King's Table

The light danced shades of warm and cold on the walls as the lamp swayed slightly in a gust of wind from the open door. The room was cool, damp and anonymous. Hidden far underground. The walls monotonous. He saw the flickering red dots; aware of the recording. In the center of the room stood a round table. Four chairs, four fellow sufferers. They all lived on the promise of profit; of redemption; of ideas of lives unknown to them, carefree days. Until then, they were there, balancing on the hyphen between beginning and end. His hands were clammy. The wet sweat of fear between his fingers, drops big as pearls rolling over the taut skin of his ribs. His legs on autopilot. The four helmets guided them with their leather hands planted stiffly on their shoulders, they moved him and the others to their chairs and disappeared silently into the darkened corners of the room. Shrouded in shadow. Only visible the fleeting glimmers of reflected light on the visors. He did not dare to look and kept his gaze on the table in front. He had already seen his name. Engraved in the iron box which lay before him.

 “J.E. Cabos”

The others also held their hands underneath the table. Cabos” hands were clenched tightly on his knees. Only when he noticed the absence of the other hands did he notice the tension in his fingers. He let go of his knees and immediately felt the soreness. He smiled briefly. The strangeness of the situation had suddenly dawned on him. He knew he could no longer change anything. It was not a day for backtracking, he could only go forward.

Involuntarily he tapped his thumb and middle finger together, a remnant of army times, each tap one hour, twenty-four taps in a day, one hundred and sixty-eight taps make a week.

 “Remember as you write, start at the beginning, and you won”t forget anything,” his Commander once said.

Tap, tap, tap. Thirty-two.

He envisioned the man. Monday to Tuesday night. Be precise, he reminded himself. You want to know this if you get out of here. A little after four. You were in the bar that night. Why was it a little after four? How do you know? The man? Did he ask for the time? Yes? Yes! That was it. Go on. Back to the man. What felt right—what didn”t? Something about the time again? Did he not have a watch himself? He did—didn”t he? Why ask for the time then? A conversation starter, so he knew me. Yes. Stupid! You could have thought of this way sooner! Too easy to get carried away like – DON”T DO IT!

The man opposite of Cabos suddenly rose from his chair, but long before he stood straight the ice-cold click of the cocked hammer echoed through the room. Cabos instinctively turned away, waiting for the bang and the smell of gunpowder. The smell of iron and burning tissue and the dull thud as the body hit the ground. Yet, none of these things happened. Time crawled by anonymously. The chair creaked again. Cabos turned his head and saw the man had taken his seat again. The engraved box which had been in front of the man had disappeared. Minutes passed. Sounds in the dark corner behind the man. His guard returned his box. When he placed the iron on the table the contents rattled, ting-ting, two of them.

Cabos felt the temptation to touch his own box but the fear of doubling the possible singular contents held him back.

Tap, tap, thirty-four.

Out of the bar and into the streets. He could smell the strange air, this city was not his, these were not his streets. A car stopped in front of them. French plates, thirteen. Marseille. How far could I go in an hour, at that hour? Into the mountains? It was possible.

            The door opened. A dark silhouette floated between quay and ship. Water and the quay of light and the ghostly middle road where the shadow reigned. The person turned, and the door closed before the light could reveal the mystery and the room returned to its heliocentric state.

Another hour passed. The door opened again, faster this time. An older man dressed in a light beige suit appeared. Cabos heard him whispering in French to one of the guards. Then he revealed himself in the rim of light. He was balding. The little hair he had left was thin and sun-bleached so white it looked as if there was a layer of fog floating on his head. He began in English.

 “Dear Sirs and Madam,” his voice was serene, “today we are playing a King”s Table. That is to say; we will not concern ourselves with the possibility of other cards, the King as autocrat, so to speak.” He smiled briefly, his too-white teeth flashing. “In the game there are six aces, six kings, six queens and two jokers. I assume you are familiar with the rules?”

The man to Cabos”s right raised his trembling hand.

“Mr. Borges?”

“I- I don”t…”

“You do not what?”

“I don”t know the rules…” he admitted.

The man smiled, his fearsome white teeth showing again. There was no trace of pity in that smile. He clicked his tongue before he started talking again, “the rules are simple Mr. Borges, there are twenty cards in the deck and four players. The pot is divided and then the person to the left of the dealer starts the game. All cards are kings according to the players, according to the King”s Table, in fact, only the kings and jokers are playable. If someone is caught lying, then there is a penalty,” he nodded briefly at the box in front of Borges, “is that clear?”

Borges nodded, but it was clear to everyone in the room that it was not.

Perhaps it was out of respect for the players, perhaps out of respect for himself, but the game leader fanned out the deck to prove that all the promised cards were actually in the deck. He then gestured for all the players to open their boxes. Cabos” courage sank, he had long since figured out what was in the box, but when he saw the gold-shining casing he knew what kind of game was about to be played. The bullet tapped happily against the edges, around him, he heard the sound of the others, and he thought of the man opposite him who had already disadvantaged himself before the game had even started. Suddenly, he saw the guards started to move. They left their dark corners and joined up right behind the players. He heard the heavy breathing of his fallen angel. With four synchronized claps, the revolvers were laid on the table. Cabos swallowed hard. Six-cylinder magazine, once loaded, the chance is one in six.