Gibraltar
When I was in Gibraltar I met this old guy. He said he was from Spain but had lived in Gib for years. He told me he was a gambler and made his living at cards and dice. I told him about dog racing, coursing–how I prefer to bet on form rather than chance. Then he said that there is no form, but the belief in form makes it important; that if I could suspend myself in terms of looking for evidence and just roll the dice that I would always wind up a winner. I asked him why he wasn?t a millionaire and he said, ?How you know I?m not?? So I asked, ?Are you?? and he said, ?No, but maybe I don?t wanna be. Maybe I think losing is wot makes winning so sweet.?
He told me he could beat me anytime he wanted on a roll of the dice. I didn?t take this bait. I thought he was wanting this thing to go somewhere and I wasn?t sure if I wanted the same thing. So I said so.
?Watching form again,? he said–a statement and a taunt. ?For a Gypsy you ain?t got much risk in you, have you,? he said.
At that point he had me. I asked the bartender for a pack of cards. I told this old guy that I?ll draw him for the highest card–one draw–and to name his stakes. That?s when he laughed. I said to him, ?But before you do this, recognize that you are pumping against a Gypsy and, a cockney. Are you prepared to do that? To put yourself at that risk??
?I am,? he said.
He laid 1,000 Euros on the counter. ?Is that ok??, he asked, now unsmiling. I didn?t have that kind of money on me, but I got out what I had. Around 200 quid, and about the same in euros. ?That?s fine,? he said. ?I?ll trust you for the rest.?
We tossed to draw first; by now we had drawn quite a crowd. I called heads as the bartender?s hand covered the coin ?Was that form?? the old guy asked. I said, ?Of course. Everything is. We don?t really live in a chance universe.
?Oh we do,? he said.
The barman lifted his hand and the coin showed heads, so I took my draw. It was the jack of spades–a good card–but he didn?t bat an eyelid.
The old guy took a sip of his whiskey. It was some kind of old blend. I could smell the smokiness of it as he turned towards the pack. His eyes were pale blue. It was at that moment that it struck me; this was strange for a Spaniard. It?s a Semite trait–Jews, Gypsies–to have dark skin and hair and blue eyes. I stared at him. I wanted to find some feeling in him, but I got nothin? but a kind of studied half-interest.
?Now do you wanna halve the bet?? he said.
?How you mean?? I asked.
He looked hard at me and said, ?Well, we can make the bet 500 each if you want, or you can just pick up your money and we?ll call it equal.? I thought for a minute. I had a good card, but if he drew bigger or an equal red card I?d lose. His eyes rested on me. He didn?t look as if he cared either way. There were a few murmurs from the crowd. ?Pick up? and ?draw? muddled together. I felt excited. He had given the decision to me. Right at that point it wasn?t about winning or losing but something far more important.
?Wot?s your bet, son?? he asked. ?You gonna take a risk? Expectation is wot life is all about,? he said. ?Wot we got don?t turn people on. It?s wot we might have. Prove me wrong.?
From this I got the idea that he was backing off–that he actually wanted to cut his losses–but now if I made him draw he would have made me prove him right. This was now total risk and I would prove him right on a second level now.
?No? I murmured. ?You draw my friend. Let?s do wot we set out to do.?
?Is this the Gypsy in you son?? he laughed.
?Maybe,? I replied, ?or maybe I just want to see you react. Maybe that?s enough for me.?
He smiled again. ?I don?t think so baby.? He looked down at the cards. ?I think you are like everyone else. You?re greedy.?
He finished his drink and lit a cigarette. ?You looking for options?? I asked. He sat back in his bar chair and moved his hand towards the deck. His gnawed fingers hung over the pack for a second. Then, light as a feather, his digits drifted down, undriven, in a movement that seemed to be part of the whole environment–cards, bar, and he seemed to be merged. The same entity. At that moment I knew he had done this before. A whole history of this man?s life shot before me. I glanced quickly at the bartender. I looked into his dark eyes. He had seen this before too. I was the away team here and I felt powerless. What I thought I had seemed to have gone. Or maybe it was never with me. The old man grasped his cards like a haul, and his long palm turned over like a wave falling on a calm sandy shore. There was a gasp in the crowd and the bartender leaned back, looking first at the old guy and then at me.
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