Samuel R. Kaplan

The Game

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Briseis was the classical beauty of our age, a world-renowned model. When I met her at the Capital City Club, attracted by her beauty but charmed by her light-hearted wit and personality, I fell in love.  So did Vicente. Recognizing our mutual attraction to her, she accepted our offer of a drink by ordering a Vodka Volcano in honor of “My two V’s: Vincente and Vittorio.” Beyond attraction we had shared the common goal of escaping poverty, hers and Vincente's rural, mine urban. We chose similar routes, physical attributes, her beauty and our sculpted bodies.  While accustomed to competition, I did not relish a game like love with fuzzy rules and unbounded playing field.  I had avoided the resume game and the art, the one with limited reward, the other inaccessible to my limited talents. Where I excelled from earliest youth was sport requiring minimal equipment.

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Vincente and I met at age 11, a year after selection for the program. We conspired to glue the saber masters sword into its scabbard. It was not Vincente’s wry smile but my gleeful giggles that exposed us. The severity of the punishment cemented our friendship. We trained seriously thereafter, often sparring with one another until the decision point at age 18 neared.

 

“So, Vincente, are you going to continue to the national tourney in 7 years, or bank the free education and turn elsewhere?”

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“Seven years is a long commitment, my friend, but we have already done more than that. What does a man live for, if not honor, and the glory of victory?” 

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“While my thinking is similar, does it bother you that only one of us can prevail?” 

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“No one prevails in life. We all end in the same tie. Let’s revel in the moments accorded us. Let us aspire to be in the world’s gaze as the World Wide View projects us across the Hypernet of quantum computers to perform as holographs indistinguishable from reality in every stadium and arena worthy of the name on the globe.”

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“You are correct, Vincente, and your words are poetry. Worth remembering as well that all the commerce of tickets and broadcast financed our program as well as the infrastructure, scientific discovery, and social insurance schemes of the nation.”

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“For Glory!” ‘For Patriotism!”

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We embraced, our decisions made.

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As part of a multi-year extravaganza greater than myself, I understand that attending dinners and ceremonies was as much a part of my participation as my training. I prefer training, which I take seriously while making light of myself. I prefer people thinking “Vittorio is light-hearted and entertaining, quick with a joke or a prank, good company, pulling others into adventures and escapades.” I suspect that is what Briseis finds attractive in me.

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Vincente is often seated beside me, our names aligning alphabetically. He is serious in purpose and demeanor, approaching dour, laser-focused on the most minute goal. He enjoys the predictability of ritual, the pomp and ceremony that I disdain. What I find boring, the least of him, Briseis may have found most attractive.

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Throughout history beautiful women like Briseis have been welcomed in places closed to others. Beautiful people attract beautiful people. I enjoy making Briseis laugh and could imagine a lifetime of her laughter. I could imagine Vincente and her sharing a common language of their shared rural upbringings, he beside her at a lifetime of ceremonial dinners each would be attending. It would be difficult for her to choose between us, except she would not have to. 

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Finding time to be alone with her, knowing only one of us could have her, was a challenge to our time and friendship. One more competition in a life of competition. Flattered by the attention, she enjoyed the company of each in different ways. Not knowing how to choose one of us over the other, Briseis delayed. All three of us understood what was happening, enjoying the moment with each other without discussing the situation, the romantic couples and the friendly sparring matches. 

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Despite the love complication Vincente and I remained close friends. We partied together, shared concerns about everything except Briseis, as we had before she entered our lives.

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While I was uneasy about the friendship, mildly concerned we might face one another in the competition, the odds were highly against that, so I pushed it far back in my mind, enjoying the company of my friend, someone who could understand our mutual activities as no one outside the game could. 

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If our friendship had already been close, it was cemented as we left the club one night. Vincente reached out with his powerful arm to pull me out of the path of a compu-taxi, whose new programming turned out to be imperfect. He had saved my life.

