ZGo and love - 7. His arm is hot

Luke had rented out the lounge area for receiving guests to Miranda and then later rented the garage begrudgingly to Robert, who was desperate for cheap accommodation on the west side. While Robert was content with the private dark, dank garage, Miranda grumbled about the compact florescent lightening and its unnatural whiteness, the cold tile floors, hemispherical windows that took over an entire wall, looking over the scorched earth lawn outside. Despite her reservations, Luke was deaf to any suggestions of renting Lisa’s or his sister Carly’s old bedroom.

Then on a Tuesday evening around eight PM when he was about to leave for the go club, he exited his cavernous room and noticed at the end of the hallway, the crack of dim light leaking from Carly’s door. Yawning, he slugged to close the door, and then finding inside, a top-heavy figure in blue testing the bed, her severe face looking elongated with the long vertical shadows cast by the slat blinds.

The trail of cinnamon burned in his throat; he coughed lightly.

“Oh, you scared me,” Miranda said insincerely. “This room is just perfect when my son comes to visit. He doesn’t like the lounge much. Say, I’ll give you an extra fifty bucks in rent to let me use it sometimes.”

Her words were the aether permeating the willowy shadows rustling over the purple polka dots blotting the walls. Luke fingered his throat as if it could bring relief to the stinging in his throat, and Miranda traipsed around the purple headboard, pawed the dolls gay in Victorian dress on the bed, (creepy-looking but could be quaint), peered over the pastel gallimaufry of trinkets on the desk (I know someone who could use these… Doesn’t look like you’ll be using it), then picking up Carly’s portrait and saying adoringly over the brunette curls, “You two related?”

Stinging became scalding, and he walked over rigidly to her and calmly took away the picture. She emitted a vague snort, those little discomforts intended to show offense at his temerity at disdaining friendly gestures. But it was all forgiven with a little dilating of the eyes, a priming of a smile, and she said, “No one’s using this room. I think an extra fifty bucks is good enough.” Luke stared at the tight crow’s feet crowding her temples, and the gunky spikes of mascara, but his mind was drawn down to his throat, down the constricting Via Dolorosa. “Maybe not, the room’s a little dark for him …” her tingly voice strained into a whimper, and she slunk around the haggard palmtree of Luke, “Woops, it’s past eight, I should call my Jake and tell him good night... yeah please don’t play that weird game around him. I’m afraid he might think the pieces are candy and swallow them. Well… go to go.” And the click-clack of her sandals was trotting hastily down the hall.

As soon as Luke heard the distant echo of a door banging, he swooped down to sight on the hardwood floor—sheared half-moon prints of dust? Dead skin cells? Sebaceous oils? A strip of confetti? Mom wouldn’t like that. His throat bathed in acid now, he scurried to the janitor closet by the kitchen door and took out a mop and cleaning towels. He dashed back to Carly’s room, commenced a deep clean of the dark-stained floor, the beige blinds, the desk varnished with purple, the pyramid of portraits on the dresser. And a madly interrupting the silence of his rituals to penance, his phone rang. He answered it; his hello was crazed and breathy.

“It’s Cindy… You sound a little strange… It’s nine thirty… are you still coming to the club? We’re going to try later, can you believe it, Filipino tacos?”

Cindy’s voice sounded distorted as though through a low-pass filter, inflicting a tight arch of discomfort in Luke’s shoulders. He looked about in the decaying ivory hue, for reason’s fundament in the electronic stream. But the words were the wind, the wind flinging the lone slat blind, and over the poster of an underdressed teenage icon, the shadows swinging in with the wightly wind. And there on the glossy rounded bedpost, the attractor of ghostly retribution, a half-thumb smudge. Mom wouldn’t like that.

“Hello?”

Luke turned off the phone and attended to Lisa’s demands.

***

The rest of the week unfolded to mania, classes, mania. As the Friday hours bled red then grey, he paced the narrow way between Lisa’s bed and the slatted wall of blinds, opened the blinds, closed it, fell upon the bed then abruptly leaped off it and engaged in an orgiastic ritual of straightening the cool lilac sheets; his glance fell randomly on the turquoise-studded urn on the bedside table, and he, violently jerking, squeezed his eyes shut to avoid its reproachful sight. The echoes of slippers clacking, the blender whirring, the calm-as-stone deliberations of Robert on the phone, the day and its spent promise and failed light, receded away beyond the ken of the room yawing and rolling in the sea of Lisa’s groans. Midnight came upon him with surcease, and with the sudden thought to call Hao to cancel his Saturday lesson.

