Poincare's Return

The Golden Rule of gambling is: never bet more than you can afford
to lose.

"You don't break the rule, Jacques," his father had warned. "It breaks
you."

Jacques Poincar? bet his soul. The rule broke him.

* * *

Two floors beneath the basement of the Corona Hotel in Phoenix,
Arizona, a poker game was taking place. There were five players and an
obese Korean dealer, who mopped his clammy ovoid pate with a silk
handkerchief and left dark islands of perspiration on the green baize.
Every five rounds, the game changed.

"Five card stud," he lisped, his top lip riding up to reveal stunted
incisors and curved, prominent canines. "Jokers, deuces and suicide
kings wild." Dranghaus, a gaunt, steely man with narrow eyebrows and an
angular jaw nodded his approval. The silver gammadion stitched onto his
coat lapel glinted as he leaned back in his chair. The other four
players were Kline, who wore a Panama and smoked cigarillos from a
battered tin, Feuerheimer, an impatient Jewish stockbroker with
improbable grey and brown whiskers and a penchant for rhinestones,
Kefel, a reticent, inscrutable man who wore wire-rimmed spectacles and
had his hair tied in a greasy top-knot, and finally Poincar? who, in
some five minutes, would lose his soul to Dranghaus' double-ace-high
flush and fall asleep.

In the room, with its muted light and low ceiling, the air was heavy
with the smell of sweat, smoke and fabric. Damp brickwork showed
through between the drapes and tapestries that hung from the walls. The
door was locked from the inside. Poincar? scratched his temple and
looked down at his chips. He and Kline were leading slightly. The
dealer licked his lips. "Ante up, please gentlemen."

* * *

Poincar? had suffered from narcolepsy ever since he was twelve.
Narcoleptics experience sudden and uncontrollable sleep attacks that
can last for hours, often precipitated by high emotion. Poincar? used
amphetamines to ward off the worst of the symptoms, and took to
meditation and introspection to rein in his unruly passions. Sometimes
it was difficult to distinguish between his dreams and mundane reality.
They bled into one another like paint on a water-colour.

He awoke to find himself standing in a dark blue mist. It enshrouded
him like the diaphanous folds of a widow's veil. He could not see the
floor, nor discern his surroundings. With a fanciful dreamer's whimsy,
he wondered where on earth he could be.

All at once he felt a breeze on his face. A vague, amorphous
luminescence appeared, deep within the rolling blue clouds. Allowing
his arms to hang loosely by his sides, Poincar? took a step towards the
light.

"sTOP," a resonant voice commanded, seemingly from within his own
cranium. Poincar? did as he was told. He looked around for a possible
source. There was nothing but the distant glow. "jACQUES pOINCAR?, HEED
mY WORDS, FOR i SPEAK WITH THE WISDOM OF AGES." Poincar? felt a little
disconcerted.

"Who are you?" he asked, addressing the light as a provisional
measure.

"i AM THE lESSER gUARDIAN OF THE tHRESHOLD." The luminescence waxed
stronger. "yOU HAVE MADE MANY GRAVE ERRORS." The dream was making
Poincar? dizzy. He shrugged insouciantly.

"Such as?"

"i WILL SHOW YOU."

* * *

There was some fifty thousand dollars in the pot. Kefel and Kline had
folded; Feuerheimer was just about to. Poincar? wiped the sweat from
his top lip. More drizzled down to replace it. He had a three, a queen
and a king of clubs showing. His hole card was a joker.

Dranghaus had a four and five of hearts and a deuce. Feuerheimer had a
pair of kings and a nine. Feuerheimer shook his head, rolled his eyes
in a show of disgust, and pushed his hand into the centre of the table.
The dealer let out a grunt of exertion as he leant forward to take the
cards.

Without hesitation Poincar? went all-in, a further sixty-five thousand
dollars. Dranghaus appraised him with an expression of cold
objectivity. He glanced down at his chip stack.

"I see your sixty-five," he said, his thin lips hardly moving, "and I
wish to raise you."

"What are you doing?" yelled Feuerheimer, throwing his arms up in
protest. "The man went all in!" Dranghaus calmly turned to address
him.

"I wish to raise him," he repeated, with a slight tilt of the head.
"The rules we have agreed upon state that you may only bet or be called
upon to bet that which is view."

