The Prince of Spades

The Prince of Spades

The quiet tap of the cards stirred me from my own mind and memories. The shuffle-tap, shuffle-tap I had heard so many times before had become so commonplace that it was soothing. It evoked the same feelings as a warm blanket smelling of home or of the warmth of a hand entwined with mine. I looked up and smiled.

The Prince of Spades had played me many times. Sometimes I won. Sometimes he won. But there was always a prize to be won and always a price to be paid. His thin smile stretched the saggy skin of his jowls so that they underlined the bulbous nose beneath which it rested. His rheumy eyes closed in time with one of a hundred familiar melodies he would hum as he prepared for war.

He set the deck down on the table and reached behind him, pulling on a sweater hung upon the high-backed chair in which he sat. He shrugged into it and slowly buttoned the single remaining button just above his navel. His shriveled hands appeared blue in the soft glow of the winking starlight stretched across the darkness above. The skin seemed paper thin, thinner than the stock of the cards they now returned to shuffling.

He finished humming and looked up at me from under bushy, salt and pepper eyebrows. He brought his right hand to his mouth, licked the tips of his thumb and forefinger, and began to deal the cards. Seven cards each in an alternating flow beginning with me and ending with him.

I was an eager player. I would scoop up my cards as they came to me and the reveal of each probably revealed delight or despair with each new arrival. I had liked the way my game plan changed with the addition of each new card. I lived in that moment just before deciding my final strategy.

The Prince of Spades never lifted the cards until he had received all seven. His ritual was the same whether dealer or player. He would never snatch the cards and fan them out before his eyes as I had. He would rest his hand upon them and close those ageless eyes as if making the choice based on intuition. I would never ask him why he always chose spades, or “spathes” as he called them. But he always did, even before seeing what chance had dealt him. And so, like all the other games before, he spoke the single word.

“Spathes” he smiled, showing his yellowing teeth and, taking in a great deep breath, exhaled.

“Diamonds” I replied.

The game was monotonous. It always had been. Since the first time I played the ebb and flow of the game never really changed. The only variation would be the time spent calculating my next step. I only include myself in those variations because the Prince never deviated. With one fluid motion of his hand he would pull, sweep those nimble aged fingers across the fan of cards in his hand, and discard all in one motion.

“It's not your fault.” He said, his eyes never leaving the fan of cards in bis hand.

“It most certainly is.” I said, looking up to meet his eyes.

He was goading me. His eyes never left his cards. He knew however, that mine must. That eye-contact was essential to me. That for me communication was as much in the seeing as it was in the hearing. He used this against me mercilessly, hoping it would distract me and force an error.

“I wish you would let it go.” He said. His words sounded like wisdom, tired and tried.

“Why would I let it go?” I asked as my eyes left his, stopped upon the deck, and then moved back to my fan as I examined the newest addition to my hand.

“You've been troubling over it for a very long time.” The Prince of Spades noted. “It's never brought you joy, just the opposite in fact.”

“I'm trying to play here.” I said with feigned exasperation.

He smiled at that. I could never really tell if I was fooling him or if he was mocking my efforts to do so. His expression never changed very much. He did not show surprise or consternation regardless of the outcome. He might remark upon a hand well played or about the odds of achieving success with such a combination.

Occasionally he would purse his lips, close the fan of his cards, close his eyes, and lean his head back against the soft cushion of the chair. This was an indication that I was taking too long but that he didn't really mind waiting. The reality of it was that sometimes these games went on for what seemed like forever.

I was looking now at the cards in my hand. All diamonds. I tried to remain very calm and keep my face neutral. A sure giveaway that something was going right for me, had my opponent the inclination to open his eyes once again. I looked instinctively up to the blue veined lids and they all at once shot open.

“Is that really the play you're going to make?” He asked me. “After all of this procrastinating, you're going to show your hand?”

“I think it's about time.” I said matter-of-factly, fussing at the corners of the cards so that they made a flipping sound as I ran my hand over their top right corners.

“You're nervous.” He spoke.

It was true. I was nervous each and every time I thought I had won. The Prince of Spades had somehow managed to defeat some of my strongest hands. Today I was more confident than most. The hand was strong. I steeled my will and placed the cards upon the table.

He didn't even look up. He simply sat there for the space of a few breaths. He did not show me his hand, he simply folded his cards into a neat pile, seven cards thick. He placed them upon the table and then knocked upon the top just once to signify his defeat.

“Are you going to call it?” He asked me.

I could hear the concern in his voice. He hid it well, but we had played for so long that I knew it was there. It was no small thing to make this call. He may have conceded, but I had not yet claimed the victory.

“After all this time?” I asked myself. “Are you willing to claim the fault? Finally?”

The Prince of Spades looked at me, watching the internal conflict play across my face. In each wrinkle of my brow or twitch at the corner of my mouth he knew I was measuring the prize versus the price.

“The fault is mine.” I said decisively, claiming the victory.

There was a distant rumble as California slid slowly and calamitously into the sea.

The Prince of Spades sighed, finally breaking a long moment of silence. With a wistful smile he handed me the deck.

“Your turn to deal.”