The House of Games — Charles Roux
two extracts
[Extract I]
Finally, you get up off the bench, woken by the ocean breeze and shaken from your dreamy lethargy. Parcel under your arm, you’re back on your way, ready to make the most of it. It is at this precise place, between the beach and that of your perdition, that the Jiminy Cricket of your conscience comes back to you. Really, Antoine, are you going to dive back into the game? When will you bring this headlong rush to an end? It would be one thing if you had the audacity to plumb the depths of your excesses …
That’s the last qualm that niggles, waking the true gambler sleeping within; the total player, ready to bet his watch, the shirt off his back, the keys to his car; prone to signing any paper so long as it ends with a surge of adrenaline—the promise of multiplied gains. Delphine has never been able to understand it; she hesitates spending Monopoly money playing board games. From time to time, she’ll drag at a cigarette, wary of any other kind of drug, while you want to try them all. She talks with certainty, assurance, of security, and the little pleasures in life; you dream of rollercoasters and destiny, improbable encounters and serendipity. In that case, Antoine, believe in yourself, and put it all on everything. All in!
You know the opportunity is real and what it involves. You immediately cast an anxious glance at the quilted canvas packet that, in view of this scintillating prospect, you are ready to abandon. You have heard whispers of the secret game spoken about by the regulars, its promise vanishing into the air and reappearing behind absent smiles.
At the heart of The Golden Krone, an extreme and sacred game exists: the 31. As you can only play it once in your life, whether you win or lose matters a great deal and not at all. Therefore, you must be ready to give it up, to hand off the box your parcel contains once and for all. The losses are high and frequent, but the winnings are immense and unique: a final role, without safety net or oversight, far beyond all legalities, and even, they tell you, beyond the rational. The ultimate confrontation with fate.
So Antoine, are you ready to play with your gut, for keeps? And in doing so put an end to the dependence you regret every Saturday morning, knowing that you’ve given over to cards and dice too much energy, too much money, and too much hope. Might as well go out in style, no? If that’s what you really desire, do it, take the final step before the void. Descend into the entrails of the house of games, accept the improbable and unexpected, the impossible and marvellous. A total plunge into the well of your desires, and with it the possibility of undoing your vile addiction.
This evening, the desire to discover a parallel world moves in you like never before. Alas, once again, the weight of your habit knocks you for six. It must be said, your dates with chance have you hooked. Every Friday sets you free, you think, looking for phony shortcuts. Instead, admit that this practice locks you up, shuts you within an existence that you dream were different, but which nonetheless clings to the very seams of the ordinary life you’re fleeing. In truth, it’s less so the prospect of losing that worries you than the notion of a new Antoine who is done with a ludopathy that leaves you perplexed. Don’t worry, you still have plenty of other vices and manias left, other dependencies that you refuse to confront. If you were to show a little more daring, this could be the chance to escape your personal hell …
Your inner monologue goes on like that while your legs carry you to The Golden Krone. The giant that guards the entry looks you over with an inquiring eye. He has all the features of a reckless barbarian, proud and angular. An inscrutable past, the Foreign Legion or a labour camp; why not both? His face is slashed up, and there are traces of burns on his arms and neck. By way of a badge, Olav sports a drawing on his arm.
In red and black, standing out against his inked skin, is an episode from a Nordic saga. The legend of Saint Olav says that he was able to throw dice with such dexterity that he could determine the results in advance. On the tattoo, St. Olav is represented playing a turn in which, in order to win, he must roll higher than a double six. He throws the dice; one of them comes up six and the other breaks in two, one face showing six, the other showing one: a total of seven.
Rather than presenting the doorman your parcel to get inside the private rooms, as he is accustomed, you say that you are ready. The big night. The 31. It’s today, you’ve finally made up your mind. The giant interrogates you with a look; you affirm. A frank and sincere Yes: you want to gamble your meagre fortune and your future, everything you own, your physical integrity, even your life if you must. All in!