"So what," Feuerheimer said, "you're going to raise him his shirt, or
his pocket watch? I thought this was supposed to be a serious
game."

"I have no intention of turning the proceedings into a farce," said
Dranghaus. "You misunderstand me."

"So come on, then! What are you betting?" Feuerheimer folded his arms
and glowered. Beads of perspiration shivered on his forehead. Dranghaus
turned back to Poincar?.

"I see your sixty-five thousand dollars," he said, pushing the
appropriate number of chips into the pot, "and I raise you my immortal
soul." There followed a brief hiatus as everybody wondered if they had
misheard.

"What?" bellowed Feuerheimer. "I've never heard such nonsense in all my
life!" He looked to Kline and Kefel for support. Kline, his eyebrows
slanted in an intimation of a frown, puffed on his cigarillo but said
nothing. Kefel, as usual, was completely unreadable. He did not even
appear to be paying attention. Thwarted, Feuerheimer rounded on
Dranghaus again. "How is a soul in view?"

"As a student of the occult," Dranghaus replied quietly, "I can
perceive objects and entities not visible on the physical plane."

"Student?" spluttered Feuerheimer. "Occult? Have you gone mad? You
can't gamble a soul! It's not something you can relinquish, like title
deeds to a Spanish villa!" He brought his open palm down against the
table with a bang.

"Respectfully, sir," said Dranghaus, "I beg to differ. It is not only
possible&;#8230; The practice is quite common amongst occult
initiates."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"What I mean is, those who tread the white path, who have cultivated
the petals of the lotus, and who have opened their inner eye to the
mysteries of the cosmos, are able to accept stewardship of a wayward
soul, and help guide it towards transcendence."

"So you'd be each be betting for the chance to be the other's spirit
guide?" asked Kline, his voice soft, almost diffident. Dranghaus
appeared to appraise this description.

"Yes," he replied at last, "in a manner of speaking. And no. The
recipient of the soul may choose to act as its mentor, if he so
wishes." He paused. "There are other uses for souls also."

"Like what?" said Feuerheimer. His voice had lost some of its bite. He
sounded more intrigued than piqued.

"They are&;#8230; less benign." Feuerheimer looked like he was about
to respond when Poincar? interjected.

"I accept your wager," he said. Five faces turned to regard him. Even
Kefel's normally impenetrable visage registered signs of surprise.
"I'll see you. I bet my immortal soul as well."

* * *

Poincar? opened his eyes. Above him the cloudless azure sky seemed to
bulge and billow like a sheet in the wind. He blinked, and it was still
there. He could feel the sun's heat heavy against his forehead. He was
sprawled on his back. There was coarse, parched grass beneath his
fingers. This was too sensually acute to be a dream. Where was
he?

"rEMEMBER," came the voice. Poincar? refused to become alarmed. Any
extremities of feeling and he would lapse into unconsciousness.
Instead, he did as he always did, and engaged the situation with the
idle curiosity of a disinterested observer.

"Where am I?" he asked out loud. He wondered if his symptoms fitted
those of schizophrenia.

"rEMEMBER," the voice repeated. Poincar? tried to get up, and found he
was lying on a slope or embankment of some kind. He rolled onto his
front and clambered to his feet, brushing dry blades of grass from a
stretched maroon T-shirt he did not recall putting on. Sometimes, if he
suffered an attack of narcolepsy whilst in unfamiliar surroundings, it
took him several minutes to work out where he was upon awakening. He
turned round to survey the landscape. Yellow and ochre fields of corn
and oil seed rape stretched out for miles in front of him. In the
distance, partially obscured by clouds, was a low, undulating line of
hills. "rEMEMBER." Poincar? glanced down at his hands. They were
hairless, without wrinkles. He reached up and felt his chin. It was
smooth. "rEMEMBER."

He recognised this place, these fields, this embankment. He remembered
having these supple hands, this beardless face. Terror welled up within
his breast. Poincar? stumbled, and fell. He was asleep before he struck
the ground.

* * *

The dealer slid the top card from the deck, held it between thumb and
forefinger. The room watched in silence. On a faded tapestry behind
Kline's head, Christ, nailed to the cross, was having a spear pushed
into his side. He had a look of anguish on his face, as if reacting to
the wound, despite the fact that - according to Scripture - during the
act depicted he was already dead.

