Calvin Baker - Grace

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.”