With a nod of the head, Olav invites you to enter the secret rooms of The Golden Krone by a door off to the side which you have never noticed before.
On the other side, two old acquaintances welcome you: Pauline and Alexandra, the Butterfly Twins!
Their nickname comes from the influence they exert on chance and probability by their mere presence. Where cards are drawn in disorder, they need do no more than approach the table and suddenly everyone gets their bearings, reading the game with ease and embracing their opportunities. If their powers stopped there, they would have been banished from The Golden Krone, and every other house of games of chance. Alas, they are just as likely to chase luck off and sow disarray in every draw. Trouble mongers, all said. Just like the infamous creature who is responsible for terrifying storms, they flutter their wings and chaos ensues.
But you, Antoine, aren’t taken in by their apparent twinship. You would even bet, if the stakes were right, that Pauline is older, one or two imperceptible years between them, a spark in her eye giving her something like a touch of added wisdom over Alexandra. For all we know, their names are Martine and Valérie, and they’re nothing more than good friends or vague cousins at best.
What counts is that they like you. They trust you, calling you Monsieur Antoine as a mark of personal respect. If they could call you count or baron, duke or prince, no doubt they would. They are superb, knowing when to hold and how to play smartly. The zest for madness they maintain throughout their turns is the guarantee of a joyful and lively night.
This night, however, you are as surprised to find them behind the door you have just, for the first time, entered as to sense a dash of sorrow, almost disappointment in them:
— So, Monsieur Antoine, you’re leaving us?
You tip the packet. For a long time you’ve wanted to know what’s inside it!
— Ah well, it’s the moment to open it …
You look at your treasure, finally be able to use it. Superstitiously, you caress the crown embroidered on it in golden thread. With this gesture having brought you luck, you undo the material wrapping ceremoniously, and withdraw a silver box from the sacred skin. The latch is not protected by a padlock, and with only the pressure of your fingers on the edge of the lid, it opens to reveal its interior.
In the baize case, held snuggly in their specific spots, two dice. They are yours and will determine your fate. Made of ivory, their faces are drilled with holes; not painted or engraved, all the better to ensure equiprobability.
You hold them delicately while Alexandra takes back the box and its canvas wrapping, and Pauline invites you to descend the stone staircase:
— This way, Monsieur Antoine.
Before they let you reach the depths, your hostesses whisper in your ear:
— You can only roll them once. Choose well.
The rest of your life depends on it, Antoine. No more intermediary bids or stakes. Bettors up. All in!
[Extract II]
You need a moment to understand as across from you the Marquise’s face bears a serious, remorseful expression.
All the human flesh falls from the hot hand caressing your cheek, transforming it into cold and brittle porcelain. You sit up in your armchair and contemplate her face. With the exception of her scrutinizing look, all the life has vanished from her features. The woman that was has become a mere object. An inanimate, realistic mannequin. Only the doll’s big blue eyes implore.
With the deathly silence that has taken over the room, you should be able to hear the clock, but the echo of your absurd solitude resounds. The only noise you can hear comes from your own body: your breath, your thoughts, your organs. A sniffling dies out, a final sob is expelled.
You stare at the clock’s pendulum, stopped short in the middle of a swing. Its hands, which you have only ever seen working perfectly, no longer move. The bigger of the two, the minute hand, points at the ground, almost vertically, toward an invisible number 31. You wait, and hope that the clock will give a sign of life. In vain. Now marble, Eléonore has been paralysed by a spell that has made her a living statue.
Like the prisoner of a nightmare, she glances at you lost and afraid, as though she is asking for deliverance.
You don’t have the slightest idea what you would have to do to get her out of there. It is clear that time has stopped, but what act could get it back on track? On the off chance it will work, you clap your hands. You click your fingers. You stamp your foot. Nothing happens. The clock remains stuck, as does Eléonore. You tell yourself that there might still be life in the giant doll, bent double, arms out, head bowed, desperate-eyed, and yet.
