Language of Black and Red

Eli and I sit on ladder-backs next to a luxurious roulette in a
casino in Spain. I can almost pick glitters from the heavy, lowered
chandeliers. I can practically touch the shiny wooden wheel. I can see
the croupier's manicured nails. Lithe young bellhops, clad in
ornamental uniforms, place trays on gypsum pillars next to our chairs.
We fervently gulp the champagne from the tall, prismatic glasses and
nibble at the tiny sandwiches.

We are that lucky that we dare not leave the table, not even to relieve
ourselves.

Piles of shiny square chips represent our exceptional streak of
winnings. The table supervisor looks very anxious. He shifts restlessly
on his elevated seat, hawk-eyeing everyone malevolently. Sure enough,
he doesn't like us. He clears all other players, letting us bet in
splendid isolation, facing each other.

Eli's upper lip and temples glisten. My armpits ooze the acrid smell of
manly perspiration. Easy to tell we are tense or apprehensive or both.
We evade each other's gaze. Our hands are shaking and the boys keep
pumping us with increasingly inebriating drinks. They want us under the
influence. They want us to cough up everything we have and then some.
We want to win. We want the casino broke. Our differences are
profoundly irreconcilable.

Eli is a quarter of a tough century my senior. His life-swept face is
haggard, straggly and raven eyebrows, lips cruel and eyes chillingly
penetrating. He finds his sense of humor irresistible. It often
is.

My baby face is framed by the plastic quadrangles of my glasses. I
broadcast innocence and guile. The reactions I provoke are mixed. Some
sense my vulnerability and hasten to protect me. Others find my haughty
slyness loathsome. I guess I conjure my defenselessness to con my
victims.

It may prove unhealthy to lose our sponsors' money. These people are
charm itself and sheer delight - until you breach their pockets. They
tend to lose their fabled equanimity. They regard business losses as
hostile acts and the perpetrators as lethal enemies. So, they strike
first, giving you no chance to err, to apologize, to scrutinize.

We are piling on not be piled in. The dough is multiplying. What if we
lose? Eli says he has this thing going for him tonight, a wild card,
from nature, and he does not dream to stop even though we reek of the
casino's funds, even though two Spanish beauties resolutely scramble
over him and heavies in bursting suits forage around obtrusively.

Eli's protruding eyes fixated on the wheel, mesmerically attempting to
bring it to a favored halt.

It smoothly winds down and Eli ignores my furious pestering: our
underwriters invested to test and implement a betting method I
developed. "I am offended" - I whisper, he ignores me. A febrile Eli
has bonded with the table and every number wins, especially his
choices.

"Twenty eight!" - he hisses, sidestepping the croupier to fetch his
gains. He sprawls on the green felt surface and lovingly enfolds the
clacking tokens. Reclining, eyes shut agloat, he savors his
unaccustomed fortune. For he deserves a break. To Eli, this is not a
game or, as I regard it, merely another path to self-enrichment.

To him, it is a sweet revenge for all the years he wasted, vending
decaying fruits, along dusty and sizzling highways. This loot proves
his detractors wrong. It loudly states, in black and red: I am here,
not to be snubbed.

"Let's play some baccarat" - he sneers - "I am tired of this
game."

We stretch our limbs and Eli surveys the killing fields we leave
behind. He tremulously stacks the chips on one another, by size and
then by color. We carry them with trepidation all the way to the
cashier and convert them to pesetas. Eli halves the tottering mound. He
entreats me to deposit one of the two resulting heaps in the strongbox
in our room.

He pleadingly commands me:

"No matter how much I beg and threaten, order or cajole - do not be
tempted to obey me. Do not bring down this money."

I eagerly acquiesce.

"And now" - he rubs his hands - "Let's fry this fish in its own fat.
Let's use some of the profits to dine in the casino's restaurant. Do
you know that eateries in gambling dens are the best in the
world?"

I don't. It is my first trip away from Israel. But he is right, the
food is mouthwatering. A gypsy band of violins plays in the
background.

Now, cleaned out gamblers alight by our burdened table and pat Eli's
upright back. They greet him eagerly, as though, through him, they
humble the much unloved establishment. They questioningly glance at me,
a cold appraising look. They recount how they turned pros and swap the
numbers of their rooms in the hotel above the gaming halls.

They sound content but look harassed and wiry. Involuntary ticks ravage
their hands and faces. They all sport golden rings, red necks enchained
with chokers. Their eyes dart restively. They sound as though they are
listening and nod their heads in places, right and wrong - but they are
distant. Minute or two of pleasantries and off they go to haunt another
patron.

The dinner over, Eli fires up a black cigar and sighs. He casts an
ominous stare at me for daring to suggest we call it a day.

"Don't be a jinx!" - he rasps - "You don't retire on a night like this
with Lady Luck herself in partnership. These are the kind of early
hours that casinos fear, I tell you." - and he goes on to rattle off
the names of acquaintances turned millionaires. The next day they
reverted, he ruefully admits. "Too greedy" - is his verdict - "Didn't
know when to stand up"

Now that we've won, can we try out my method?

He snorts.

"It puts me to sleep, your martingale." - he grunts - "Its slowness
drives me to distraction. I came here to enjoy myself, not just to
profit. If you insist, here is some cash. Go, play your darned system.
Just do me a favor, stray to another table."

