CHAPTER 41. THE CARD
“Life looks at us wanting to play.”
That’s what the little card said, placed on top of the napkin at Urban Sushi Bar Sibuya that midday. Ever since my work stay in Santiago de Chile in early 2012, I had become addicted to sushi, and now, sitting in front of that plate of perfectly aligned rolls, I couldn’t help thinking that phrase was more than a mere slogan: it was a challenge.
The sushi was arranged like a chessboard: small pieces, each with its own destiny. Salmon, avocado (known as palta in Chile), perfectly pressed rice, juicy ginger. Everything looked ordered, calculated, as if life were showing me that even in chaos there was a secret geometry. Chaos and order. Yin and Yang. Did that balance really exist? Or was the randomness of chaos literally the antithesis of order?
While the waiter set down some sexy curry rolls on the table, I thought that yes, life does play with us. It deals us cards and waits to see which one we’ll pick up. I took the chopsticks with a certain clumsiness, aware that my mind was elsewhere. The restaurant’s card remained in front of me, its phrase still echoing: “Life looks at us wanting to play.” What if the game had already started and I was the only one who didn’t know the rules? What if something similar to what happens in the series Alice in Borderland was taking place?
The phone buzzed on the table, bringing me back to reality. It was a message from Lisette: “don’t be late. Dinner is at nine.” There was no room for negotiation. The invitation had turned into an order disguised as courtesy. I put a roll in my mouth, trying to let the fresh taste of the fish calm me down. But all I felt was the pressure of the cards I had to turn over. Option A was the safety of catching the AVE and disappearing. Option B, the adventure, was facing that dinner which promised to be a minefield of insinuations, memories, and half-truths.
I arrived at the apartment five minutes early. I’ve never liked making people wait, nor being made to wait myself. I learned that from my father too. The Barcelona evening-night air still carried the city’s bustle, and in my hands I carried a bottle of wine I had just bought at Vila Viniteca in L’Illa Diagonal. The place, with its endless shelves and its aroma of wood and cork, had held me captive for a few moments, as if every bottle hid a story waiting to be told.
That was where a young, tall, blonde girl of extremely serene beauty and curious eyes recommended an Argentine Malbec to me. Her voice had the confidence of someone who knows what they’re talking about, and she spoke of the Uco Valley in Mendoza as if she had walked it herself, as if she could describe the sun caressing the vines and the cold wind coming down from the mountains. I listened, fascinated, and in the end I let myself be guided by her instinct. The bottle, with its pale and austere label, bore a name that felt more like an omen than a brand: El Enemigo (The Enemy). I held it carefully, aware that this wine was not just an accompaniment for the evening, but a symbol, a silent guest bringing its own mystery. As I climbed the stairs to the apartment, I thought that perhaps the name carried a warning, or maybe an irony: what enemy could be hiding in a wine that promised intensity and character?
I didn’t even have to knock. The door opened the moment I approached. Lisette greeted me with that smile that was never completely sincere: a gesture that seemed kind but always concealed a hint of calculation. She hugged me quickly and gave me a kiss that ran down my spine. She wore a tight black silk dress with a V-neckline that revealed just enough to spark the imagination. The light fabric, with its subtle sheen, slid over her skin like a second layer, marking every movement with natural grace. Matching it were high black heels that clicked firmly, almost hypnotically, against the floor as she walked. Long silver earrings swayed gently with each gesture, drawing the eye to her neck. On her wrist, a minimal bracelet—just a metallic glint that contrasted with the sobriety of the dress.
The clothes were not just an outfit: they were a statement. Every fold, every shimmer, every detail was arranged as part of the game that had begun with this dinner.
“Nice choice,” she said when she saw the bottle. “Though the name is a little unsettling, don’t you think?”
She took my hand and led me through the hallway of realities toward the living room.
The table had been set with almost theatrical precision. Two candles burned, plates arranged symmetrically, and a brand-new-looking linen tablecloth. Everything spoke of a dinner planned down to the smallest detail, as if every object had a role in the play about to unfold. She let the wine rest in the center, its pale label illuminated by the warm candlelight. El Enemigo seemed to watch us, like a third guest waiting for its turn to speak.
“Dinner for two?” I managed to say. “And the girls?”
Her gaze fixed on me, steady, as if searching for an answer beyond the obvious.
“Architect, this dinner is to thank you for everything you’ve done—and still do—for me. The girls went out tonight. It’s just you and me.” She paused. “Do you need anyone else?”
In that moment I understood this wouldn’t be a simple dinner. It was a board. And I, without having chosen it, was already in the game. The game had begun, and the phrase echoed again in my head: “Life looks at us wanting to play.”
We sat in the old chairs that had watched over that dining room since day one. The cork came out with a soft pop, and the aroma of the Malbec filled the air. We filled our glasses; the dark liquid slid smoothly, its purple reflection in the candlelight like a shared secret.
“The enemy…” she repeated, caressing the label with her fingertips. “Sometimes names hide truths we’d rather not say out loud.”
Her gaze settled on me, steady, with a glint that was anything but accidental. The silence grew thick, and when she handed me my glass her fingers lingered longer than necessary. A touch that burned like a spark.
“Let’s toast,” she said softly, almost in a whisper. “To enemies who become allies… or excellent lovers. Have you come to declare war on me?”
The glasses clinked gently, the sound like a shared heartbeat. She held my gaze while she drank, and the movement of her throat as she swallowed the wine was hypnotic. Lisette settled back in her chair, crossing her legs with deliberate slowness. The dress slid just a fraction, revealing a flash of skin.
“You know, some battles are worth fighting,” I said, entering her game. If we were going to play, we might as well play. Besides, since my “confinement” in Madrid I hadn’t been with a woman. Lisette had been the last.
“Reward?” she smiled, toying with the rim of her glass. “I’m curious to know what you expect to win.”
“Maybe it’s not about winning, but about losing… losing track of time, losing control.”
“That sounds dangerous.” She leaned forward, letting her perfume envelop me. “Though… sometimes the forbidden is what attracts us most.”
“And what we enjoy most. Like this wine: intense, dark, with a taste that lingers on the lips,” I said before taking another sip of the Argentine wine.
“Are you talking about the wine… or about me?” Lisette murmured.
The silence that followed spoke louder than words. The candles flickered, as if keeping time with the quickening scene.
“By the way,” she said with a mischievous smile, “you say losing control can be a pleasure… want me to prove it?”
“Maybe you already are. Every gesture of yours is a calculated move… and I’m falling right into your game.”
“Game?” Her fingers traced the edge of the table, moving toward my hand. “I don’t like rules. I prefer high stakes… where the risk is as great as the desire.”
The brush of her skin against mine lasted only an instant, but it was enough to make my pulse race. The dress shifted with every movement, revealing more than it concealed. The dining room was suddenly very, very warm.
“Then let’s toast to risk. To what begins with a wine and ends… who knows where.”“Perhaps in a place where words are no longer necessary,” Lisette...
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