The Fourth Night

 

As promised the previous week, after dinner, I set up the table for our game. I took two decks of cards, shuffled them, and dealt 53 cards each to myself and to him, alternating. Always in silence, I took my 53 cards, and he took his.

“Now, separate thirteen cards, place them to your right, and leave the top card face-up. During the game, always leave the top card from that stack face-up. The remaining stack should always have all the cards face-down.”

“Now, a few introductory words. This game is about a hundred and fifty years old, and it spread quickly around the world and games often end up adopting many different names, with rules changing here and there depending on the region they’re played in. Traditionally, it’s called Russian Bank, but some French enthusiast thought the cards jumped around the table like frogs in a pond, so they called the game 'Crapaud,' or 'frog,' and so it goes, from country to country. That said, I’m going to teach you how I learned it, and just know that another player might tell you they play it with another name or differently in some way.”

“The stack on the right is the crapaud, and the one on the right is the discard pile. From that pile, we’ll each take four cards and make two columns, like I’m showing you.”

“Whoever has the highest card in the crapaud starts the game. You should begin by looking at the eight cards we have face-up on the table. We need to build descending sequences with alternating colors. For example, you can place this red Queen over the black King, which will leave an open space. Place this Ace of Diamonds in the space between the two columns. All the Aces we find will go between the columns, and on top of them, we’ll build ascending sequences of the same suit. Do we have any 2s of Hearts in the two columns?”

“No.”

“Then we’ll wait for one. But with this movement, we’ve opened two cards in the columns. This is the time to use the cards from the crapaud. If the top card can go into one of the descending sequences, use it for that; if it can go into one of the Ace foundations, use it for that. If it doesn’t fit anywhere, just fill one of the empty spaces. Now flip the second card and see what can be done with it. Alright! Now leave the third card face-up, and that’s how it will be for the rest of the game, until the crapaud runs out—or doesn’t.”

“If there’s nothing more to do with the crapaud, flip the top card of the reserve pile and repeat the process with it: can it go into any sequence? Any foundation? If not, leave it face-up between your two piles; this will be the discard pile. Now it’s my turn. First the crapaud, then the discard pile. Notice that whenever there’s space and an opportunity to move cards from the table, the crapaud, the reserve, or the discard to expand the sequences or foundations, I should do so.”

“Another thing: if I pull a card from my discard pile of the same suit, immediately higher or lower in value than the card on top in your discard pile, I can place my card on top of yours. If we have space in the columns and I flip a card from my discard pile of the same suit, immediately higher or lower in value than the card at the top of your crapaud, I can place it on top of it.”

“The game goes on until one of us runs out of cards and wins. It might happen that the game gets blocked. Some say that the player with fewer cards wins, while others follow a point system to determine a winner. I follow the school of thought that says: it’s a tie, and no one wins.”

“Now, let’s go on the adventure of Crapaud!”

“Off we go!” he replied.

 

 

The Third Night

 

During the week, on Thursday, Nick asked me: “All set for tomorrow?”

“Absolutely,” I replied.

And so, we met for our third dinner.

As we sipped one last glass of wine after the meal, settling on the couch, he noticed some of my artwork hanging on the wall.

“Do you like abstract art?”

“Not really, though I’ve tried my hand at it as a form of self-expression.”

“Like these?” he said, pointing to the pieces on the wall.

“These aren’t exactly abstract works. You know, I’m quite fond of traditional board games from different cultures—so much so that I collect them. With the internet, it's easy to research games and their rules. So, when I find the rules for a game that isn’t available on the market, I make the game myself and try to treat it like a beautiful object, a work of art. That’s when I realized that game boards could be seen as abstract art. They’re squares and circles, curved and straight lines, colors. Letting my imagination run wild, I created these pieces. Some of them turned out so well that they ended up on the wall. After all, my love for games also brings me a big problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, you see, I live alone, I don’t have any partners, and my damn shyness makes me too timid to join something like a chess club. Sure, there’s the computer, but it’s like reading on a screen—it just doesn’t compare to the pleasure of reading a real book. The texture of the paper, the act of turning the pages, holding the book, the smell of the paper!” (and I made a comical expression of sheer delight).

He laughed and said, “That’s what also explains your many books.”

“Yes, books. They’re my many friends. I read them, re-read them, look at them, and blow them kisses.”

“That’s really curious!”

“What’s that?”

“You’re so intelligent, sensitive, sweet, and yet you relate to books.”

“I’m all that, perhaps, and I’ll tell you that I do like people. I enjoy meeting them, loving them. Even the big troublemakers. But I don’t allow space for the intimacy of a deep relationship.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead!”

“Pick a fun game for us to play next week.”

“Okay, but don’t leave me in the dark. What’s a fun game to you?”

He thought for a moment and said, “I think I’d like something dynamic, not too much thinking involved nor too mechanical or boring.”

“I think I can think of something like that. Definitely not chess.”

“I’ve never played chess.”

“It’s my favorite game, though I’m the worst chess player alive. It’s true, I’ve had games that lasted more than ten hours.”

“What?! No way, that sounds awful!”

“Well, get ready for next week, my fellow player!”

 

The Second Night.

 

To my surprise, during the week, Nick offered to come over again next Friday. With a smile, I accepted: same bat-channel, same bat-time.