Eli, returning to our first roulette, is greeted with regal pomp. I
wander to a further board with lower minimum wagers. I squash my way
into a raucous mob. They screech and squeal with every spin. I place
some of my meager funds on red. Despite the tiny sum and nearly equal
chances - I waver nauseous and scared. Until the ball reposes and the
croupier announces black. Twenty eight.

I lost.

Another dose on red, just slightly larger. Another anxious wait while
the croupier employs a silver rake to place the bets. I sneak a peek at
Eli's table. It's hard to tell his state. His body tilts in zealous
inclination, his shaded eyes impale the imperturbable dealer, his
twitchy hands engulf the cards doled out from the "shoe". It's "21" or
Blackjack, a pretty basic card game.

On certain rounds, Eli presents his palm, two of its fingers pointing
at the "shoe". The dealer acknowledges him discreetly and draws the
cards. He lays them gingerly in front of Eli who, exultant, gathers his
winnings and tips the grateful worker. I can relax.

My tiny gains accumulate. The hours pass, the tables empty, it's only I
and the croupier. My capital is nearly doubled. Eli, his countenance
spent, keeps gambling. His bobbing head recoils as he awakes from
interrupted slumber. It's just the two of us against the weary
staff.

As autumn night is pierced by moonlight, the practiced smiles are
lifted, wiped is the feigned civility of all involved. Players and
house alike frantically observe each card, each turn of the wheel, the
rested ball, the flickering digits of the stressed croupier. We shut
our bloodshot eyes between one twirl and another, in intervals when
cards aren't dealt and profits aren't paid.

Fatigue-glued to my chair I find it hard to stoop and place the wagers
on the fluctuating squares of the roulette board. Eli wobbles towards
me, his loosened tie dangling on his much-stained shirt. He undoes the
upper buttons and slumps onto a lounger.

The presence of his silence compels me to skip the coming spin. I half
turn towards him, rubbing my eyes with sticky hand. We stare at the
tarnished carpet until he mutters:

"I am left with nothing."

And then:

"Go get the money from the safe."

But then he had instructed me to ignore such orders. Using my method, I
have doubled our funds and more while Eli lost all our money overnight.
I feel wrath-struck. I want to grab him by his tainted collar and shake
him till it hurts. Instead, I rise, my legs a wobbly and edematous
mass. I stumble hesitantly until the pains subside and I can properly
walk, toes hard on heels, to the elevator bank.

When I am back, Eli is slouched, position same, and snores. I could
refrain from rousing him, say that I fell asleep in our room, that I
lost the key to the safety deposit box, that I stirred him up but he
wouldn't budge, I could come up with anything I damn well please, now
that he is sound asleep - he will thank me for it, he will want to
believe me. It is our last chance.

I regard the rustling plastic bag. I feel the greenish notes inside.
Then I jiggle Eli's shoulder. He comes to in panic, surveying the alien
landscape. Then, mechanically, he snatches our neatly packed reserve
and falters towards his table.

I bide the time to his return, eyes glazed, lips forced into a tortuous
smile.

"It's over" - he mumbles - "let's get out of here."

I collect my winnings from the board and proudly display them. He
snickers:

"Less than my losses in every minute of this cursed evening."

But that is all we have. We pack our meager belongings and sneak
through the back door to the taxi at the head of a nocturnal queue. Eli
sprawls across the upholstered back seat for a quick shut-eye. I give
the driver the name of our hotel at the heart of Madrid and he embarks
on the twisting byways of the mountain slope.

Midway, Eli stops the cab and throws up through the semi lowered pane.
The irate cabby refuses to proceed. He points to an antiquated manual
meter and demands his fee. I pay him and with emphatic whoosh he
vanishes behind a gloomy curve.

Eli and I, left crouching on a foreign hillside, far from any
settlement, the night a velvet murk. Eli ascends the road, takes me in
tow, two Chaplinesque figures in bargain-basement suits and fluttering
cravats. The hours pass and we are no closer to our destination. A
rising sun daubs us with pink and wine.

Eli turns to me and vows:

"From now on we play only with your system, Shmuel, I swear to you,
only your martingale."

I don't respond. I distrust Eli's ability to keep his promises. This
pledge came unsolicited and useless.

Eli drags his feet laboriously, wipes tears from reddened eyes and
moans:

"Only your way, I guarantee, never again just gambling wildly. We wager
on your brain and win, we win a lot, I'm talking millions. We won't
know what to do with it, I'm telling you. After all, how many steaks
can one consume? With mushrooming gains, we will occupy the best hotels
and bang the greatest stunners, and wear the chicest clothes ..."

There is such yearning in his voice. I embrace him warmly and I
say:

"Sure thing, Eli, it's bound to happen. You and I, and screw the world.
What you have just described is only the beginning. Just stick to my
gambling system and it will turn out fine. Casinos everywhere will fear
us like the plague ..."

"The plague" - Eli reiterates and we stand, cuddled, two silhouettes
carved against the inexorably rising day.

==============================

Short Fiction in English and Hebrew

http://gorgelink.org/vaknin/

http://samvak.tripod.com/sipurim.html

http://www.suite101.com/files/topics/6514/files/shortfiction.rtf

Poetry of Healing and Abuse

http://samvak.tripod.com/contents.html