The card was Poincar?'s. The dealer flipped it over and laid it down
face up. It was a seven of clubs. Poincar? had a flush. Feuerheimer
peered at him, trying to deduce his hole card. Three minutes later he
would be muttering prayers to himself in Hebrew, convinced the
unconscious Poincar?'s immortal soul had been sucked from his body,
watching as Kline and the fat dealer laboured in vain to rouse him. A
minute before that, Dranghaus would reveal his hole card as an ace of
hearts, giving him his winning flush. Poincar? would teeter, then slump
forwards onto the table, and panic would ensue. Dranghaus would watch
and say nothing.

Dranghaus' final card was on the table. It was a jack of hearts.

* * *

"Where am I now?" Poincar? found himself saying as he opened his eyes.
The ceiling bore a brown, kidney-shaped water stain. He lay supine on a
mattress with broken springs. The room, or what there was of it, was
small and sparsely furnished. Before assessing his situation, he
concentrated on slowing and controlling his breathing. He took a long
breath in, held it, and let a long breath out. He waited until he had
established a steady, pacifying rhythm, before he began to take
stock.

The embankment, the fields - he had been twelve, travelling with his
father. Poincar?'s mother had died whilst in labour. His father, Jean,
emigrated from Nantes to America against his family's wishes, taking
young Jacques with him. A year later, the Nazis invaded. Jean's ageing
parents denounced him as a coward who had abandoned them in their hour
of need. He never saw or spoke to them again.

Jean's was a nomadic lifestyle, chasing harvests across the country,
feeding his son through fruit picking and anything he could turn his
hand to. He was resourceful, tenacious and thick-skinned. He was full
of paternal advice, and rarely showed emotion.
"Independence," he once said, "is the most precious thing a man can
have. The most precious." As Jacques grew older, he learned to help his
father, and even began to work alongside him.

Jacques was afflicted by sleep apnoea as a child. It meant he found it
difficult to breathe while he slept. He would wake frequently
throughout the night, wheezing and gasping for oxygen. His father gave
him several herbal remedies and tried elevating different parts of his
body with clothes or sacking, but to no avail. Jacques rarely got a
good night's sleep. He struggled not to collapse from tiredness during
the day.

One afternoon in late July, Jean and his son were on a freight train
travelling west towards Utah. The carriage was loaded with steel
girders, held in place with great lengths of chain. The two of them
squatted precariously on top, watching the countryside rattle past as
the girders clanked and jolted beneath them. When a train came by in
the opposite direction, they braced themselves and found something to
hold on to.

Jacques was twelve. Sweltering under the sun's rays and weary after yet
another night of patchy sleep, somehow he managed to nod off. That was
all that he remembered. There was a clatter, a sharp thud, void. He had
awoken, sprawled on his back, at the foot of an embankment. He had no
idea where he was. His father, the carriage, the train were all gone.
So, he was later to discover, was his sleep apnoea.

It was there, surrounded by fields, with the sun beating down on him,
that he had his first attack of narcolepsy.

Back in the small room, Poincar? steepled his fingers and inhaled. He'd
never seen his father again. At first he'd asked every labourer, every
hobo, every shopkeeper every train guard if they'd ever met a Jean
Poincar?, a handsome, well-built man with long auburn hair, dark brown
eyes and a long moustache. As he grew older, his hopes slowly faded. He
couldn't face asking people anymore, couldn't face the odd looks and
the constant disappointments. He listened out for rumours, and his
heart raced whenever he saw someone who looked a little similar to his
father, but deep down inside, he knew he was gone.

"What's going on?" he asked the ceiling. No reply was forthcoming. He
rolled onto his side, and immediately knew where he was. On the bedside
table was a white plastic digital alarm clock. It was his motel room in
Tucson. His motel room from ten years ago, the place he used to live
before the Vegas years. He tried to hold back the feelings but it was
too late.

* * *

"Reveal your hole cards, gentleman," said the dealer, but he wasn't
really saying it. Poincar? blinked and put his hands against the table
edge to steady himself. They went straight through. He looked around.
The room was sunken in blue. He wasn't really there. Dranghaus began to
reveal his winning card. The tapestry of Jesus had started to
glow.

