Savoir-faire – To Know and To Do
XXVI: Lire – To Read
Day 57 (AM): A woman my age really shouldn't be flirting with danger. Especially with a member of the Kalos Elite Four trailing along behind me. The only upshot, besides breaking the bank of the Coumarine casinos, was gaining information on Léa Morelle.
Ramos was right. The girl is in danger.
I still feel ambivalent about assisting her, though. It is none of my business.
They can sing. Pokémon can sing. They can sing in Kalosian. I am incredibly, very impressed. I was so impressed, with Darkrai, that it totally blew my mind over.
"What's the plot?" I asked Shauna. It might have been late, but the story wasn't over yet.
"Well, it's supposed to be a musical adaptation of an old Kalosian story, La Pucelle et Le Chevalier ," Shauna's brow furrowed. "Synchro is basically about a pair of twin Ralts separated at birth. The girl Ralts, who's the Gardevoir, is supposed to sing for a monster in a cave, so that the monster remains asleep always. The boy Ralts, who grows up into a Gallade, sets out to rescue his sister, who is following her duty. They end up confronting each other in the monster's cave, and there it ends. We don't know the end."
"M. Martin, our literature teacher, said that the story's central theme was the conflict of desire against duty," Serena continued for me. "M. Martin was very passionate about the subject.
"...I get the feeling that the guy hates guys in general."
Their story, the story of the Gardevoir and the Gallade, seemed to me an echo of what was in Daisy Linden's blue eyes, I recalled. A fire, not unlike the eternal blaze in her eyes, the eyes of the summery queen clad in the red and black of war and death, ugly and real and yet, from a distance, beautiful.
Such was the same. The musical might look and sound beautiful, though its subjects crude and cruel to each of themselves, both travelling vastly different paths that led them towards the opposite side.
Celadon, Mauville and Veilstone might have official Game Corners, but it was in Kalos that gambling must have exceeded mere monetary exchange into a high-rolling art form. Kalos neither fielded Pokémon Contests, nor did it hold great soirées of generalised fun. The casinos of Kalos had survived the wave of Prohibition from Unova, going underground, unseen except to those who knew where to look. The seaside resorts of Coumarine City, the celebrated port of Kalos, coming just after Kiloude and Lumiose itself in wealth, still fielded the green baize battlefields – and, during the battle season of the Île-de-l'arc Conference, more than one battlefield of the bookies.
My adopted home was very much an expensive place to have fun, yet such was the price of life.
This night saw us walking out into cool night sea air with Wikstrom's escort. The Conseil and I found the largest casino in Coumarine, still haemorrhaging drunken revellers and torn, desperate gamblers at eleven. A gibbous moon hung low in the skies; full moon approached despite a denizen of the new moon standing in my shadow. We were discussing Ramos.
"Morelle is trying to buy the Coumarine cave system?" I commented at Wikstrom's news. "Pourquoi? It is a giant, hollow hill."
"So is Sootopolis," Wikstrom pointed out. "I believe Achillée Morelle would attempt something at Ramos's birthday celebration, and Siebold was the one who told me. The two of us, and Grimsley, stopped by on our way back to Notre Dame for this reason."
"If Ramos dies, then the corporation sole of the Coumarine Gym Leader becomes defunct," I agreed. "The property is sold."
"We must thus make sure it is not sold."
"I still feel like it's more about protecting Ramos than Mademoiselle Morelle," I commented, almost to myself as I draped the coat around my shoulders, on the foyer of the Casino Bord de Mer. "Buy-in five million Poké, yes?"
Wikstrom nodded. "Yes."
He gave me an appraising look. "You look good."
I twirled, the lapels of my coat fluttering before I shacked it off to hand to the vestiaire. " Merci. The same could be said for you, Wikstrom."
Wikstrom dressed in a suit was a rare occurrence. Pale grey, with cuff-links of the barest topaz colouring to set them off, and a low collar.
" Je vous remercie, madame. " he nodded down to me. " Enchanté. "
"Which game...?" I pondered.
A server walked up to us, a card on a silver salver poised. How very quaint. "Monsieur Giima sends his regards from the blackjack table, Monsieur de Rais."
I picked up the card, leaving a mille-note. "A small tip."
" Merci, madame. Would you like to visit the caisse ?"
