Naja Aidt - Rock, Paper, Scissors

“Me?”

“Yes, you!”

“I don’t know any poems.”

“Of course you do. I guarantee you memorized some lines in school.”

Alice bites her lip. “Any kind of poem?”

“Yes,” Luke says. “Any kind.”

How goddamn poetic of him, Thomas thinks. The schoolmaster of poetry. A schoolmaster in every form of poetry . He feels laughter bubbling in his throat, rising, but he restrains himself, because now all goes quiet. Alice begins earnestly and stutteringly to recite: “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall / Humpty Dumpty had a great fall / all the king’s horses and all the king’s men / couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again.”

“Oh!” Helena says excitedly. “No! I’ve completely forgotten what that is.”

“Well, it’s not really a poem,” Alice says shyly.

“It’s a rhyme,” Luke says. “Is it the same guy who wrote Alice in Wonderland ?”

“Lewis Carroll? No,” Kristin says.

“I don’t know who wrote it. I just remember it from when I was little.”

“Then you don’t get any points,” Luke says.

“Yes, she does!” Kristin shouts, “Nobody’s guessed the writer yet.”

“That’s because it’s an age-old nursery rhyme,” Thomas says, “and nobody knows who wrote it. It’s probably been passed down via the oral tradition.”

“It was in one of my books when I was a kid,” Patricia says. “I can still remember the illustration of the egg-shaped creature in the tree. It wore suspenders and had a strange hat.”

“It’s called ‘Humpty Dumpty,’” Alice says softly.

“Five points to Alice!” Kristin’s animated now. “Otherwise I’ll veto.”

“You can’t do that,” Luke says sternly.

“Call it a draw, at least. C’mon Luke,” Alice chides. “I don’t want minus points.”

“Can you get minus points ?” Kristin is genuinely perturbed.

“No,” says Luke. “You can’t get minus points.”

“Come on then, Luke. Give her a point. This is only a parlor game,” Thomas says. “And she knew the title. You’re cheating!”

Luke regards him, irritated. “Of course the player should know the title of the poem she’s reciting.”

“I don’t entirely understand why you have to,” Kristin says. Luke makes a decision then, it’s clear, and he does an about-face like some other Humpty Dumpty. He smiles. “Fair enough. Five points to Alice.”

Alice cheers. They pour more tequila. Helena goes off to the kitchen for olives and salted almonds. “But who is Humpty Dumpty?” Alice says, gulping her drink. She spreads out on her stomach, exposing a strip of skin between her T-shirt and jeans. “Who the hell is Humpty Dumpty? How bizarre!” She laughs so hard she begins to cry, her shoulders heaving. “A dumb little egghead.”

“It’s Maloney!” Thomas shouts, suddenly very drunk on tequila. “It’s Maloney sitting in a tree waiting for someone to rescue him.”

“And his savior’s Jenny !” Patricia practically howls, kicking off her sandals so she can tuck her legs beneath her on the couch.

“Jesus Christ, now I can taste that fucking worm!” Thomas jiggles the bottle and breaks into laughter, and thinks of that Blade Runner quote about memories that will disappear like tears in the rain, and that’s not at all funny, it’s a deep, deep well, and under the well: darkness, death, but if he stays out of the well, it’s fun. There’s Maloney as Humpty Dumpty, there’s Luke — and for crying out loud, his real name is Luc , he recalls, Luc and not in any way Luke, it’s a goddamn pantomime to call him Luke just because fucking Jacques did— he , Luc, is the Schoolmaster of Poetry , and everything’s funny: a glance at Kristin, the laughter rolling off their lips, Alice shaking and drooling as she lies there on her stomach. “What’s going on?” she gasps. She finally gets up on all fours, turns, red-faced, her eyes glazed. Luke pinches his lips impatiently before raising his voice, “Are we going to keep playing? Alice, who do you pick?”

“Ah! Why am I so drunk all of a sudden?” Kristin looks as though she’s fallen off the moon. They laugh at that too.

“Who do you pick, Alice?” Luke asks again, annoyed.

“I pick Helena,” Alice nearly whines. And Helena can’t help but smile; it takes a long time before they settle down.

“Okay,” Helena says. After drinking water from her green glass, she takes a deep breath.

“Sorry, but I need to light a cigarette,” Thomas says.

But Thomas ! You can’t do that.” Helena looks shocked.

“Sure he can,” Kristin says. “What are we, Calvinists?! Give me a drag.”

And so it continues. They pass the cigarette around, and then it’s Helena’s turn to recite. “This genre means a lot to me. It’s part of my meditation. It’s connected to my work at the loom. To the images. To harmony and disharmony.” She glances at the others through the semi-darkness, meeting their eyes, while her own smolder and glow. Her beauty is a rare flower, Thomas thinks, a passion flower, gone quickly, until it blooms again, a new flower, ephemeral and unforgettable. Now I’m thinking these thoughts, he thinks, surprised. What kinds of thoughts are they, passion flowers, rare beauty —from Humpty Dumpty to unforgettable . Meanwhile Helena goes on: “I don’t know if you understand what I’m saying, but the tapestries represent, for me, the expression of a lifelong act, a slow and rather humble act, but one that’s totally spontaneous and unforeseen, deeply expressionistic, the byproduct of a single unruly movement or thought.” Helena stares at a point above their heads, her face inscrutable. “It’s probably the closest I’ll ever come to eternity,” she says, her eyes darting to Alice and rousing her. Alice and Patricia seemed to have zoned out during her long monologue. Patricia’s lying with one arm over her eyes.

“But what poem are you going to recite?” Alice asks sleepily, staggering to the coffee table and scooping up a handful of almonds. She pops them into her mouth.

“Right. Okay. Listen. .”

“Haiku,” Luke interrupts tensely, leaning forward in his seat. “You’re talking about haiku.”

“You’re a very bright young man,” Helena says following a brief pause. She smiles warmly at him. “But do you also know the poet and the publication year? That’s the question, after all, as I understand it.”

“You don’t get any points for guessing the genre,” Patricia says, shifting her arms from her face to the crown of her head. “You didn’t say anything about that anyway.”

“No, I know” Luke says defensively, “I just knew it was haiku.”

“Luke’s so smart he doesn’t need his head,” Alice giggles.

“Listen to Helena!” Kristin can’t help but shout.

And Helena recites her poem: “ Midfield, / attached to nothing, / the skylark is singing .”

“That was short,” Alice says, lifting her eyebrows.

“It was beautiful. Beautiful!” Kristin, still boisterous, pats Helena’s thigh.

“Learning that kind of poem by heart would be easy, I think,” Alice says, rubbing her head.

“It’s Basho,” Luke says. “1644–1694.”

“What do you mean by that?” Thomas stares at Luke’s pale, rapt face.

“That’s correct.” Helena smiles at Luke. “It’s the year of his birth and his death. He died in 1694. Basho’s probably Japan’s most important haiku poet. You could say that he invented the form.”

“What kind of bullshit is that?” Alice mumbles.

“What you recited reminds me of Buson’s most famous poem. The one with the temple bell.” Luke leans back in his chair. “Do you know it?”