JACK OF DIAMONDS

Nigel woke up with a chill running through his body, reminding him of the cold in Paris during the War. He'd been no more a boy then; he knew that now. Still, it’d been cold that first winter, but that had been nothing to compare to what he felt now. He was so cold his bones ached.

I can’t stop my teeth from chattering.

He could see his breath in the morning cold, wondering why he should even be seeing it in the first place. He’d never had problems with the heat before. The curtains were drawn shut, the light coming through dull and opaque, and he watched dust motes floating in the morning light, dancing. That was the moment he wondered where he was.

Everything about this place is wrong. The light shouldn’t be coming in through that window because—

And then he remembered.

I’m going to need more blankets.

His muscles were beyong aching. He knew he was going to have to force himself out of bed, but he could already see it was going to be a problem. He hurt all over. He could feel the beginning of a crampcknotting up in his calf and forced himself out of the bed, cursing. The pain was excruciating. It took everything he had not to cry out. Every ounce of energy he had not to fall on the floor writhing in agony. When he had it under control again, he bent down and massaged his calf, looking around the room. He needed to drink something. He knew that. A part of him told himself that he should’ve prepared things in advance. I should’ve at least filled up the water jug, he told himself, and when he noticed that he had, gratefully poured himself a drink, gurgling it down and almost choking on it in his haste.

“God!” he cried out when the cold water hit his empty stomach. For a moment it felt as if someone had grabbed his stomach and was twisting it into a knot. He doubled over and felt himself spewing out the water he’d just drank. Seeing the spewed water, he heaved again, the muscles in his body crying out in protest. His back hunched and he heaved until he was heaving belches of air.

He couldn’t remember eating last night, but knew he did. He knew that now because he remembered throwing up as he climbed the stairs. And he remembered Sonia beside him—almost carrying him up the narrow stairway. She was strong, he’d have to give that to her, or it may have been a technique for all he knew. She'd said she was a nurse, after all.

They probably teach you how to help a person who’s infirm. And I certainly was infirm last night, wasn’t I?

He was having a difficult time remembering the details of last night, but it was starting to come back to him. They’d gone to Chernetsov’s Ball to watch Artie, thinking he'd be there. He was the only suspect they had and Nigel was happy to recall how Artie hadn't disappointed them. He remembered that much, at least. Artie had run up the stairs, leaping onto the bannister and using it to launch himself through the air; he'd propelled himself out onto the chandelier. From there, he’d been able to snatch the skull from its hiding place and use the pendulum action of the lights to launch himself to the other side of the balcony. Swinging as if he were once a trapeze artist. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, Nigel would’ve never believed such a thing was possible.

There was one thing that had caught his imagination about the whole escapade last night—that’s the only thing he could think it was—and it was the fact that Artie hadn’t even hesitated. Not even for a moment. And he did it as if it was something he’d done before. Who wouldn’t believe a man capable of doing that, couldn’t climb the outside of a building?

Where does someone learn to do that? Rock climbing, I imagine.

He was certain something like that couldn’t be taught. It was something a man did to test himself. To see how far he’s willing to go. If the man was a gymnast, or an acrobat, he might be capable of something like that; maybe if he’d been in a circus? But a man like Artie, where would he learn those skills?

And would he have used it when he was in the War? I’ll have to remember to ask about that.

He saw a pencil on the stand, and began searching for a scrap of paper. He found something, but then he forgot what he was supposed to write down and ended up throwing the pencil across the room in frustration.

“Fuck!” he called out, remembering what he wanted to write after throwing the pencil across the room. He looked at the door, slowly forcing himself to stand, and tried crossing the room.

His legs began to cramp again and he fell to the floor in agony.

He crawled to the door, opened it, and tried calling out Sonia's name.

His voice was a whisper.

“Sonia!”

