The Suffering of Being Kafka | Page 5

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
oedematous 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.

On the Bus to Town
by Sam Vaknin
I must catch the city-bound bus. I have to change at the Central Station
and travel a short distance, just a few more minutes, to jail. The prison
walls, to the left, will shimmer muddy yellow, barbwire fence

enclosing empty watchtowers, the drizzle-induced swamp a collage of
virile footsteps. I am afraid to cross its ambiguous solidity, the
shallow-looking depths. After that I have to purge my tattered sneakers
with branches and stones wrenched out of the mucky soil around our
barracks.
But there is still way to go.
I mount the bus and sit near a dishevelled,