Victor Rerick
Arts in NYC
Professor Graff
October 23, 2012
The Card Players
A loud clanging sound woke me. Three times it echoed around the walls, and each time a chorus of cheers followed in quick succession. Dazed, I lifted my head. I was sitting on a small wooden bench, my head resting on a splintered table. I lifted my head and quickly surveyed my surroundings. I was inside of a small kitchen, barely furnished except for the stool and table on which I reclined. I had fallen asleep here last night, after three day of running from the French forces through the open country. I knew little of the war, but when hundreds of soldiers unexpectedly flooded into our village last week, we were all forced to run. Some families fled together, but as a poor orphan I decided to retreat alone. By now I must have put miles between the invading forces and myself. I had stumbled upon this house under the cover of night, and was now seeing it for the first time.
An old stove burned quietly in the corner. The only window was open, and as I stood I could see a field that rolled over the never-ending hills that stretched to the horizon. The pungent smell of cheap liquor hung in the air. My eyes danced rapidly in all directions, looking at once to the north south and west. Nothing was visible except for the hills. They were completely covered by rows and rows of corn.
Clang! Horrah! Clang! Hoorah! I turned around swiftly. I remembered the sounds that had broken my slumber only a minute ago. A sense of dread consumed my body. I was not alone in the house. Clang! Horrah! Clang Horrah! The cheers grew louder with each clang, and appeared to reach a deafening crescendo. Suddenly, I heard the noise of steam bursting forth from a small teakettle interrupt the chorus. The house fell silent. They knew I was here. They must. They would come for me.
“Piere Le…. Leau chaude. The hot water you fool!” The wiry voice came from behind a tiny closed door I hadn’t seen before. Heavy footsteps grew increasingly near. I panicked and considered jumping for the window but it was to close to the door. Too risky. I jumped behind the stove, my only other option for staying out of view. The door creaked and then swung open. It smacked into the wall, causing the room’s lone painting to come crashing to the floor. I was out of view, but could see through a small crack in the aged stove.
A towering man stood in the doorway. He was dressed in fine military apparel, but his shirt was loose, his belt undone, and his feet were bare on the wooden floor. Curly hair hid his ears and neck, and a large bushy moustache dominated his otherwise small facial features. He wrecked of alcohol. He opened his lips but for a moment no words arrived. When they did they were slurred and slow. Le chaude, Bien sur!
A large drunken smile spread across his face. He lumbered forward, grabbed the tea-kettle from the stove and stared at it like a young child fascinated by a small animal. He began to mimic the teapots whistle and let out a deep laugh, amused by his antics. But his mouth closed abruptly. His eyes swung below the stoves surface, to the corner between the stove and the wall where I lay cowering.
“Allo mon ami. cachant le plaisir.” My heart dropped to the bare wooden floor. I did not understand his words, but I knew they were directed at me. I had been spotted. I jumped out from the stove, under the man’s legs and dashed for the door. My foot caught an exposed nail and I crashed to the living room floor. Three startled soldiers jumped from their chairs, and drew their swords. Two of them, one dressed in green attire, and the other in a matching blue uniform, turned to each other, and laughed. The other man, a particularly slender and pale fellow, stepped forward. He extended his hand and spoke to his comrades in words I knew. “Another one, eh Pier. “
“Wei”, came the reply from behind me, where Pierre now stood in the doorway, teakettle in hand. “I thought we had found all the hideouts but ahh cest le vie.”
“Come,” said the tall man, “join us, we are all friends here. You hide from the war, and we hide from the army. We are all just hideouts, interlopers in each other’s misfortune. He motioned towards an unoccupied stool. My sense of fear was slowly dissipating.
I sat down, and waited for further instructions. But none came. Pierre came and sat beside me, the odor of alcohol now intensified by the presence of the other three men. The slender soldier grabbed a bottle and poured the remaining drops into their cups. Pierre picked up a fork and clumsily smashed his cup with it. Clang! A brief moment of silence followed. The men threw their heads back. “Hoorah! And long live the King” shouted the soldier in blue. The others laughed. Pierre collected the playing cards scattered across the table. He turned to me and managed to mutter, “ You can play this game”. Confused if I was being given permission or asked a question, I took the cards in my hand and nodded. Pierre grinned mightily, and turned back to his now empty cup. And so Pierre, his three comrades, and myself, played through the night, clanging glasses and shouting hoorah, until the moon climbed high over the rolling corn-fields.