"aS A BILLIARD BALL ROLLING ACROSS A PERFECT, FRICTIONLESS, POCKETLESS
TABLE, SO EVERYTHING IN THE UNIVERSE EVENTUALLY RETURNS TO ITS ORIGINAL
POSITION." Poincar? watched as, to his surprise, a second Poincar? took
hold of his own hole card and started to turn it over. "wITHOUT HIS
SOUL, A MAN CANNOT TRANSCEND THE INFINITE CYCLE OF dEATH AND rEBIRTH.
hE IS CONDEMNED TO ENDLESSLY REPEAT HIS MISTAKES."

Simultaneously, both men placed their card face up against the table.
Kefel smacked his lips. The second Poincar? regarded Dranghaus' card,
looked away, and collapsed.

"I lost my soul," Poincar? echoed dumbly, but nobody in the room could
hear him.

"cOME WITH mE," the voice said. Poincar? acquiesced, and found the room
fading into the mist.

* * *

He woke up slumped on a pile of empty cement bags. He squinted,
shielded his eyes. The low, reddening sun spun and quadralanced through
the silhouetted branches of a naked deciduous tree. Poincar? reached up
and wiped a trail of spittle from the corner of his mouth. His head
felt fuggy. He could hear the sound of talking nearby.

"Where have you brought me this time?" he whispered under his
breath.

Suddenly, a girl appeared from behind an unhitched trailer.

"Jack?" She blinked at him and smiled. Poincar? felt his chest tighten,
and fought to swallow the feeling. The girl skipped forward. She looked
sixteen or seventeen; she had plaited hair, large brown eyes and a
little pug nose. Poincar? was already irremediably lovestruck. The girl
put her hands on her hips and tutted with mock chastisement. "Taking
another snooze?" She drew out the 'oo' of snooze, leaning forward and
pouting her lips.

Poincar? groped for words but none came. He clutched hold of the cement
bags for support. It felt like the world was listing hard to
starboard.

"tHROUGH YOUR FOOLHARDINESS, YOU HAVE CONDEMNED YOURSELF TO REPEAT LIFE
AGAIN AND AGAIN, FOREVER MAKING THE SAME MISTAKES, AND ENDURING THE
SAME FAILURES."

"Nadia, I&;#8230;" Poincar? clasped a hand to his forehead. "I,
err&;#8230;"

She frowned. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know, I&;#8230;" His resolve faltered. "I don't know." The
smile had gone from Nadia's face. She glanced about her. Her sandals
had made tracks in the dust.

"I'd better get back and see how my Dad's getting on," she said. "He'll
be wondering where I am." She turned to leave, then paused. "See you
later." The final inflection was ambiguous. To Poincar?, it sounded
like a question.

Poincar? looked down at his trembling arms. They were bronzed, defined,
young. He was eighteen.

"sO THE CYCLE SHALL PERPETUATE ITSELF." Poincar? considered the voice's
proclamation. Then he looked down at the footprints left in the dust.
Something inside him&;#8230; shifted. He felt anger. He would have
doubtless felt more, but all at once the sun, the sky, the trees dimmed
and were gone.

* * *

He often dreamt he could fly, flapping his arms and propelling himself
upward, like a cork submerged in water. He found himself flying as he
awoke, or rather floating, suspended in that pale blue mist. He felt
disoriented, almost frightened. This dream was too long, too intense.
He wanted to wake up.

"wATCH." Out of the mist images began to emerge, moving pictures,
shadows and flickers of his past. Was it his past? In one oval of light
he could see himself playing the tables at Vegas. He'd won game after
game, enough to set himself up as a contender in the rock trading
business. Wealthy collectors like Feuerheimer and Dranghaus had been
his best customers. Another display spliced together footage of him
presenting money to the local school, sponsoring the renovation of an
inner city park, donating to youth groups, cancer research, homeless
shelters - anything that improved his public profile. There seemed to
be many scenes of him appearing withdrawn, quiet, emotionless. With
groups of workers, at bars, in casinos, and finally at functions and
dinner parties, he was invariably stood away from the hubbub, his eyes
lowered, his countenance perfectly neutral.

"sO MANY ERRORS," the voice declared, "SO MUCH WASTE." Poincar?
bicycled his legs in a vain attempt to arrest his drifting. Around him,
the images were beginning to gradually fade back into cloud. Poincar?
could feel the anger returning, anger smeared together with regret, and
hate, and anguish. "cOME." The blue mist thinned and then dissipated,
and Poincar? found himself standing in the room two floors beneath the
basement of the Corona. He and Dranghaus had four cards each; three
face up and a hole card. The players were as still as cacti.