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Our Red and Black National Tourney year arrived. The preliminary rounds presented faint challenge. We progressed quickly in different brackets. Briseis attend the competitions of each of us where possible, earning a reputation as a leading fan of the game, without anything more than rumors connecting her to the contestants. 

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Despite my growing concern, I reminded myself that the probability of our meeting remained quite small. The early rounds of the final competition were little different from the preliminary rounds, the focus on training, whether light or dour, proving sufficient for victory.

 

When we both reached the Elite Eight in different brackets, Briseis saw a possible resolution to her dilemma. She discussed it with her agent, who recognized a financial opportunity and developed a contingent marketing plan. The next two contests, near the top of the pyramid, were brutal, lasting far longer than the earlier rounds. Among the Fortunate Four, I slipped on the wet field, saved only by a quick roll to regain my feet and claim victory. 

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When both Vincente and I reached the final round, the two remaining contestants, Briseis and her agent implemented their plan, claiming a share of additional revenue generated by announcing that she would marry the winner of the finals. The next two weeks were a frenzy, sales of tickets, an expanding number of participating stadiums and arenas, an exploding numbers of betting slips.

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I played a separate game internally, pondering how I could save my honor without harming my friend, a friend to whom I owed my life. Despite the mental effort, no answer appeared. I felt defeated by an inability to find the best path forward, unique in my focused quest for success.

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Finalists were kept strictly segregated during the last two weeks to focus on the competition without distraction. By rare chance I spotted Vincente 50 meters away in a tunnel beneath the tournament stadium as we made final preparations. I hailed him and approached. Vincente was less sanguine at the breach of protocol but returned the salute.

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I smiled broadly. “Fifteen years of training, and here we are, old friend. We shall see who was the better student”

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“Whoever was the better student probably had the better teacher.”

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“One thing is clear. Only Briseis is the sure victor.”

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Vincente understood the compliment in response to his own, offering a rare smile. He reached out, grabbing my forearm with the handshake of ancient warriors, released it, and quickly turned away. 

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At noon on the day of the tournament, we appear at opposite ends in of the field, our uniforms pristine, I in the red shirt with black slacks, he in black top and red bottom. Our light-weight weapons of vanadium and titanium alloy shine brightly, reflecting the sunlight of a clear sky, blinding spectators with the reflection. Unable to resolve my internal conflict, I resolve to fulfill my honor. 

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The red and black flags parade onto the field, the anthem plays, followed by the fanfare call to combat of the flag-draped tournament horns, a tribute to jousting of an earlier age.

 

Dignitaries in the climatized box are introduced to the worldwide crowd, as is Briseis who accompanies them, able to watch in comfort as her future reveals its path. 

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We are already sweating beneath an unforgiving sun, the competition yet to begin. The weight of the moment is upon us. Neither of us smiles as we approach one another at the middle of the field. After the command to commence, we lay into it, equally matched, neither able to find an opening or weakness in the other. Deploying alternative weapons by degree, the combat continues as before, passing an hour, the attention of the sun becoming crueler. 

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I consider the outcome in doubt until the 75th minute when Vincente surprised me with a blow I had never seen in our sparring sessions, a turning, slashing leap worthy of an ancient ninja. It finds home on my left side, knocking me to the turf. My dilemma resolved. My smile tinged by mortal grimace, I whisper “Victory and honor.” The last sounds are the approving roar of the crowd as the deep blue sky above fades toward black, my life soaking the ground beneath me with red, soon to match the black of the sky. 

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An American retired to his wife’s native Singapore, Samuel “Sam” R. Kaplan holds graduate degrees in Economics and Russian Studies.  A longtime member of the US Society of Professional Journalists, he has also taught English conversation in France and Italy.  Working as an economist at the University of Virginia Cooper Center for Public Service to produce economic projections, was perfect preparation for his current project of writing fiction. Bienvenue au Danse, Samuel.

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