The Suffering of Being Kafka | Page 4

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
colour. 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
mouth-watering. 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
favour, 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