"Oui, merci. I would also like a... Would you like a drink, monsieur?"
"Gin and tonic," Wikstrom flatly stated. "A chocolate liqueur for the lady. Serve both to the chemmy table."
" Bien sûr. " The server thus left with renewed instructions.
"What will you do?" I asked Wikstrom, though I already had a clue.
"I suppose you'll need a chemmy partner," Wikstrom mused.
"I can loan you the buy-in-"
"My lady," Wikstrom cautioned. "I understand that you are an independent woman. Nevertheless, verily am I Wikstrom, the steel sword of the Kalos Elite Four, lord of the Maison de Rais. I can break the bank with a fraction of my house's fortunes."
"... sorry," I answered, smoothing over a wrinkle in my black dress. "I forgot."
Wikstrom's arm guided to the small of my back as we approached the table. Compared to the glided and painted ladies milling around, I must be especially plain, especially as I joined the chemmy table. Five other players, plus one banker; the thin, reedy face of our target by the dealing shoe ruddy and shiny.
" Numéro quatre, madame, " the huissier guided Wikstrom and I to seats number Three and Four respectively on the kidney-shaped table. Number Six was intensely regarding his cards, but he did look at us. I caught sight of him; he looked away.
" Banco de cinq cent mille, " the croupier announced, and as the smoking Deçolorois tycoon at Number One tapped the table in front of his fat pile of hundred-mille plaques, " le banco est fait. "
The reedy banker crouched over the shoe. He gave it a short deliberate slap to settle the cards, the first of which showed its semicircular pale pink tongue through the slanting aluminium mouth. With a thick fore-finger clinched with a thick signet ring, he pressed gently on the pink tongue and slipped out the first card six inches or a foot towards the Deçolorois on his right hand. Then he slipped out a card for himself, then another for the tycoon, then one more for himself. The banker settled into his perch, immobile, focused upon his prey instead.
With his flat wooden spatula, the croupier delicately lifted up the Deçolorois' cards and dropped them an extra few inches to the right. They lay just before the man's hairy hands, which themselves lay inert like two watchful pink Krabby on the table. The two Krabby scuttled out together, hustling the cards into a wide left hand, while the Deçolorois cautiously bent his head so that he could see, in the shadow made by his other cupped hand, the value of the bottom of the two cards. Then he slowly inserted the forefinger of his right hand and slipped the bottom card slightly sideways so that the value of the top card was also just perceptible.
His face was quite impassive. He flattened out his left hand on the table and then withdrew it, leaving the two pink cards face down before him, their secret hidden still. He lifted his head and looked the banker in the eye.
"Non," said he, quite flatly.
From the decision to stand and not ask, it was clear; five, or a six, or a seven. To be certain of winning, the banker had to reveal an eight or a nine. If the banker failed to show either figure, he also had the right to take another card which might or might not improve his count.
The banker had his hands clasped in front of him, his two cards three or four inches away. With his right hand he picked up the two cards and turned them face upwards on the table with a faint snap. They were a four and a five, an unbeatable natural nine.
He had won.
"Neuf à la banque," quietly said the croupier. With his spatula he faced the Deçolorois' two cards. "Et le sept," he said unemotionally, lifting up gently the corpses of the seven and queen.
He slipped them through the wide slot in the table near his chair, to the metal canister to which all revealed cards go. The banker's two cards followed them, with a faint rattle which came from the canister at the beginning of each session, before the discards have made a cushion over the metal floor of their oubliette.
The Deçolorois pushed forward five plaques of one hundred thousand, and the croupier added these to the bank's half million pledge which lay in the centre of the table, before taking a number of smaller plaques equalling twenty-five thousand for the cagnotte – the casino payout.
The croupier slipped some counters through the slot in the table which receives the cagnotte, and announced quietly: " Un banco d'un million. "
" Suivi, " the Deçolorois announced. The man sure had money to burn, to follow on his lost bet like this.
My chocolate liqueur arrived alongside Wikstrom's gin and tonic. I sipped, studying the whole table. Banker, Achillée Morelle, head of the Maison Morelle. He gained his power through both legal right and violence, though the Morelle were balanced out by the Maison Adonis Goutte-de-Sang. Its head Ramos was a Gym Leader no matter his advanced age, and having a grandson in the Elite Four never hurt anyone. It would be a tipping balance, though, if Ramos died.
