King of Hearts

Happy Birthday!

„You are a king of hearts. The King of Hearts. The beloved of the Queen of Hearts. Your heart is beating in the right place. That’s just how it is. Every man is a King of Hearts! – Surprising, isn’t it?“

He looked at me with a puzzled expression. I was visiting a friend of a friend in prison. He sat across from me, shoulders hunched, head bowed. In the room were four wooden tables, four inmates in orange jumpsuits, each with a visitor: two men, one woman, and me. There were only two long windows, high up, with no direct view of the summer. I felt strangely calm in this whitewashed setting. A forgotten blue Lego piece lay on the floor in front of me. The glaring ceiling lights revealed the raw, unvarnished harshness of masked emotions on the faces of those present.

My girlfriend’s boyfriend had been in prison for five weeks already. Today was his birthday. He had asked me for a tarot reading. Because of his good behavior, he was granted it. So there it lay, that single card, between us on the otherwise empty wooden table: the one card he had drawn from the deck—the King of Hearts!

Silence—I seemed to hear his heart beating.

“Yes, I’m surprised, and it’s true,” he replied, as if waking from a dream. Despite his shattered prospects, which weighed on him like a club between his legs because of his desperate act, he unexpectedly remembered that he is, at his core, a king of hearts. That deep inside, though hidden and trembling, his heart beats in the right place. That he can trust it and wants to give himself a second chance. Yes, he had shoplifted. Yes, he had punched the police officer. Yes, he had gotten himself into a bind. Yes, he was broke. No, he wasn’t a monster. Because he was a wise peacemaker among the other inmates, they liked him very much.

Shyly, he wiped a tear from his left cheek with his thumb. He thought of his girlfriend, who was waiting for him. Images of his beloved cottage garden came to mind: pole beans, potatoes, sunflowers, the cozy little biotope, his faithful dog—a mix of Appenzeller and St. Bernard. All these inner images of his life before the misfortune washed away the waxy, pale poker mask on his face. His heart stirred again. “Yes, there is a life after prison for me!” he announced with pride and a firm voice. The whispered conversations of the others in the room fell silent as if by magic.

“Happy Birthday!” I called out. Visiting hours were over. Deeply moved, we said our goodbyes. I left the card with the King of Hearts on the table.