«You didn’t say a thing about what kind of insanity you suspected me of having?»
Charlie shook his head, He said, «So, anyway, neither of us goes to work at the Blade tomorrow. I’ll leave home the usual time so Marge won’t know anything, but I’ll meet you downtown — say, in the lobby of the Christina — at a quarter of eleven. And if you can convince Irving that you’re commitable — if that’s the word — we’ll get Randolph right away and get the whole thing settled tomorrow.»
«And if I change my mind?»
«Then I’ll call the appointment off. That’s all. Look, isn’t that all there is to talk over? Let’s play this game of chess out; it’s only twenty after seven.»
He shook his head. «I’d rather talk, Charlie. One thing you forgot to cover, anyway. After tomorrow. How often you coming to see me to pick up bulletins for Candler?»
«Oh, sure, I forgot that. As often as visiting hours will permit — three times a week. Monday, Wednesday, Friday afternoons. Tomorrow’s Friday, so if you get in, the first time I’ll be able to see you is Monday.»
«Okay. Say, Charlie, did Candler even hint to you at what the story is that I’m supposed to get in there?»
Charlie Doerr shook his head slowly. «Not a word. What is it? Or is it too secret for you to talk about?»
He stared at Charlie, wondering. And suddenly he felt that he couldn’t tell the truth: that he didn’t know either. It would make him look so silly. It hadn’t sounded so foolish when Candler had given the reason — a reason, anyway — for not telling him, but it would sound foolish now.
He said, «If he didn’t tell you, I guess I’d better not either, Charlie.» And since that didn’t sound too convincing, he added, «I promised Candler I wouldn’t.»
Both glasses of beer were empty by then, and Charlie took them into the kitchen for refilling.
He followed Charlie, somehow preferring the informality of the kitchen. He sat a-straddle of a kitchen chair, leaning his elbows on the back of it, and Charlie leaned against the refrigerator.
Charlie said, «Prosit!» and they drank, and then Charlie asked, «Have you got your story ready for Doc Irving?»
He nodded. «Did Candler tell you what I’m to tell him?»
«You mean, that you’re Napoleon?» Charlie chuckled.
Did that chuckle ring true? He looked at Charlie, and he knew that what he was thinking was completely incredible. Charlie was square and honest as they came. Charlie and Marge were his best friends; they’d been his best friends for three years that he knew of. Longer than that, a hell of a lot longer, according to Charlie. But beyond those three years — that was something else again.
He cleared his throat because the words were going to stick a little. But he had to ask, he had to be sure. «Charlie, I’m going to ask you a hell of a question. Is this business on the up and up?»
«Huh?»
«It’s a hell of a thing to ask. But — look, you and Candler don’t think I’m crazy, do you? You didn’t work this out between you to get me put away — or anyway examined — painlessly, without my knowing it was happening, till too late, did you?»
Charlie was staring at him. He said, «Jeez, George, you don’t think I’d do a thing like that, do you?»
«No, I don’t. But — you could think it was for my own good, and you might on that basis. Look, Charlie, if it is that if you think that, let me point out that this isn’t fair. I’m going up against a psychiatrist tomorrow to lie to him, to try to convince him that I have delusions. Not to be honest with him. And that would be unfair as hell, to me. You see that, don’t you, Charlie?»
Charlie’s face got a little white. He said slowly, «Before God, George, it’s nothing like that. All I know about this is what Candler and you have told me.»
«You think I’m sane, fully sane?»
Charlie licked his lips. He said, «You want it straight?»
«Yes.»
«I never doubted it, until this moment. Unless — well, amnesia is a form of mental aberration, I suppose, and you’ve never got over that, but that isn’t what you mean, is it?»
«No.»
«Then, until right now — George, that sounds like a persecution complex, if you really meant what you asked me. A conspiracy to get you to — Surely you can see how ridiculous it is. What possible reason would either Candler or I have to get you to lie yourself into being committed?»
He said, «I’m sorry, Charlie. It was just a screwy momentary notion. No, I don’t think that, of course.» He glanced at his wrist watch. «Let’s finish that chess game, huh?»
«Fine. Wait till I give us a refill to take along.»
He played carelessly and managed to lose within fifteen minutes. He turned down Charlie’s offer of a chance for revenge and leaned back in his chair.
He said, «Charlie, ever hear of chessmen coming in red and black?»
«N-no. Either black and white, or red and white, any I’ve ever seen. Why?»
«Well —» He grinned. «I suppose I oughtn’t to tell you this after just making you wonder whether I’m really sane after all, but I’ve been having recurrent dreams recently. No crazier than ordinary dreams except that I’ve been dreaming the same things over and over. One of them is something about a game between the red and the black; I don’t even know whether it’s chess. You know how it is when you dream; things seem to make sense whether they do or not. In the dream I don’t wonder whether the red-and-black business is chess or not; I know, I guess, or seem to know. But the knowledge doesn’t carry over. You know what I mean?»
«Sure. Go on.»
«Well, Charlie, I’ve been wondering if it just might have something to do with the other side of that wall of amnesia I’ve never been able to cross. This is the first time in my — well, not in my life, maybe, but in the three years I remember of it, that I’ve had recurrent dreams. I wonder if — if my memory may not be trying to get through.
«Did I ever have a set of red and black chessmen, for instance? Or, in any school I went to, did they have intramural basketball or baseball between red teams and black teams, or — or anything like that?»
Charlie thought for a long moment before he shook his head. «No,» he said, «nothing like that. Of course there’s red and black in roulette — rouge et noir. And it’s the two colors in a deck of playing cards.»
«No, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t tie in with cards or roulette. It’s not — not like that. It’s a game between the red and the black. They’re the players, somehow. Think hard, Charlie; not about where you might have run into that idea, but where I might have.»
He watched Charlie struggle and after a while he said, «Okay, don’t sprain your brain, Charlie. Try this one. The brightly shining.»
«The brightly shining what?»
«Just that phrase, the brightly shining. Does it mean anything to you, at all?»
«No.»
«Okay,» he said. «Forget it.»
He was early and he walked past Clare’s house, as far as the corner and stood under the big elm there, smoking the rest of his cigarette, thinking bleakly.
There wasn’t anything to think about, really; all he had to do was say good-bye to her. Two easy syllables. And stall off her questions as to where he was going, exactly how long he’d be gone. Be quiet and casual and unemotional about it, just as though they didn’t mean anything in particular to each other.
It had to be that way. He’d known Clare Wilson a year and a half now, and he’d kept her dangling that long; it wasn’t fair. This had to be the end, for her sake. He had about as much business asking a woman to marry him as — as a madman who thinks he’s Napoleon!
He dropped his cigarette and ground it viciously into the walk with his heel, then went back to the house, up on the porch, and rang the bell.