Seeking a heartbeat, you press your ear against her chest, a gesture you complete by placing your index and middle fingers beneath her jaw. The deafening silence of her petrified body must heighten your disquiet. But as, for the first time, you get closer to the woman, it’s another emotion that grips you. Desire returns.
You close your eyes and sniff out the lost perfume of her neck. You inhale her skin turned scentless ceramic. Your heart speeds up, and you feel the blood rush to your groin.
You see, Antoine, the urge is there. And this time there is nothing to prevent you succumbing. Stop looking at sex as a foul addiction and give yourself over to the bestial throb. All in!
With the back of your hand, you send the crockery on the table flying across the room. The cups, saucers and hot chocolate maker explode against the wall. The porcelain scatters with a freeing crash. It is the sign your unconscious has been waiting for to let loose the fury of your fantasies.
You tear the dress and underwear from the whore that you have paid blithely in so many previous rendezvous and who, nevertheless, you have never seen naked.
Undressed now, still bent in two, arms outstretched, it doesn’t suit your purposes at all.
All the better to admire her, you take the entire statue in your arms and turn her over onto the table. On its back, the stiff hitched legs give it the look of a dead animal on the side of the road. Not in the least bit embarrassed by her cadaverous rigidity, you lower your head between her legs and discover that she had hastily shaved a few days ago. You breathe loudly, fascinated by what is under the coarse and discreet hair.
More than anything, you’re thinking of time having stopped. What if the universe falls back in step? What would she say if she saw her torn clothes and found you on top of her? There’s no time to lose, Antoine. Do what you’ve got to do, and do it quickly.
Too tightly fit, your brocaded jacket hampers your speed. To hell with the epoch’s fucking tassels and formal suits! Gold buttons and tight pants are not going to stop you doing what you will. Pressed as you are, you chuck your outfit, with no hesitation in case it rips. You need only fifteen seconds to arrange an exit for your penis, already standing straight and proud, and ready to get Madame la Marquise shagged.
Due to her rigid position, things are far from easy. You have to thrust your pelvis forward and lower your shoulders at the same time in order to pass through her folded legs. You joust like that for a minute or two, until you decide to push open her thighs a little to give yourself room to manoeuvre. Unfortunately, it’s no longer human flesh you’re attempting to manipulate, but porcelain.
Crack! Voilà, you’re inside the beauty, sunk to the hilt, her two broken legs in your hands. Shit. As you’re already in this deep, Antoine, you’re not about to let these useless limbs perturb you. Cast them off without a care, and get your hands around suddenly legless Eléonore’s hard and frozen breasts.
Above all, pay no attention to what has happened around her sex, the porcelain severed clean just below the hips risks your desire giving out. Just carry on slogging away; obviously the poor girl is going to say nothing, so make the most of it while you can. Don’t be afraid to put your back into it. All in!
Your frenetic in-and-out raises a violent pleasure within you, a shuddering extasy coloured by sharp pains. A minute later, you slump onto the frosty statue. Panting, trembling and happy, you are as scalding as she is glacial. Not once, in fact, has she made the slightest move.
How could she have, smartarse? Time is standing still, as witnessed by the clock whose big hand hasn’t budged, pointed at the fateful number 31. Laid out on her back, the legless woman still holds her arms outstretched; her eyes are full of anger.
A furtive but cruel smile passes across your face. What’s wrong with this whore of a Marquise? Is it the fact she has been raped or rather having lost her legs that’s bothering her?
You stand back up, and as you extract yourself you can’t stifle a cry of pain. Worried, you drop your head and confront the damage with horror.
Pieces of fine, translucent ceramic are sticking from the folds of your skin. Your testicles are spangled with porcelain splinters. Your penis has been slashed with great gashes. At its tip, a mix of blood and come has created little clods of pleasure and pain, carmine and ivory.
