The cards had been thumbed so thoroughly that many had lost corners and their edges were faded and watery, but he liked the feel of them in his hands, matte and pliable. He dealt. The thing about this particular variation of patience was that it forced you to think. Sometimes he might stare at a configuration for some minutes before finding a pattern, or drawing from the stock, and often there was no way out. As a boy this had frustrated him, and even more recently, at the start of his exile, it was tough to muster the will to let the solution come to him, or to realize there was no solution at all, that he’d dealt a bad game. Meaning, of course, a static one, on which you couldn’t impose any sense of order. This was a conclusion he’d come to lately, that there really wasn’t such a thing as a bad game, because the process of play was what mattered, and whether you won or not was only a question of variability. If there was such a thing as a bad game, though, that was what he’d dealt. He was maybe a quarter through the stock already and had only uncovered a couple of aces by the time someone knocked on the door and the General said to come in.
Entering, Deluca was all matted black curls and long face, glass eye squeaking disconcertingly in its socket, unable to quite keep up with the movement of its owner’s head. He carried a small paper and twine-wrapped package under his arm. As always his uniform was somewhat disheveled, as in trousers untucked from boots, as in mismatched buttonry. But the General wouldn’t scold another man’s solider for his dress, as much as he’d like to. Deluca had the habit of grinning with every muscle in his cheeks, like he was constipated or something, and he did this now seeing the General hunched over his game of patience. “This again?” His voice was all skin and bones, a breathy whistle.
The General nearly smiled but didn’t. “Hullum told that you had a message.”
“Said,” corrected Deluca.
“Yes, he said so.”
“It’s more of a gift, really,” said Deluca, foisting the package with what seemed to the General an unnecessary flourish. “Voila, mon commandant!” He set it on the table where the vacant foundations had yet to be placed and leaned back with a beam. The General didn’t admonish him for addressing him wrongly; already his tacit chastisement of the sergeant that morning seemed foolish and out of order.
“What is it?” he asked. The monthly shipment must have come in from San Lucia, maybe yesterday, maybe this morning. It unnerved him that he’d lost track of the days like that.
With a touch of good-natured impatience Deluca said, “Well open it!”
The General gingered his fingers underneath the twine and pulled. The wrapping was stiff enough with wax and salt that the whole thing just about sprang open to reveal a wooden box that professed in ornate stamped lettering to contain ten packs of handmade Ptolemy playing cards. God knew how much someone had paid for these. The box itself was ornately crafted as well, jointed immaculately at the corners and painted with little abstract, angular designs. Even the brass latch was fashioned into the shape of a shell, its texture undulous to the touch. For some reason this brought to mind the palaces and mansions he’d lived in even as a boy, since his parents too were members of the court. Every silk sheet and high-collared shirt and handmade toy soldier he’d ever owned, every imported cigar or pen or piece of china, every commissioned portrait, every unearned badge and title. He wanted to be grateful, elated even, at the sight of the box, he wanted to envision the crisp cards inside, but all he felt was a sort of vague disgust. It must’ve come across on his face because Deluca faltered somewhat, lips twitching. “Don’t you like it?”
Quickly the General put on a tired smile. “Yes, in fact,” he said, unclasping the box, examining the rows of brightly painted packages. “It is an admirable thing.”
If he expected Deluca to react favorably he was disappointed. The lieutenant’s face fell even more, one eye flicking away while the other remained focused on the General, who kept up a neutral expression despite his unease.