The Search for the Dice Man. Luke Rhinehart

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      ‘I don’t care about this fucking mess,’ I snapped. ‘As far as I’m concerned this man is not my father.’

      ‘Unfortunately, his name is Luke Rhinehart,’ commented Honoria.

      ‘So?’

      ‘So my father will go through the roof if he sees an article like this. If we can’t clear it up there’s no telling what he’ll do about our getting married.’

      ‘It’s company policy,’ I said, looking sullenly back at her, ‘that my father is dead.’

      ‘I’m afraid this father,’ said Honoria wryly, holding up the xeroxed pages, ‘is not dead.’

      ‘But what can I do!?’

      ‘Find him and kill him,’ said Kim gaily. ‘Isn’t that the Freudian solution?’

      I turned back to the ducks and the pond. ‘It looks to me like a hornets’ nest,’ I finally said. ‘And my father’s already stung me enough.’

      ‘But it would be an adventure,’ protested Kim. ‘When do we begin?’

      ‘Begin? Begin what?’ asked Mr Battle, abruptly appearing along the path alone.

      ‘Begin to clear up the, uh, unpleasantness that may be brewing about Larry’s father because of the FBI,’ explained Honoria, casually folding the xeroxed pages of the article and shoving them into a pocket of her jacket. ‘By going and finding him.’

      ‘No, no, no,’ said Mr Battle. ‘That man should be buried, not dug up.’

      Honoria blinked uncertainly at her father but then continued.

      ‘And by finding and confronting his father,’ she persisted, ‘he could complete his relationship with the man and stop being insane on the subject.’

      ‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Battle. ‘He’s perfectly fine the way he is. I never understood why he bothers with psychiatrists anyway. Any man who can sell short November soybeans on Monday and buy them back on Friday for a two hundred per cent profit has no psychological problems whatsoever, believe me.’

      ‘Thank you,’ I said gloomily, now facing the three of them with my back to the ducks, who were squawking in discontent.

      ‘If he weren’t obsessed with his father he might have made three hundred per cent,’ said Kim.

      Mr Battle frowned as he considered the suggestion.

      ‘Well no, no,’ he finally concluded. ‘It may well be that Larry’s brilliance as a trader depends on his complicated attitude towards his father. Perhaps a cure would ruin him.’

      ‘Heaven forbid,’ said Kim, winking at me.

      ‘But Daddy,’ protested Honoria. ‘Think of how upsetting it would be to have Larry’s father dragged back here in chains spouting his idiocies about dice – just when Larry and I are going to be married.’

      ‘Well, perhaps,’ said Mr Battle, scowling, ‘but the easiest solution is news management – perhaps even prepare some papers proving he was an adopted child.’

      While staring absently out at the ducks I found my irritation and confusion slowly coalescing into something firm and undeviating: anger.

      ‘Larry is perfect the way he is,’ Mr Battle finally added.

      ‘Except when he raves on about his father,’ said Honoria.

      After an awkward silence had stretched into too many seconds I turned back to the others.

      ‘By God,’ I said. ‘I’m going to find the bastard!’

      That’s terrific,’ said Kim, springing up and running to give me an unexpected kiss on the cheek. ‘You’re going on a quest!’

      ‘I say the Dice Man is better off dead,’ Mr Battle muttered grimly.

      ‘I do too,’ I said firmly. ‘And one way or the other I’m going to bury him.’

      I stood there feeling angry, determined and noble.

      Behind me the ducks continued to paddle and poop.

       FROM LUKE’S JOURNAL

       Exactly what are the problems we humans would like to solve?

       The problem of unhappiness. Men don’t like being unhappy. Frowns are bad for the complexion.

       The problem of death. Death is felt to be a drag. Its silence is suspicious, a bit malevolent maybe. It is considered somewhat too permanent.

       The problem of failure. It’s not considered as much fun as success but seems to arrive more frequently.

       The problem of pain. Ingrown toenails, arthritis, headaches: the body always seems to stay one step ahead of Extra-Strength Tylenol.

       The problem of love: it doesn’t last, isn’t returned, or is returned too zealously and jealously.

       The problem of purpose: we don’t seem able to find one or, having found one, we lose interest too rapidly.

       The problem of reality: it’s never quite clear what it is. John’s and Jane’s always seem to differ. Today’s reality is tomorrow’s illusion. And today’s illusion

       The problem of evil: usually other people’s. Too many bad people are doing it to too few good people. God’s police force is understaffed.

       The problem of self: we can never quite figure out who we are or, having figured it out, find it pretty depressing.

       The problem of enlightenment: we often want it, but seldom have it. We know there is some better way of life, know we’re currently not living it, and want to get there from here.

       Life, as the Buddha said, is a thousand follies. And the sage is he who plays with the thousand follies.

       ‘There is one way to be wise,’ said the Buddha.

       ‘What is it, O Master?’

       ‘To play the fool.’

10

      What a weekend! Here I was being offered by the Japs a chance at wealth beyond my wildest daydreams while at the same time my engagement and job were under threat from my father’s suddenly crawling back into the daylight.

      And the threat was real. Mr Battle had tolerated my lack of wealth because I was showing some potential for rectifying the oversight, but there would be no way to rectify the Luke of the World СКАЧАТЬ