And then came the next Tuesday evening at eight thirty pm, a call from Hao opened with a hot sauce of disappointment, “Get down here, you lazy tart!” Luke cradled his head and his mind segmenting on the word of ‘tart’, rotated it for its variegated shades of meaning but ending up with ‘tart’ as in an apple tart. Hao, puncturing his ruminative balloons, said, “Are you slacking off on me already?” Luke, at his bedroom desk, twirled his pencil, possible replies ghosting his mind. He had had a productive day: Class in the morning, a few hours of tsumego, a few hours poring over baroque musical scores for the cello. The receiver belched a growl, “Who else is going eat these cookies I made?” Given his ramen noodle breakfast and lunch, Luke thought he could allow himself a sugary dinner. Mom would allow him that much, one per day though.

When he arrived at the café: open laptops and little boats of coffee, heads bent into another giggling over Shih Tzus, the tsunami wave of chili aroma rolling from beyond behind the counter, behind the linen-white open doorway.

Around Luke were the elongated bones with fish eyes, ears deaf to one another, hearts blind to one another. He could hear over a woman chattering over a phone, Hao’s strident lecture about go’s tonic against the aging mind. He itched and drew apprehensively to the table colored with more affable hues, and on nearing closer, was relieved to see Zoë’s golden head bopping impatiently over a game against a small-looking Brett. He took a grateful seat next to her, avoided eyes and hellos, and stared on the game.

The game cranked wheels of calculation. Who had more territory? Which groups were weak? Which groups were strong? Which group could be attacked? Which area could be invaded? Zoë played her move, Brett sighed amiably, Luke withheld judgment, re-cranked wheels.

He gathered the courage to descry in the incandescent glimmer across his table to Hao looking unapproachably professorial over a nest of student chicks. Luke wondered, somewhat disquietingly, how it felt like to be him, to be a guarantor of certainty and wisdom. Hao looked rather stolid and assuring in a Christmas green suit. Definitely more Hao-like and pleasing than the cowboy shirt from before. And the rimless glasses, Luke crossed his legs, musing, he had not seen Hao wear glasses before. He could not decide if they lent a serious studious air or a veneer of pawkish unease.

Cindy took control of the empty in front of him, her lips carmine red and thin in a smile. “Hey there. How are you?” Before Luke could register draw a decision tree to determine an answer, she shifted abruptly, flew a pointed finger into the air. “Wait, wait. Just give the short version.”

Luke took over the bowl of white stones, swallowed, said, “I’m fine. And you?”

“Oh good, I was worried for a second. I’m stupendous, thank you. I passed my biochem test with a shining B minus. Whew! I had to pull an all nighter for that.”

“You lazy tart!” Hao bellowed from his self-made lectern. “B minus how’s that good?”

“Man, oh man, you sound like my Dad.” Cindy’s cheeks squished disgustingly.

Luke was still grounded by the term ‘pull an all nighter’ when Hao, a velvet red tin in hand, strode to his table. Hao opened the tin releasing the smell of cookies, which warmed the air, returned a fresh pallor to Cindy’s brow.

Her mouth full, she said, “These are good. Ricardo made these?”

Hao dropped his head, said low, “No. I did.”

“Hmm. I figured you’re too full of go and grumpiness to bake anything.” She smoothed back the brown curtains of her bob, and a big officious smile carved her face. “So, do we get to have a party in your house soon?” Brett wakened from the deep thought on his game and added his own rejoinder, explicating his wife’s sudden fancies for Ricardo’s fish tacos.

A prickly air spun around Hao as he rotated the tin, then on glimpsing Luke’s etched presence, shifted the tin towards his elbow on the table. “So my cookies are the only reason you’ll come to the club now?” But Luke looked at the skin pooling in Hao’s lower eyelids, the caved-in lips, the space between the lens and eyelash… Hao said louder, “Have your cookie, will you?”

“Sorry sir,” Luke said, taking one. After submerging himself in the flour and the sugar and the creamy taste of peanut butter, he emerged satisfied.

Hao smiled to himself the pride of a job done. “You might as well as give me the long version of how you’re doing.”

“I’m not so sure I want to listen to the long version.” Cindy helped herself to another cookie. “Next time make snickerdoodles. I like those.”

“Why don’t you bring us some?” Hao spat back.

“If you host a party, I’ll bring cookies.” Cindy grinned valiantly.

“Yeah maybe when you become one dan.”

“You don’t think I can make one dan.” Her voice felt uncomfortably defensive.