"tHERE IS A WAY TO UNDO THE DAMAGE, pOINCAR?," the voice said.

"How?"

"yOU KNOW THE RESULT OF YOUR FRIVILOUS WAGER. dO NOT BET. bREAK FREE OF
THE WHEEL." Poincar? stared at the frozen faces. "rELINQUISH YOUR GRIP
ON THIS WRETCHED LIFE. aLLOW YOUR SOUL TO TRANSCEND THIS WORLD AND ITS
SORROWS. fINALLY GRANT YOURSELF LIBERTY." Poincar?'s feet settled
against the floor. He looked around at the scene that confronted him,
looked to Christ with his flank rent asunder.

"I&;#8230;" He felt himself waver. "Can I go somewhere first?" There
was no reply. Poincar? sensed the voice was waiting for him to say
more. "There's something I&;#8230; I need to see something."

"tHE POWER IS YOURS, NOT mINE. dO AS THOU WILT SHALL BE THE WHOLE OF
THE LAW." Poincar? was unsure of what to do. A little self-consciously,
he closed his eyes, threaded his fingers, and concentrated. His vision
strobed.

* * *

For the first time, he knew where he was. He could feel the warm clammy
jacket of a hand clasped round his, could smell damp redolent straw and
old timber. When he opened his eyes, it was like sliding into a warm
bath at the end of a long, dusty day. Nadia was older now, only by six
months or so, but it showed. Her face had less of the girl, more of the
woman. Still, insecurity burgeoned in small tremors as she spoke.

"It's just&;#8230; sometimes I think I understand it, but at
others&;#8230;" She broke off. They were sitting on rain-warped tea
chest inside a barn. The door hung open. Outside the sky was on fire.
Nadia looked at him, challenged him not to flinch. "What's going on,
Jack? How do you feel about me?" Poincar? gazed at her, unblinking,
until his eyes began to water. "Jack?"

The glow from the setting sun threw the contours of Nadia's face into
sharp relief. She was all about light and contrast. Sometimes, when you
looked at her, she looked unremarkable, almost plain, then she would
tilt her head and bang, it felt as if your heart had been impaled, run
through with a shaft of ice. "Jack?"

He pulled his hand from her sweaty grasp, saw her face fall.

"I&;#8230; I&;#8230;" he choked. He staggered up, desperate to
get out, then he felt his legs buckling and fell. There was anger in
that fall, anger and defiance, as he raged, raged, raged against the
dying of the light.

* * *

"iT IS TIME." Poincar? was back in the mist. "yOU HAVE ENDURED TOO MANY
VICISSITUDES, TOO MANY DEATHS OF THE SPIRIT. iT IS TIME FOR RELEASE."
The light grew brighter. "cOME." Poincar? looked about him, looked down
at his legs flailing in the flowing mist.

"No," he said, calmly and firmly.

"yOU WOULD CONDEMN YOURSELF TO AN ETERNITY OF SUFFERING? yOU WOULD
JEOPARDISE YOUR ONE HOPE OF rEDEMPTION?"

"This is not redemption." He folded his arms. "I've lived a cowed,
self-centred life. I've been timid when I should have been bold." He
took a deep breath. "Dad used to tell me, never bet more than you can
afford to lose. Now I realise you should never bet less." He paused.
The voice did not interrupt. "There was a girl I loved, and I was too
weak to risk myself. I don't care how many times I get dragged through
this sick and weary world, or how many times I have to lose my soul.
I'm not leaving until I've done what I know I was put here to do.
That's the only redemption I'll take." There was a long silence.

"aND SO THE WHEEL OF dEATH AND rEBIRTH CONTINUES TO TURN, jACQUES
pOINCAR?," the voice intoned slowly. It paused. "AND AT LAST&;#8230;
THERE MAY BE HOPE FOR YOU."

"What - what do you mean?"

"tHIS IS NOT OUR FIRST MEETING. fAREWELL." With that, the mist started
to return, only this time it was thicker, darker, almost like sleep.
Poincar? felt emotion exploding through his system, only he was
conscious, he could feel it. Pride, triumph, love gushed through and
out of him in a white hot starburst of elation.

"This time!" he found himself shouting. "This time I'm going to gamble
it all!" The tears rolled down his cheeks. At last, the blackness set
in, and with it, the longest, darkest, most contented sleep of
Poincar?'s life.