what? Two hundred and fifty pounds at most,’ Gerald dismissed his success. ‘It’s almost worth loosing if such a small amount makes you happy.’
‘Of course, what’s important is a well-fought battle,’ Lucian suggested. He was about to add a caveat about the usefulness of the money, but Gerald cut in:
‘Well, if it’s not the money, then you won’t mind playing again.’
‘I’m sorry. I’d like to go to bed now.’
Miranda looked up from her book:
‘You can’t do that. You’ve got to give him a chance to win his money back.’
‘It’s not the money,’ Lucian agreed unwillingly.
‘In that case we’ll double the stakes,’ his opponent declared. ‘No, let’s say two hundred and fifty pounds a time. That’ll make life easier.’
‘That’s too much,’ Lucian replied; he did not want to give up the money.
‘You can’t leave the table without letting him have a chance at winning his money back,’ Miranda repeated herself absently.
‘You mean letting him win it back in a single hand?’
Lucian might even have accused Gerald of cheating if Miranda hadn’t seemed to be colluding with the man.
There was no reply from either of them. ‘Alright,’ he surrendered, reluctantly picking up the cards, shuffling and dealing them. ‘But I can’t afford to lose anything at these stakes.’
‘Good, but before that, another drink?’ the artist asked.
‘No thank you,’ Lucian replied firmly this time. ‘I haven’t touched the earlier one. I told you, I’d like to wake in the morning with a clear head.’
Gerald Kent lost, and continued to lose. They silently played more hands than Lucian had intended. To the accompaniment of the house creaking and settling into the cooling night he won hand after hand. Eventually Gerald had one matchstick left and Lucian recommended they give up. The artist still said nothing and dealt yet another hand. He picked up a third card, which was low, and another of the same number. Then he picked up another that was too high.
‘Bastard!’ Gerald exclaimed grimly through the remains of the cigarette between his lips.
‘Are you still losing?’ asked Miranda from the other side of the room.
‘I don’t believe in earning money in a conventional manner,’ he replied. ‘So why should I lose it conventionally?’
‘It’s a pathetic way of losing money,’ Miranda told him.
‘No, you’ve got it all wrong, Miranda, my little philistine. It is the noblest way of losing money. Losing as much as I have takes great skill!’
‘Yes, and he has skill in abundance at the moment,’ Lucian noted, warily calculating how much money Gerald owed him. He reckoned it in the thousands, but had lost count some time ago. ‘I seem to have taken all of his money off him again.’
‘Good,’ said Miranda. ‘He had far too much anyway. I’m ready for bed.’
‘So am I,’ replied the artist, as if indifferent to all that had happened.
‘How much are you down?’ Miranda asked him.
‘Not much. Double or quits on a hand?’ he asked Lucian as though unconcerned at the reply.
They both stared at their guest and he knew that they would deem a refusal as at best impolite.
The hand was played slowly. The artist tapped his foot all through the game, giving away his nervousness.
Lucian was dealt two cards, a king and an ace. It beat Gerald’s eight and ten.
‘Sorry about that,’ he apologised.
‘No you’re not,’ Gerald replied.
‘Yes he is,’ noticed Miranda. ‘And he shouldn’t be.’
‘The same again?’ asked Gerald.
‘No.’ Miranda was annoyed. ‘Lucian’s luck will have to run out at some point. And he’s won that money fairly.’
‘It might last a little longer,’ Lucian said weakly.
‘Double or quits then,’ declared the man. ‘But first I need another drink.’
He arose and walked over to where the port had been. He took up a bottle of brandy and, joking, threatened Miranda with it. He poured out a liberal measure and walked over to where she sat by the fire.
He snatched up the book and tried to read it.
‘Give that back, you bastard.’
He raised an eyebrow:
‘Not until you stop swearing.’
‘Arsehole.’
‘Well, you’re definitely not going to get it back now.’
‘Give it to me,’ she insisted, still sitting. He flicked through the pages:
‘ ‘The Book of Jade’,’ he announced.
‘Give it here,’ she jumped up from her chair and snatched the book back from him. ‘You started that game of cards so you bloody well finish it.’
‘Okay, okay,’ he put his hands up to defend himself in mock fear. He turned back to Lucian: ‘Well then double or quits, if I remember rightly?’
Again the game was played in silence. This time Gerald needed anything other than a court card to win. He turned over a king.
‘Bastard! Again!’
‘I’m going to bed,’ said Miranda, who stayed in the room.
‘Let’s say all the money that you’ve won off me tonight against all the money that I have and will have when my next exhibition is over?’
The next hand was started. Miranda circled around behind both of them.
‘You have a morbid desire to win,’ Miranda decided. The artist did not take up the challenge: he was engrossed in his cards.