“You’ve been ten kyu for the past two years,” Hao offered.

“We’ll make a deal. If I’ll become five kyu by the summer, we get a party?”

“If you manage that, you deserve a party.” Hao, looking unduly squashed, growled at Luke again, “So what’s the long version?”

The long version? In high school Luke had developed his system of answering, “how are you doing”. To those he met for the first time, he’d say fine. To those he had said ‘fine’ five times, he would ask them if they wanted the short version or the long version. Usually if they opted the long version, they would ask for the short version every time afterwards. Lisa preferred the short version, but a different sort of version in which she asked him for another word other than ‘fine’. It stumped him enough that he took to thumbing a thesaurus on the table for an apposite synonym. Trent never asked him how he was doing but that did not stop him from giving him the long version when they fixed cars together in his garage. Jared, however, asked for the long version and nothing but the long version every time. Jared had said he liked hearing Luke talk and whenever he went silent, it was as if a grave had swallowed him.

Luke probed Hao’s eyes and wondering into which category to shuffle Hao. With Jared? With Trent? But the man was quick to cut him off when unengaged, which must mean he was as impatient as everybody else, so he responded tepidly, “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

“Is that so? That took long enough.” Hao snorted, took back the tin and covered it firmly, then stared at Luke’s bushy brow. “Cindy, he needs a haircut, doesn’t he? I can’t see his face in all that hair.”

“A shave is fine by me,” she said.

Luke reached into his pocket gingerly and took out a band and gathered up his hair into a tidy ponytail. “You should be able to see my face better now.”

Hao perused the trailing sideburns then his eyes twinkled. “Now, you look like a goat-herder.” Cindy and Brett tittered, Luke responded to his vibrating cellphone.

There was a message from Tony Antoine, “Where the fuck are you? We should go surfing. My roommates are planning a party. Hit me up.” Luke deleted it. A message from Trent’s girlfriend, “Sweetie, I and your father are worried about you. Janice keeps asking for Uncle Long Hair. Please say yes to brunch on Sunday.” Luke deleted that. Another message from Lisa’s workmate Dotty, “I was at the high school chess club today. Those fifth graders you taught are beating me so badly now. It’s embarrassing. Please reply even if it’s a random string of letters or I’ll have to come visit you unannounced.” Luke replied, “I replied,” then deleted her message. There was still Jared’s message dated six months ago. “Tony told me your mom finally died. I’m really sorry. You know what? Fuck you, why do I have to hear that from Tony? You should have told me. That fucking hurts. Look, just talk to me, ok? I’ll forget all that bullshit you said at graduation. Ok???” Luke’s finger hovered over the delete button then Hao’s voice finally reached the shores of his ears.

“Luke, how about you try again and give me the long version?”

Luke roused suddenly, and in a split second, deleted the message then said to Hao, “My nose is itchy.”

Hao was stumped, but before he could say anything Zoe, who had been bopping to the music of her game against Brett, nudged Luke’s side.

“You get your cookies, why can’t I have an ice cream cake?”

“After you memorize those seven games,” Hao interjected.

“I’m not asking you, I’m asking Luke.”

Hao glared at Luke, daring him to contradict him. It seemed to have worked because Luke said, “Since you broke our agreement, I’ll have to say you get an ice cream cake after you memorize three games.”

“Seven games,” Hao shot.

“We’ll have to agree to disagree, sir. Three games are sufficient for me.” The air around the table quivered as Luke dialed his gaze down onto Zoë’s face tumbling into a scowl.

“I knew it,” she huffed, “Mom says you’re a bad bum because you were begging me for cookies. I’m not talking to you anymore.”

Luke shifted his eyes to the slight bend in Zoe’s nose. “Tell your Mom that even though her judgment baffles me, I won’t contest it. I’m a bad person, but not for the reasons she thinks.”

Brett edged his bearded face upward, stared at Luke, then pricked into a chuckle. “We’re all here to have fun and play go …. Zoë, you’re killing me on the board here.”

“I told you before, you needed more handicap stones,” she said brightly, continued to bop her head to the unheard music in her head. Occasionally her glance would snag in Luke’s hard gaze, and her flighty rhythm would halt for a frightening second until the clink of Brett’s stone would call her attentions back to the game, and the cycle repeated again.