In the next round, the Deçolorois held a three-card four, losing to the bank's six.
"Un banco d'un million," the croupier announced once more. A cautious player, but not averse to risk to place a million Poké at stake so early.
The players on my left remained silent.
"Banco," I called.
Achillée Morelle looked to me, the whites of his eyes glazed with red lending something doll-like to his gaze. He slowly removed one thick hand from the table and gave the shoe its usual hard, sharp slap.
During this offensive pantomime I studied the banker. Wide expanse of white face – no tanning in sunny Coumarine? Introvert or preference for indoors – surmounted by a short abrupt cliff of greyed hair, unsmiling wet red mouth – high blood pressure, nervous tic of biting lips, frequency indicate either lack of tell or long practice at fake tells, too frequent to be real if he's playing chemmy at Coumarine's casinos – and the width of shoulders contrary to his reediness that caused them to be loosely draped in a massively cut dinner-jacket – hot, prone to sweating, also possibly diabetic. Lousy tailor – the tailor was possibly Unovan, to use so much cotton and match an argyle tie with that ensemble.
I slipped a set of plaques onto the table without counting them. I did hold ten million with Wikstrom's contribution, after all.
There was an electric storm, somewhere. There was silence as Morelle fingered the four cards out of the shoe.
The croupier slipped my cards across with the tip of his spatula. I still held the banker's gaze, but I reached my right hand out a few inches, glanced down very swiftly, then looked up again impassively. I sniffed, and tossed the cards face upwards on the table.
They were a pair of fours — a natural eight.
A little gasp of envy echoed from the table and the Deçolorois exchanged rueful glances with his Hoennite neighbour at their failure. With a hint of a shrug, Morelle slowly faced his own two cards and flicked them away with his fingernail. They were two valueless knaves – how symbolic.
"Le baccarat," intoned the croupier as he spaded the thick chips over the table to me.
Number Five, an intolerable fluffy specimen tittered. "Shouldn't have let it come to you," she gave a wry smile. "I kicked myself when the cards were dealt."
"It's only the beginning" I answered. "You may be right the next time you pass it."
The curtain lifted on the third act.
The third act lifted from where the second ended. It featured the pair, Gallade and Gardevoir, Gauche and Droite, in a cave opposite the mysterious monster, the nebulous threat that had hung throughout the play that may or may not do anything, but had driven the conflict between Gauche and Droite.
Perhaps...
Fascinating, Darkrai told me mentally, avidly listening to their musical arguments. Humans are the only species that places so much emphasis on music, as much as Kricketot and Kricketune and Chatot. A Gardevoir and Gallade would have no other reason to master human speech, much less music, otherwise.
"You don't go out much, do you?" I asked quietly. "How d'you know?"
He didn't answer. Darkrai didn't have to; it was obvious. It was the musical making me feel sappy and weird.
Down on the stage, Gauche began a crescendo, with Droite's chiming:
Piégé dans le berceau du temps,
Je rêvais de songes gelés.
Mais rien que pour moi, tu as chanté,
Cette berceuse d'une voix qui m'a apaisé.
Dis-moi ce que tu as voulu ?
Un monde qui ne finit pas.
Mais mon choix n'est pas de cela.
Veux-tu un monde perdu ?
La voix est celle de la souffrance,
Le malheur,
Et le rire,
Dans mon chant,
Liés à ma persévérance !
Toutes mes pires douleurs,
Mes plus grands bonheurs.
Transformer mes pleurs,
Ma voix effaçant tes peurs.
Marches-tu vers la fin ?
Je prie pour ton bien !
Je ne veux que ton soutien…
Protéger le monde de son destin…
Protéger ton âme, seulement te sauver,
Nos sentiments ne peuvent se croiser !
Tendre la main et donner au monde la paix,
Stopper la vie, quitter le quai,
Bénir les siècles passés et à venir.
Et pouvoir obtenir un avenir.
Mais je n'arrive pas à communiquer,
Ah, nous sommes incapables de communiquer,
Nos souhaits ne sont que des rêves à oublier.
Cela commence... !
A la lumière de notre futur,
Pourquoi ont-ils tout pris de toi ?
Chanter ce requiem tant que le temps dure.
La douleur, la souffrance et la peine ne reviendront pas.