Lucian was desperate to lose now and leave: ‘You’ve beaten me,’ he conceded, making a point of ignoring her. He put the cards face down and made to collect up the rest of the deck.
‘No you haven’t!’ Miranda declared, tired. ‘You cheated, you lost that game on purpose.’
Gerald stood up, his face black with anger:
‘You made yourself loose that hand. I’ve never been so insulted. You patronising little shit.’
‘No, I mean I’m sorry. But I can’t take all of your money,’ Lucian replied lamely, cowering in his chair.
Gerald Kent sat down, slowly.
‘We’ll play that one again.’
Lucian won once more. He could not belie
ve that his luck had lasted so long. ‘Let’s play again,’ he insisted, needing to loose.
‘This time it’s all that money against all of my canvasses.’
‘They’re not all yours to give away, are they?’ asked Miranda pointedly.
‘All of the canvases in the house . . . they’re of Miranda, but she doesn’t own them.’
Miranda drew herself up and looked as though she were about to attack him.
‘Do you always paint Miranda?’ Lucian asked, trying to deflect the conversation.
‘I am the only inspiration for his art,’ she said slowly, barely containing her anger. ‘It annoys him, though, because he hates not being given complete credit for his work.’
‘That’s not true,’ the artist protested weakly, distracted by the cards.
‘Of course it is! You’re floating around with you head in self generated clouds of hot air until someone says, “well, if it wasn’t for Miranda, would you be as good a painter?” ’
‘Well, if it makes you happy, dear,’ he insisted.
‘Why don’t you ever try painting anyone else?’ Lucian asked. ‘Or something other than nudes?’
‘He has, but as I said, I’m the only inspiration for his work. Anything else that he tries to paint just comes out worthless.’
He nodded, not having heard. He wanted to get back to the game, as did Lucian whose hands were sweating. The room was beginning to feel airless. He believed that surely he would now loose and they would be where they had been at the start? He dealt the cards, unnerved however, that his opponent was looking even more concerned than he was. The artist would not have normally allowed Miranda to put him down like that.
The hand was played slowly. Lucian had a poor set of cards and decided that despite his previous failure he would play badly. Miranda had not seen his cards this time and could not accuse him of cheating. Unfortunately his opponent’s hand was even worse than his and still he won.
‘My talent then,’ the artist proposed.
‘This is stupid,’ Miranda moved around behind Lucian. This time, he decided, he would play as well as he could, hoping that a change in tactics would stretch his luck beyond breaking. He knew the whole game was pointless. They were just going to continue until he lost a hand and they were quits once more.
However, he won again. The other man said nothing.
‘Well,’ Lucian was embarrassed. ‘That’s everything then.’
‘No, there’s me,’ pointed out Miranda.
‘You’re not my possession,’ Gerald replied
‘That was a nice thing to say,’ she smiled at him. ‘I don’t think that you believe it for a second, but it was a nice thing to say.’
‘I wouldn’t want to own you if you were giving yourself away,’ her partner smiled.
‘The feeling is mutual, my love. So come on, play for me.’
‘Yes, alright, we’ll play for Miranda then,’ Lucian agreed, praying silently that he would lose.
‘This is stupid,’ the artist finally conceded.
‘That’s what we’ve both been saying,’ Lucian insisted. ‘So take back what I’ve won off you.’
‘No way.’
‘Then we’ll keep playing double or quits ’till I loose.’
They proceeded slowly. After one minute’s silence Lucian’s opponent put his cards face down on the table and walked over to the drinks. He picked up the port:
‘Wine can clothe the most sordid hovel in miraculous luxury, and conjure up...’
‘Finish this game,’ shouted Miranda. He poured himself out a glass and continued as he walked back over to the table:
‘And conjure up many a fabulous portico in its red vapour’s gold, like a setting sun in a clouded sky.’
‘Bloody Baudelaire,’ Miranda informed Lucian.
‘None of these things, my dear, equals the poison that flows from your eyes, from your green eyes.’ Gerald picked up the card that he had been dealt. He reacted immediately. He slammed his cards back down on the table and stormed out of the room into the hall. The door slammed shut behind him.
‘He can have it all back,’ Lucian told Miranda. ‘I don’t want it. We’ve all had too much to drink and . . .’
‘We haven’t had nearly enough. And no, you won everything fairly. It’s all rightfully yours.’
‘He must have it back.’ He was talking to himself.
‘No, you’ve got it all now. Don’t get too excited that you’ve won his talent, though. That’s worth very little.’
He was deeply uncomfortable as she stood over him:
‘I don’t want what I won off him tonight,’ Lucian blustered, more upset than Miranda seemed to realize, but she ignored his feelings:
‘What plans would you have for me then?’
He said nothing, feeling completely out of my depth.