Luke imagined the cello’s bow swaying in and out with Zoë’s head. He saw entropy wreak its cruel calculus on the silk rod fingers, the soft, smooth eyes, and those slate cheeks. There was a tragedy intricately deep within the supernal light in her mien. Entropy would wizen the fresh and dainty into mottled leaves, make tall the weak and bend them again. But Entropy was not evil for it was without malice aforethought. Or else the mere fact of existing could be evil in itself because of the accidental pains and miseries humans caused to others. Maybe it was, maybe life itself was evil. See already the little smile on Zoë’s face calmly considering life and death on the board. By the casualty of her existence, the little angel will hurt others, and what joy she might bring, it would be because of her conscious volition. In this way he could say all were evil, especially him.

A concentrated warmth burdened somewhere along his arm. But he could not move to its source as the sensation had lulled him into a strange feeling of falling through trapdoor upon trapdoor deeper down the airy portals of past when his ideas of bliss and innocence were still as vast as the heavens.

“You shouldn’t stare so hard at Zoë. It’s upsetting her.”

Luke stirred and saw Hao’s clean white hand nudging his. And there was Zoë, a dim cast to her once-bright eyes, lips curling a sickening vibrato. “Mom, Luke’s mad at me,” she cried, flying to the abode of secure arms and soft kisses, where Jessica was curled up into a book.

Players, patrons made ‘O’ faces, shook their heads at the creep who upset the little angel. The café quavered to the triplet rhythm of Zoë’s sobs, stilled with every of Jessica’s soft entreaties to, “Ignore the bum. He’s a jerk.” But Hao, tittering behind a discrete hand covering his mouth, was amused at the spectacle of people contorting themselves in scorn just to maintain the ‘nice person’ label. He prided himself on Yuu being well-behaved in public, but then again he was the bastard lawyer who was not afraid to flick his head. Even Luke was not immune to the collective syncope of Zoë-pleasing, as he scurried scatterbrained to console Zoë rubbing her damp face over Jessica’s wide-sleeved arm.

“I’m sorry, Zoë. I just got lost thinking about the difference between evil and bad. Go itself can be evil. I think … Life and death, killing groups, invasions, attacking, I think that’s evil… Maybe it isn’t fair to say the human instinct to aggression is evil. We are all little evil, even you Zoë. You enjoy killing so much, which by the way, makes you to over-extend yourself and make drastic overplays. But you get away with it because Brett is too afraid to counter-attack your bad moves. But my point is, we are all evil, even you—”

“He called me evil and a bad player!” Zoë wailed louder, and Jessica’s face was cracking at Luke. And indecorously apart from the head-shaking onlookers was Hao billowing with laughter and pride now at his student for diagnosing accurately her gameplay. Luke was still ballooning with words on evil and bad.

“I did mean a bad player, just prone to overplays. Ok, bad, but aggressive, which is good. Hmm wonder what Hao would think… Anyway that was not my point… I was more struck with the delightful propensity for evil in all of us. Think how the world rolls on and on even after the little upsetting things we do to each other. I think it’s amazing, don’t you Jessica? Even more interesting is how these upsetting things become entrenched terrible customs. I bet the first case of a stoning was justified enough—”

“Come along, Luke, you’re digging yourself a bigger hole.” Hao pulled Luke by the arm and whisked him past the torpefied faces, the murmuring lips, out into the cool of evening. Luke kept twisting back for the door and mumbling, “I over-spoke again. I have to apologize,” but Hao held fast to his arm and grounded him.

“No, you’re not. You’re going to think about what you want to say before you say it.”

“I know what I want to say—” The approaching roar of the municipal bus deafened all sound external and internal. The clamor of diesel engines intimated between the two men a private feeling of an incipient tenderness between them, which while Hao shrugged it away too quickly Luke was touched to the point of being paralyzed by it, albeit briefly.

Luke looked down uneasily at Hao’s arm hooking his and had a crawling feeling that Jared would object, but then again Jared was far away in New York, probably celestially above the hurt he had caused him.

“Let me deal with Zoë. Don’t want to take the chance of you rambling on theodicy.” Hao’s hold slipped off the arm. Luke felt his arm burn with a memory of his warmth, making him shrink his glare into Hao’s face—a grey cloud glinting the outlines of his glasses.

“You’re staring again,” said Hao.

“I’m sorry sir.”

Hao grunted. “Never mind.” He made to enter the café but stopped short of pulling the door. “The tournament—you’re going to enter it.” Before Luke could object to the psychological noise of a tournament, Hao was beyond the glass door, his suited back projecting a wide strong wall.

For a few days afterwards Luke thought his arm was hot. He dreamed of go, of Hao holding his arm, not of Lisa’s death moans.