La lumière brisera ce triste sort,
Je hais à tout jamais ce triste sort,
Les ténèbres seront libérées !
Rien que pour ce jour tout soit libéré !
...
Où se trouve la lumière à présent ?
Dis-moi !
Est-elle dans ton cœur ?
Où puis-je la trouver ?
Regarde bien !
Elle est tout autour de nous…
Elle est EN nous !
...
Crois en moi / Fais-moi confiance
...
Dis-moi, qu'as-tu toujours voulu ?
Que tu ais un avenir.
Le désirais-je moi-même ? Je suis perdu, je crois.
Depuis que tu n'en as plus.
Cette chasse a duré si longtemps,
Mais pour voir ton beau visage, je ferais n'importe quoi.
Une chanson d'espoir,
Brise cette époque noire,
Chantée à jamais,
Qui sans prière va périr.
L'appel de nos voix finira également par mourir,
Reste là s'il te plaît !
Une fois de plus laissons le chant d'agonie nous dominer !
Pourquoi es-tu loin ? Laissons à nouveau l'agonie nous dominer !
Hahaha !
Tendre la main et donner au monde la paix,
Bénir les siècles passés et à venir,
La lumière brisera ce triste sort,
Et les ténèbres seront libérées !
Au fil des heures,
Chanteras-tu pour moi ?
Ma voix effaçant tes pleurs
Viendras-tu pourrir toi aussi dans ce gouffre de misère ?
Je hurle mes prières.
Maintenant au moins, la fin n'est pas loin,
Une fois de plus, laissons le chant d'agonie nous prendre en main !
l'agonie nous prendre en main !
Dis-moi qu'as-tu toujours voulu ?
Quel était ce que je cherchais ?
De ta voix lumineuse maintenant partie,
Ne reste qu'un soupir, j'ai raté toute ma vie.
Et tout seul, je n'arrive plus qu'à chanter pour toi,
Et tout seul je n'arrive plus qu'à...
Tu m'avais dit…
De croire en toi…
...
Tendre la main et donner au monde la paix,
Stopper la vie, quitter le quai,
Bénir les siècles passés et à venir.
Et pouvoir obtenir un avenir.
C'est ainsi que notre histoire s'achèvera,
Ah, il est temps, notre histoire s'achèvera,
Peu l'importe où l'on va tant que tu es là.
La toute première voix qui a déclenché ce récit
À la lumière de toute notre vie,
Partir vite, fuir cette chaire, que tout se termine et
Chanter ce requiem tant qu'il n'est pas fini,
Je vais accepter ce triste sort,
La lumière brisera ce triste sort,
Rien que pour ce jour, tout soit libéré... !
Les ténèbres seront libérées... !
Dans la plus noire des clartés, ne plus s'éveiller... !
(Pour toujours…)
The scent, smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning. A soul-erosion produced by high gambling — the compost of greed, fear and nervous tension — is quite hard to bear. I suddenly knew that I was tired. I was not always aware that I was tired, but occasion had lent a certain form of clarity via long experience and experiments. Experiments being when I walked into the Lost Hotel with every intention of making it my grave, amongst a horde of Litwick, and emerged with a Lampent to light the way.
"If one could be right every hand, none of us would be here," Number Six philosophically commented. "Ah, mes excuses. My name is Gagné, Guillaume Gagné."
Less outstanding than his name of Woten Oak, but still notable.
"Marguerite du Bois," I answered him. "This is my companion, Wikstrom de Rais. Have we met?"
"I doubt so, madame," the self-proclaimed Guillaume Gagné replied, a touch patronising.
The croupier announced a million and a half in the bank. I busied myself with my drink, considering the table once more. The fluffy specimen of Number Five said "Banco," and immediately lost to the banker's natural.
"Un banco de deux millions," the croupier called next.
"Banco avec la table," I replied. Wikstrom contributed the other half of the bet obligingly. He drew a jack and an ace, leaving a one.
"Carte," he announced. Achillée turned his cards over; a pair of twos; a four. I exhaled, waiting for the white finger to extract the pink tongue and for the croupier to serve it up on his long platter. Wikstrom left it face-up; seven.
Morelle immediately took a card. His face contorted, slapping the six onto the table.
"Le baccarat," the croupier announced, before revealing Wikstrom's cards. "Et huit."