Three hours later Nigel was laying on the small bed, his body wracked with pain. He was feverish, kicking the blankets down because the weight of them was burning his skin. He tried ripping his shirt off but his strength failed him, and he ended up writhing in pain, feeling exposed to the elements. His skin was on fire and he felt as if he was burning from the inside, out. Sonia was sitting beside him with a wooden bowl of water and a twisted rag, trying to wipe the sweat that was puddling on his skin. He wanted to push her away. He wanted to tell her that the rag she was using was tearing the flesh off his bones—that it felt as if she was peeling his skin off in layers, as if he were an onion. He wanted to scream out in agony, but he couldn’t move his tongue enough to form the words he needed. He tried swatting at her hands, but she was able to push his hands aside with ease, as if he were nothing more than a child. She tried telling him to keep his voice down, and he remembered thinking he hadn’t even spoken out. And then he heard his moans somewhere in the back of his head and realized what he’d thought was in his head, was actually him crying out at the top of his lungs.

“Is it supposed to hurt like this?” he asked in a moment of quiet lucidity sometime later.

“It’s your body’s way of telling you that it needs the opium.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to agree.” He smiled lamely, and she nodded, smiling to herself as she dipped the rag back into the bowl, wringing it out and then placing it on his forehead.

“I don’t need that fuckin’ thing in my face,” he said, trying to push the rag away. Sonia let him swing his arms about and then pinned them down to his sides again. She was looking him in the eye, and he felt as if she could see into the very depths of his soul. A part of him thought perhaps she had looked into his soul. What she’d found there hadn’t been something he’d been willing to share. He felt as if she’d found his most intimate secrets and wanted to share them with the world.

“I didn’t do it,” he said, turning to her and staring her down.

“What was it you didn’t do?” she asked, trying to soothe him. She could hear the distress in his tone and understood it was the fever talking, but all the same, she knew it was in her best interest to listen to him.

“I didn’t kill him. At least not then. I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? He wasn’t much older than me! That’s why not! We were both of us just boys! How could I kill him? Why would I? He wan’t there for any other reason, except for bad-assed luck. He was trying to dessert, and I just happened to come across him. How was I to know he’d been hiding there? It was a fuckin’ hayloft. I only went there to keep warm myself.”

“What did you say to him?”

“Nothing. I didn’t speak German, and he didn’t speak English.”

“So what did you do?”

“I killed him.”

“I thought you said you didn’t?”

“Not right away, I didn’t. But he tried to kill me.”

“Why didn’t you just walk away?”

“I tried. He wouldn’t let me.”

“So you killed him?”

“He killed himself the moment he tried to stab me with his bayonet. I wasn’t going to let him kill me, so yes, I killed him first.”

“You had no choice. It was the war. A lot of men had to do the same.”

“He was sixteen, if he was a day.”

“Try to rest,” was all she said, and he rolled over, laying with his back to her.

And then the dreams came, only to be replaced by nightmares later.

The late afternoon sun was coming in through the window at a slant, the dust motes still dancing in the air as if they were tiny ballerinas in a spotlight. He watched them, thinking of his childhood and how he used to blow at the dust motes and send them scurrying across the open bars of light. His mother would watch him, asking him what he was doing, and he’d always say the same thing.

“I’m watching the Fairies dance, Mommy. They much prefer the moonlight, though.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“They can hide in the light better. Do you know why?”

“Because it’s the moonlight and the moon only comes out at night?”

“That’s right! Did I tell you that before?”

“The Fairies did.”

“Did they? I thought they only talked to me?”

“They talk to whoever listens to them.”

“And you listen?”

“I listen to you, don’t I?”

“Am I one of the Fairies?”

“No. You have to be careful when you look at the Fairies.”

“Why?”

“Because they take young boys and girls away to Neverland, so they can be one of the Lost Boys.”

“Oh, you mean like Peter Pan?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like Peter Pan.”

“You don’t? Why not?”

“He wants to take me away from you.”

“No one will ever take you away from me, because you’re my little boy.”

“Am I?”

“Always.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

He slept, but not for long. The dreams worked themselves into nightmare shadows lurking somewhere in the corners of his mind, waiting for him to let his guard down. When he did, they pounced. His scream rang out into the night and Sonia leaped to her feet to look at him. She'd fallen asleep. He was shivering. Watching her. He felt her hand on his forehead and tried pushing her hand away. He was cold and the touch of her hand on his skin was like fire. She threw another blanket on him, tucking it around him as if she were tucking a child into bed for the night and he whimpered softly. He was frightened of what he'd become. When he didn’t stop shivering, she climbed on top of him and held him, hoping her body weight would help to settle him down.

It was only a matter of minutes before she fell asleep on top of him.