This time, I didn’t struggle much thinking about what to cook.

When he arrived, around 7 PM, I was finishing up the cooking and starting to set the table.

A little while later, he noticed that I had moved the figures of the Three Kings in my nativity scene, placing them next to the manger.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"I’m not going to question Jesus, but do you really believe in a star that was wandering through the sky guiding some wise men?"

"I’m not sure if the biblical account is describing a real event or if it’s a symbolic narrative. Both supporters and detractors have strong arguments, and I honestly don’t know which side is right. And I suspect that neither do they, despite their speeches."

"You don’t have an opinion?"

"I don’t think I need one. Or rather, I’m Catholic and I believe in what the Church believes. If my personal opinion differs from something the Church has been saying since apostolic times, then I know my personal opinion is wrong. That said, it’s not impossible that God might have created an atmospheric event that caught the attention of some astrologers, and that with their knowledge, they connected that event to the birth of a king of the Jews. As my grandfather used to say, 'se non è vero è ben trovato.'”

“???”

“If it’s not true, it’s well told.”

"The real difficulty with this story is the star?"

"Exactly. It moved forward, appeared, and disappeared. Astronomers try to find a real event that fits this description, and in that sense, Kepler gave a beautiful explanation, both astronomical and astrological. But it hasn’t convinced everyone. So there are those who think it’s just a symbol of God’s desire, or that it’s a miraculous act, and so on with explanations that don’t explain anything, but only confuse. So, I accept the text as true, both symbolically and literally."

"It’s curious that you don’t have an opinion. Everyone wants one about everything."

"Not me," I said with a smile. "On some things I’m sure, on others, I have faith. But, like in the case of the Star of Bethlehem, when the experts studying the matter simply tell me they don’t know anything, why should I guess? Like a little child, I just hold God’s hand and ask Him to guide me through the confusion."

"Do you do that even when it comes to the crisis your Church is going through?"

"Yes, though in this case, it’s easier to know what stance to take. The Catholic Church has been around for over two thousand years. What I have to do is stay faithful to all these years; the recent novelties should just be ignored. Or better said: lamented, knowing what false Catholics are doing while using the Church’s structure to do so. However, the more they stray from Jesus, the closer they get to failure, for the branch that is cut off from the vine withers and dies."

"I think my atheist position is more comfortable."

"It may be. But now, my atheist friend, sit down before the food gets cold!"

"My God, it smells amazing!"

"Of course, dear atheist!" I said with another smile.

 

The First Night

              Yesterday was my first night with Nick.

Let me explain: it was the first night we met at my place.

Let me clarify: no, it wasn’t a romantic or sexual meeting. It was just dinner. We ate and talked and laughed a lot.

Since we work at the same company, we’d see each other around—quick hellos and good mornings—and over time, we started chatting. Eventually, a mutual fondness developed. "Idem velle, idem nolle"—same likes, same dislikes. For last, I invited him for a dinner in my place what was last Friday.

So, a few days before yesterday, I was excited, planning the dinner. I went from exotic dishes to simpler ones, discarding them all either because I was afraid of seeming snobbish or of appearing disinterested.

My only certainty was that I had to do my best for my new friend. After all, when two people love and hate the same things, that’s what they are: friends.

And that also made me nervous—inviting someone into my home. Friendships are like love relationships in some ways. From work, we’d met for cocktails at bars, but the intimacy of home—my home—is different.

I’m not one to easily connect with people. I prefer solitude. I prefer books. I know this isn’t exactly Nick’s thing.

He enjoys parties, being around people, going dancing on Saturday nights. Though, he has few close friends. He knows a lot of people, but there are only a handful of true friends.

His smile is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen on a man, and without a doubt, he’s much better looking than I am.

We agreed that he’s the life of the party, while I’m the one often mistaken for the fern in the corner of the room.

Anyway, back to the dinner dilemma. Moving from one option to another, unsure of this and that, I decided to go with the obvious: when in doubt, choose the classics. And in Brazilian cuisine, what’s more classic than stroganoff?

Simple and sophisticated, having survived the test of time and geography, with nothing traveling worse than food, stroganoff is perfect.

Decision made, I started by chopping a nice piece of beef, about a kilo. I didn’t think it had to be filet mignon; I went with sirloin, cut into fairly small strips.

I sautéed the meat with finely chopped onions and garlic, and a few bay leafs. Once browned, I added a bit of water and let it cook on low heat until the meat was tender, almost falling apart.

Once that was done, I flamed the meat with a good whiskey I’ve been saving for occasions like this. I removed the bay leaf and added some button mushrooms. Then, I stirred in heavy cream until it formed a slightly thickened sauce, followed by ketchup until it turned a nice rosy cream.

I did think about using hearts of palm instead of mushrooms, but I rejected the idea, even knowing it would taste good, since it would stray even further from the original (as if there weren't enough deviations already!).

I made a simple but perfect white rice, and a classic salad of lettuce, tomato and onions slices to accompany the main dish. Red wine to drink.

Needless to say, everything was perfect. Our evening was full of conversation and laughter. He had seconds (he’s as good with a fork as I am) and left around midnight.

I stayed behind, satisfied and almost proud of myself, savoring one last glass before bed, smiling as I thought: idem velle, idem nolle.