— Motherfuck, you whisper.
A moment later, and you are contemplating the shattered cleft of the Marquise. Her sex is nothing more than an abyss with jagged edges, a chipped porcelain mouth of pointed teeth, their ends dripping with your blood.
Furious, you grab the torso and throw it toward the back of the room with all your might, smashing what is left of Eléonore into a dozen pieces. Your pain turns into anger, a cyclone of violence destroying everything in your path. You even attack the wood panelling, tearing it down with your hands, and give the wallpaper the same treatment. All in!
Memories of your destruction of the Pharoah villa resurface. You wish you had your orange chainsaw with the wolf’s head decal in your hands, but you make do with your wrath and your clenched fists. Like that, you ransack the woman’s apartment, disgusted at having paid a high price to do an act for which you had already settled up, and at almost a hundred times what it was worth. It’s been a while now she’s been making you do that, the slut!
Contemplating the spectacle of your own unleashed power, you give a slight smile of satisfaction. Your groin, of course, is causing spikes of shooting pain, but what you had contained for so long, your true suffering, has been released. The original frustration, the supreme source of your addiction, has now left your body and soul!
You leave the place, and leave your victim behind you. You are delighted and enraged; she is powerless and scattered. The moment you pass through the apartment door, a strange consistency meets your foot.
What is this soft thing amid the broken wood and shattered porcelain?
You lift your foot and realise that Eléonore’s furious eye is watching you.
— Don’t you ever die, you old witch!
You grab the eye and squeeze it with all your strength. Yellowy liquid runs from your clenched fist. The Marquise’s juice!
Beset by violent laughter, and looking at this purée of Eléonore’s dripping onto the parquet, you pause to think. Finally, you throw away the squashed eye and leave the apartment.
Angrily, you slam the door and go downstairs. The remnants of crumpled XVII century clothes hang over your cut and bleeding penis.
You hurtle down the street and find nothing there, but bodies frozen in time. Naked men and women, turned statues. On the other side of the windows, in the buildings overlooking the street, the watchers are still there, but in the same state.
Petrified, cold and immobile.
The town has become a giant museum of porcelain dolls. The bodies are paralysed but, like the one you have just left, you can see the life in their eyes. They are imploring you, questioning. Some of them are judging you, others are demanding help. Their leering and plaintive eyes give the mannequins a baleful look.
You want them to leave you in peace, Antoine, ah well, too late for that. Their eyes are all fixed on you, filled with pity or malice. And there you are, dishevelled, in rags, dick out and on fire, surrounded by naked corpses and looks reproaching you for having made time stop. They can all go fuck themselves!
You wander through the museum of horrors. The only survivor of a petrified humanity, you delight in the wretched spectacle by joyfully destroying the vile statues. You turn the mannequins over, breaking their arms and legs; you tear off the men’s penises and the women’s breasts. You lop off the heads and smash up the bodies. Porcelain flies around the deserted town. A total and solitary pleasure, you drown in anger. All in!
Your hands and feet are drenched in blood, you don’t give a damn. Nothing matters anymore. You are alone in the world, in a parallel reality fixed henceforth for eternity.
La maison de jeu is available now from Rivages.
In a town by the sea, everyone is free to pursue their vices. As he does every Friday night, Antoine heads to The Golden Krone, precious parcel in his hand, to play 31, a game of chance to which only the regulars are invited. They all dream of victory, and with it, the promise of changing their lives.
When the dice fall in his favour, Antoine is given a second chance. But will it be enough for him to overcome his addictions? From one life to another, the eternally unsatisfied Antoine will explore it all: gambling, wealth, alcohol, sex …
Against a constantly evolving backdrop, where the fantastical melds with the amoral, the town becomes a theatre for every kind of human excess, a privileged place chosen by Charles Roux to stage a biting critique of our ultra-consumerist society.
Charles Roux lives in Paris. His first novel, Les Monstres, was published by Rivages in 2021.