Sonia woke up to the cold and damp of an overcast morning still wearing the Cahrlie Chaplin costume from the night before. It was a moment before she realized she’d fallen asleep on top of Nigel. She lifted her head, looking at him with a critical eye before rolling off the bed—she’d somehow slipped between Nigel and the wall—doing everything she could not to wake him as she climbed off the bed. It had only been a moment since she'd put him into his bed and he crawled to the door calling her name. She hadn't even made it to the threshold of her own flat when she'd heard him calling out.

She could feel the cold through her feet as soon as they touched the floor. She looked down at Nigel once she was up, before leaning over and pulling the blanket up from where he’d kicked it off during the night. Tucking it under him again, she turned, restarting the fire in the stove from the dying embers glowing in its ebony belly. She put on a large pot of water, using the stove’s back burner, adding more coal and blowing on the embers in an effort to bring the stove back to life.

She took a slow look around the room while she waited for the water to boil. She wondered if it was the darkness that made the room appear as small as it did. It’s smaller than mine, she told herself, its size leaving what she considered little hope for privacy. She thought about leaving, washing up in her own room, but she’d have to start the stove up from scratch, and where was the sense in that? So while she waited for the water to boil she used a second pot to half-fill the wash tub from the hand pump. Her mother had taught her to measure water in a tub by using her hand. Before she filled it too full, she decided to drag the washtub around the corner of the kitchen where she would be out of sight.

Looking up from where she was, she could see it wasn’t what she’d call perfect placement. But she told herself it would have to do. She could see Nigel laying on the bed, his sheepish features at peace. Last night’s fever had broken, leaving his face looking calm. She felt confident he’d sleep a while longer.

Satisfied she had enough water, she slowly undressed, throwing the Chaplin pants, jacket and shirt over one of the two kitchen chairs. In a moment she was standing naked at the sink, looking out of the window and washing her undergarments. She gave a quick look over her shoulder, reassuring herself that Nigel was still asleep before hanging the rest of her clothes above the stove. Finally, adding more water to the tub she tested it, stepping into it and settling down on her knees. The water came up to mid-thigh. She was using a rag to wash herself, thinking of how many times she’d done the same thing during the War. Only then, there hadn’t been a washtub for her to use.

A bucket and a rag. And we all did it, she remembered. Just not as often as some of us would’ve liked.

That was one thing she told herself she’d never miss. The mud had been a horrendous problem during the first winter of the War, and while she wasn’t sent over until 1917, she’d heard the stories. She had a fair share of her own stories to tell, she reminded herself. Stepping off the walkways wasn't advisable once the rain came. During the summer, the mud hardened, crumbling under foot and turning into dust with every step you took. Spring wasn’t as bad, but then, life on the Front had little to offer when you compared it to Paris in the Spring.

At least we got to spend two fuck-filled weeks together, she reminded herself.

The water was hot and she sat back on her heels, watching the steam misting around her. She so wished she could’ve slipped down under the water—the way she would’ve had she been in a proper tub—but the most she could do was dip her head in the tub and let the water run down her back and shoulders.

What more could a person ask for?

Someone to wash my back, maybe?

It’s been so long since a man’s touched me, she thought, and then she looked over her shoulder at Nigel, swaddled tight in his tiny bed.

She told herself not to let herself get distracted with thoughts like that—not now—and then smiled as she remembered how her father had lectured her about her upcoming wedding night. She’d understood it was something a girl’s mother normally attended to, and if not her, a grandmother, or a favourite aunt--because it was something women shared among themselves. But Sonia's mother had died six years before the War and her father had insisted he be the one--as if it were a hallowed ritual. He did an amazing job explaining the science of it; but then, she knew he would. He’d handled himself in a professional manner, but then again, he was a doctor. And she thought, how much more personal would it have been, for both of us, had he shown at least some degree of embarrassment?

Yes, but he's a doctor, she told herself, and the Science of Nature is anything but embarrassing as far as he's concerned. Even when he told her about the mechanics of sex itself, he’d been patient, thinking how best to phrase it.

“A woman’s pleasure is the only thing that matters in a healthy relationship,” he'd said, giving her a large sleeved book. “In order for you to understand the art of love, I’ve commissioned a cinema school in London to reproduce scenes from the Kama sutra.”