A sigh rose from across the table, and Wikstrom divided the return between us.
"Are you going to play chemmythe whole time?" Wikstrom asked.
I sighed, stretching my arms high. No one who looking at the plain black dress any longer; they were looking at the pile of plaques. "High stakes, monsieur. If it looks likely, our bank looks close to be empty. We can throw the whole on roulette or poker, your choice."
"Against Grimsley?"
"I have beaten the man before."
"Un banco de quatre millions," the croupier called.
Wikstrom and I exchanged looks; Wikstrom immediately opened a bet with the table, and I supplied the funds.
"Lady has the cards," he offered.
" Merci beaucoup. " I glanced at the cards as they were slid over again. Five; dangerous. And yet... " Carte. "
Morelle flipped over his cards: seven.
I nodded still, and then looked at the card they sent over, two pips greeting me.
"Tie," I revealed.
All bets were withdrawn, and again a bank of four million Poké offered. M. Morelle was impatient, certainly.
" Banco, " I called.
" Le jeu est fait, " said the croupier, and two cards came slithering over green baize, the poisoned serpents of greed aimed to strike poison at my heart or my wallet.
I took both cards again, trying not to grimace at the black-shrouded king and jack. The worst; nothing, zero. Baccarat. "Carte."
Morelle revealed his hand; a king and two of clubs. We were in. Now for the moment of truth. Achillée Morelle slapped the shoe, slipped out a card, and slowly turned it face up.
It was a nine, a wonderful nine of diamonds, the curse that meant almost certain victory.
The croupier slipped it delicately across. To Morelle it meant nothing. I might might have had a one, in which case I had the baccarat. Or a two, three, four, or even five. In which case, with the nine, his maximum count would be four.
Holding a three and giving nine is one of the tricky situations, the crossroads of the iron road at hand. The odds, so nearly divided between to draw or not to draw, would be crushing him. The banker was sweating; a thin dribble of blood laved over his lips, swelling scarlet. A nine could only be equalled by the banker drawing a seven at this stage. My cards lay on the green baize battlefield; two impersonal salmon flags, and the faced nine of diamonds. To him the nine might be telling the truth or many variations of lies. The whole secret lay in the reverse of the two pink backs, where king and prince kissed the green cloth.
Rivulets ran the length of either side of the beaky nose. His thick tongue came out slyly and licked a drop out of the corner of his red gash of a mouth. Piggy eyes flashed to my cards, to his, and back. His whole body shrugged and he slipped out a card from the lisping shoe.
He faced it. The table craned. It was a wonderful card, a five.
" Huit à la banque, " said the croupier.
I sat silently. Achillée Morelle suddenly grinned. He must have won.
The croupier's spatula reached almost apologetically across the table. There was no one at the table who did not believe in my defeat. The spatula flicked the two pink cards over on their backs. Solemnly, king and prince looked to the lights.
" Et le neuf."
A great gasp went up round the table, and then a hubbub of talk exploded with congratulations to me. The reedy man fell back in his chair as if slugged above the heart. His mouth opened and shut once or twice and his right hand felt at his throat. He rocked back, the red of blood apparent against the white of lips.
As the huge stack of plaques was shunted across the table to me, the banker reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and threw a wad of notes on to the table. The croupier riffled through them.
"Un banco de deux millions," he announced. He slapped down their equivalent in plaques of a million each.
Close to no return, I deduced. " Serveur. Une crème au chocolat ," I ordered.
The players on my left remained silent. I considered Achillée Morelle, this specimen of Hades whose gates rose at Coumarine and Lumiose. We were at the top of the casino, the salle privée , surrounded by brass rails and possibly the hidden fangs of where the underworld lurked. " Banco. "
The cards were drawn, and he lost to my five and three. I rose, set aside a million in plaques, and made arrangements for the rest sent towards the caisse.
"Play for me, monsieur," I bade Wikstrom as we both rose. "Put it all on red."
"Madame," Wikstrom nodded.