‘Oh, just fuck off!’ she shouted at him. Miranda strode over and opened the door to the hall, slamming it shut behind her as the artist had done. Lucian did not move.
Almost immediately there came raised voices from upstairs. He wondered how long he had been playing cards and whether Elizabeth was still awake. He knew he should have gone up to her hours ago, but how could he have left the card game without causing another scene? He wanted to go up immediately but didn’t want to face Miranda or Gerald on the stairs. A minute later they were shouting outside the living-room door and Lucian was afraid that they would come in. He stood up, expectant, but then he heard the front door open. There was a shout and then the door slammed.
And it was quiet. Lucian waited a few more minutes before creeping out and up the stairs. The door to his room opened only a little, but it was sufficient to see that Elizabeth had put a chair in the way. He called to her but she refused to reply. It was very late and he knew that he had stayed downstairs for far too long. He also knew that he would not be able to persuade her to let him in.
Lucian returned to the living room where tiredness and the drink caused his head to swim and he had to sit down. Looking up at the ceiling he could see where the strange arrangement of material was sagging under the weight of some fallen plaster. There was also a massive spider’s web that he had seen earlier that day, but which now had a vast spider sitting in it, surveying its domain.
It had all gone so badly wrong. The rain was now being dashed hard against the windows. A wind had risen and was rushing through the trees outside. He felt miserable and closed his eyes against a dull throbbing at the front of his head.
***
When he opened his eyes again Lucian knew that he had slept, but perhaps not for long. He felt very cold. The front door was opening, admitting an icy rush of wind that found its way immediately into the living room.
‘Miranda? Gerald?’ he called out, but there was no immediate response. Abruptly the lights were thrown on and Miranda swung around the door frame, throwing her coat on to the settee.
‘Ah,’ she greeted Lucian as they both squinted at each other in the bright light. ‘Not upstairs yet?’
‘Well, no. I’d fallen asleep. Where’ve you been?’
‘Out,’ she replied simply, looking around and finding a packet of cigarettes. ‘Making sure he doesn’t come back.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’ve thrown him out.’
‘Oh.’
She looked as though she was in pain. She was very wet and her hair looked black, plastered to her head. When she lit the cigarette her hands were shaking badly. She inhaled gratefully and sat down.
‘Best thing I ever did, of course. I don’t know why I ever took up with the bastard.’
‘Why did you?’
‘Now that’s a good question, and one that I’ve asked myself countless times.’ She drew in the smoke once more and then let it out, kicking off her muddy shoes. ‘Inertia, probably. Gerald was older than me, and when I first met him he seemed exciting and fun and clever and all those things I later found he wasn’t.’ She sat down on the edge of the sofa, shaking with cold, an
d Lucian could see the water soaking into the material where she sat, and dripping off her onto the floor.
‘You should see him sketch out a figure on canvas and you’ll see that he can be inspired. Gerald was once full of wonderful ideas. Now he’s successful and embittered. We’ve grown apart, though we’ve been together so long we’ve grown together.’
‘I don’t understand.’
She had to wipe the water from her face where it ran down from her bedraggled hair into her eyes. ‘Love is many things,’ she said, tired and bored. ‘It’s never had much to do with sex. I suppose the highest form of love was when we walked together. When we were chatting, or even lost in out own thoughts. Then we would merge into one. We walked into each other until we’re half way inside of one another. It’s like we were superimposed.’
He frowned: ‘I still don’t understand. And you’re using the past tense.’
‘I know I am. I told you, I’ve thrown him out. I’ve got rid of him. He’s dead to me.’
‘What did you mean, “superimposed”?’
‘That once upon a time flesh merged, but it wasn’t sex. We got so used to each other that we did everything without even bothering to communicate. We walked to the left, out of the door, and up the stairs. We went into a shop, bought things, but not once did we talk, discuss what to do next.. . .’
‘I don’t think I’d put it so morbidly.’
‘No? Then how would you put it?’ she said sarcastically.
‘Well, you just get to know a person after a while. Is familiarity such a bad thing?’
‘No,’ Miranda admitted, shaking her head. ‘That would be alright. That I could put up with.’
She got up and walked to the table with the bottles of drink and poured herself a small measure of whisky. The back of her dress was muddy, and she had left a dark wet stain on the settee. Lucian declined her offer of a glass and recommended that she really ought to go and get herself dry. She nodded and downed her drink in one mouthful. Instantly she grimaced and grasped her stomach. Steadying herself against the table she retched. When he moved to help her she waved him away, then looked around for the packet of cigarettes.
‘No, I know what you mean, but we weren’t like that,’ Miranda leant uncomfortably against the wall. ‘We walked together, his arm around me and slowly my arm pushed its way into him. His flesh opened up.’
Bloody Baudelaire Page 2