“The Kama--? You did what?”

She pulled the book out of the sleeve and opened it to a random page. She was staring at the black and white photographs for too long when she looked up at her father.

“Am I supposed to study these?” she asked, horrified.

And that was when he laughed.

“No, no, no. Nothing like that. It’s for you to share with your husband, if you like. Share it; learn to use it; re-enact the pictures if you wish. I’m not going to lie to you and say sex will be perfect the first time—or every time. It won’t. You’ll be nervous. He’ll be nervous. Who knows, he might even ejaculate as soon as you—”

“Poppa!”

“Sonia! You’re a nurse. You know how this works. You understand the science involved. But there's more than just that. I want you to know that everyone deserves to be loved. Anything less than that is anathema to a marriage,” he said, levelling a look that told her little in the way of whatever secrets he was withholding from her. “You need a certain degree of passion for any marriage to survive. You have to understand—and this is what your mother would’ve wanted me to say—that a woman isn’t put on God’s good Earth to serve her husband’s needs, but rather, to stand at his side as an equal. A partner. That means as much a partner in the bedroom, as out of it.”

She felt, now that enough time had passed, that she finally understood what he meant. You never know what you have until it's gone, she told herself, thinking of Gerald. It had taken her three lovers over the past seven years for her to fully understand the meaning of what her father had meant. There'd been other lovers during that time, but only three of them had made a lasting impression. She would’ve married any one of them had circumstances allowed, but two of those men were already married, unbeknownst to her.

You never told me about love’s betrayal though, did you Daddy? But then, he’s never known it himself, has he?

She could feel the cold embracing her flesh and stood up to pour whatever remaining water that was in the pot, into the tub. She stepped out—raining droplets on the floor—and reached over to the counter top where there was a small pot. She bent down again, scooping the water over her head. Settling down on her knees, she began using the pot to rinse her hair, watching the soapy tendrils scrolling down the length of her body.

She stood up and began soaping the rag again, smiling as she tried to recall the name of a nurse she’d once served with. Tits and bits, she’d referred to it when it came to washing her vagina: ‘Ye’ve gotta wash your tits an' bits!’ she’d said, as Sonia lifted first one arm, and then the other, washing her breasts and underarms. Tits and bits she smiled again, washing her thighs and sighs.

And who was it that came up with that one?

Thighs and sighs? she recalled, placing her foot on the edge of the tub and scraping herself thoroughly clean.

She looked at Nigel over her shoulder again and saw him staring at her in the soft light of a breaking dawn.

And now he wakes up?

“Are you watching me?” she asked. “Or the sunrise?” she added, leaning back and releasing a naked beam of blinding sunlight that made his lift his arm up and shade his eyes.

“I am,” he said.

She didn’t know which part of her body to cover first, and decided to cover her breasts. At the same time, she stepped behind the kitchen wall, knowing full well he could still see her, but telling herself she needed time to think.

“ ‘I am’? I am what? Purposely ambiguous?” she asked.

She could almost feel the width of his smile, and poked her head around the corner to look at him. He was looking directly at her, as if he'd been waiting for her to look at him.

“Roll over; or turn your head, at least,” she said, shooing at him with her hand.

“I don’t fuckin' think so," he smiled again. "The view’s quite nice from where I am. Besides, that wall’s not as fuckin' big as you think it is. As far as I can see, the nearest covering for you is that battered old robe hanging on that post over there. It's either that, or the fuckin' jacket from your costume on the back of the chair.” He paused. "So? What's it gonna be?"

“You can’t do this to me!”

“Do what? I haven’t fuckin' done anything. I wake up and find a naked woman in a washtub, washing herself, in my fuckin' room. At first, I thought I was hallucinating. What would you have me do?”

“You could at least close your eyes!”

“And miss The Birth of Venus?”

“The birth of Venus?”

“I’ll admit, the washtub isn’t a fuckin' clam shell, and you hair’s not as long as it might be, but the way the fuckin' sun’s coming in through that window behind you, believe me, you’re a fuckin' painting come to life.”

“I thought you said you weren’t experienced when it came to women?” she asked, leaning forward and looking at him from around the corner before she straightened up again, having made eye contact.

“I never said I wasn’t fuckin' experienced, I said I wasn't very fuckin' good at talking to them.”