The barrier surrounding the caissecomes as high as my chin. The caissier, generally nothing more than a minor bank clerk, sat on a stool and dipped into piles of notes and plaques, ranged on shelves behind him, nervously handling the small fortune I had skimmed from the private funds of a violent and powerful man. There would be a telescopic baton, possibly a gun for protection under that table – this was not Kanto, where guns were illegal. Neither was it Hoenn – gun control too high – or Sinnoh – pointless. There would be Houndour, Houndoom or Arcanine, possibly. To heave over the barrier and steal some notes, and then vault back and get out of the casino through the passages and doors would be quite close to impossible. Furthermore, caissiersgenerally worked in pairs, especially with a standing contract with the Anistar City headquarters of La Banque de Kalos.
I reflected on the problem as the sheaf of cent-mille Poké and then the sheaves of dix-mille notes. I could imagine tomorrow's regular morning meeting of the casino committee.
"Monsieur Morelle lost six million. He played his usual game. Madame du Bois made five million in an hour and then left. She executed three "bancos" of M. Morelle and then left. Durand, the chef de partie, has the details. She played with coolness. Monsieur le Baron de Rais, her companion, made two million at chemin-de-fer. On the soirée, the chemin-de-fer won x, the baccarat won y and the roulette won z."
"Merci, Monsieur Petit."
"Merci, Monsieur le President."
Something like that, I thought as I pushed through to the salle privée and greeted the sentry in evening clothes. The casino committee would then balance its books, and break up to its homes, cafés, or the beach for lunch.
As for robbing the caisse, it would probably take ten good men, and they would certainly have to kill employees. I decided that in no way would Morelle try to rob the caisse , and that the casino would not cheat a silly academic of her winnings to be wired into her account.
With that decided, I assessed myself. I felt dry, uncomfortable grit under my evening shoes; the sweet cloy in my mouth; slight sweat under my arms. Eyes filling their sockets from exhaustion. Congested nose. Bedtime.
I debated re-entering the salle, but the decision was taken out of my hands when I felt the ghostly presence nearby, sneaking a tongue out. I pinched the tongue, earning a yelp, but also revealing a Haunter that seemed to have tracked me from Shalour City. It looked familiar enough with the contours of my legs, certainement.
"Bonsoir," I said, feeling for a Pokéball. The last orb on my belt burst open, and Phantump growled towards Haunter as the child-like Pokémon appeared.
"Haunt, haunt," the Haunter growled in answer, its tongue about to sneak out to Lick. The paralytic effects of a Haunter were fascinating, but I had no desire to experience them myself tonight.
"Stump!" Phantump insisted, offended.
The Haunter beckoned to me, filtering back into the shadows on either side of the foyer hall. I followed him. Barely five steps, a quintet of men stormed out, Morelle at their head.
"Find the woman," Morelle ordered. "The Elite Four might be ripping off the roulette, but I will not let some plain Jane take Morelle money from me."
The men affirmed, and divided, leaving me alone, hidden but for the grace of a stalker ghost and a floating stump.
I sighed, turning to Haunter. "Altair is going to have a field day..."
I sent Phantump in my place, with a message to Wikstrom; the little Ghost arrived back with him in tow, and about ten million Poké richer. I received five million Poké, which was still peanuts, but wealth enough.
"The rouge sends its regards," Wikstrom answered. "Do you require an escort, madame?"
I accepted the crook of his elbow, while Phantump lit Will-O-Wisps around us to light our path and Haunter trailed behind, choked by a thin, dark hand that could only be my very friendly acquaintance from Sinnoh. "S'il vous plaît. My room."
I would tell him. Afterwards.
Tonight I met a Haunter who insisted on following me from Shalour City. It was a fortuitous occasion; I evaded Morelle's men with its' and Phantump's assistance. Were I not overstaffed at the moment, I must consider them as prospective members- perhaps. Yes.
– Marguerite Linden du Bois
I doubt that Siebold and Ramos actually have a familial relation, but it's too early to tell.
According to Wikipedia, a corporation sole is a legal entity consisting of a single ("sole") incorporated office, occupied by a single ("sole") person. This allows corporations (often religious corporations or Commonwealth governments) to pass without interval in time from one office holder to the next successor-in-office, giving the positions legal continuity with subsequent office holders having identical powers to their predecessors. This is an interpretation of the quasi-public entity that Gyms are; technically set up by a private individual, but approved by the public in the form of the local League.
The song is arranged by Poucet again, being Synchronicity ~巡る世界のレクイエム by ひとしずくP (sm19618454), vocals: Kagamine Rin & Len.
Critiquez, s'il vous plaît!