“And what does that mean, exactly?”

“Exactly what I said.”

“Which leads me to assume that your experience with women consists of visits to the brothels of Paris? And because you were such a young boy, all your friends wanted to make a man out of you?”

“That about sums it up,” he said, and she looked at him again to see if he was indeed smiling. He was.

“And now, seeing me, what are you thinking?” she asked, stepping out from around the corner of the wall and reaching for the pants she’d hung over the chair. Unfortunately, her undergarments were still wet. She picked the shirt up and put it on, rolling the sleeves up, and then bent over the washtub and proceeded to wring her hair out.

“What am I thinking? That I’d like to fuckin' paint you.”

“Paint me?” she asked, standing up and tying her hair into a loose knot before she began scooping water out of the tub and into the small sink.

“I like to paint. I fuckin' told you that. Most of the time, if I want to fuckin' paint female figures, I use old French postcards I brought back with me from Paris. Do you know the kind I mean? Girls from the Folies Bergère, and the Moulin Rouge?”

“I know the kind,” she said, hiding a tight smile.

“I use those because I could never get up the fuckin' nerve to ask a real woman to pose for me. I wouldn’t know the first fuckin' thing about asking someone to do that.”

“And yet, you just asked me if you could paint me?” she reminded him, stooping to pick up the wash tub and empty it. She wiped it clean with a rag.

She sat down on one of the chairs at the small table, bending over and untying her hair before drying it as best she could. When she was satisfied, she wrapped the towel around her hair again. She could feel the warmth of the stove and felt grateful for the heat. She pulled her chair closer to the stove.

“I did just ask you, didn’t I? But that’s because I fuckin' saw you standing there.”

“Let me guess, you were inspired?” she said, trying to sound sarcastic.


“It doesn’t sound very fuckin' good when you say it like that. So let me prove it to you.”

“What? You want me to take my clothes off for you?” she asked with a laugh.

“No. I want you to give me a piece of paper and a pencil.”

“And then what?”

“I’ll draw you your portrait.”

“What kind of portrait?”

“What do you fuckin' mean, ‘what kind’? There’s only one kind! That’s why it’s called a portrait.”

She walked to a nearby drawer, looking for a notebook and a pencil.

"I threw the pencil across the room," he admitted.

"Why would you do that? And when?"

"I was upset," he smiled.

It took some time, but she finally found what she was looking for. She walked over to him and handed the notebook to him. Nigel sat up in the bed, wrapping the blanket around himself. He was shivering and she could see he was struggling to hold the pencil.

“Where do you want me to sit?”

“Right where you are; I can draw you there. If you’d like, you can actually pose, but that’s up to you.”

“Here by the window, then? In the sunlight?”

She picked up her chair and moved it into the sun.

“Now what?”

He looked at her and smiled.

“Turn to the left and lean forward a bit. More. Now, turn your head and put your hands up like you’re tying your towel.”

“Like this?”

“Perfect.”

“What’s so perfect about it?”

“I can see the sunlight coming through your shirt.”

She folded her arms across her breasts and moved back toward the stove.

“I bet you think that’s funny?”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“What do you mean?”

He dropped the pad and pencil on the floor, his teeth chattering. He pulled the blanket around himself tighter. She was on her feet in a moment, crossing the room, helping him lay down again and stuffing a pillow under his head.

“You should rest,” she told him, tucking the blanket under him. "You can draw me later."

“I am rested,” he argued.

“No. You’re not. You haven’t even begun with the withdrawal,” she said, working her way down his body and tucking the blanket under the mattress.

“What’re you telling me? This isn’t it?”

“Withdrawal usually takes place within twenty-four to thirty-six hours after your last ingestion of the drug,” she said, bending over him and looking at his eyes. “Look up here,” she said, moving a finger up and watching his pupils as he followed it. She moved her finger down, and watched his eyes grow wider. “Please. I’m trying to help you. Are your muscles aching? Have you had any muscle cramps, or spasms?”

“Aren’t they the same thing?” he asked, looking up from her breasts and into her eyes.

“You’ll soon understand the difference.”

“Are you telling me I haven’t started whatever it is I’m supposed to be starting? Then what was that last night?”

“Last night? You were drunk.”