The Stranger - Max Frei [275]
“The chap is a merchant, or pirate—you never know with these sailors,” I added. “You’ve never seen anything like these smoking sticks before?”
“Never.”
This time I had every reason to believe that Mr. “Ravello” was telling the truth.
“And where are you from yourself?” he asked me.
“From the County Vook, the Borderlands. Isn’t it obvious from my accent? Well, let’s play, then, if you haven’t reconsidered. But no high stakes.”
“One crown per game?” my tempter suggested.
I whistled. Right—no high stakes.
The speed at which Lonli-Lokli had emptied our money pouch no longer seemed so improbable to me.
“Half a crown,” I insisted. “I’m not such a rich man, especially tonight.”
He nodded. A half crown for a game is no small potatoes either, I thought.
The only thing left to do now was to place my hopes in Sir Juffin’s success. Two losses, and I could begin to undress, or go home—which wasn’t really part of my plan.
We finally settled down at a small table by the far corner of the bar. Several pairs of sly Kettarian eyes stared at me from the nearby tables. I shivered. I felt sure they were going to try to bamboozle me. I wasn’t sure how, but I knew they would try.
“Be so kind as to tell me your name, sir,” “Ravello” probed cautiously. “Perhaps you have your reasons for not introducing yourself, but I have to address you in some way or other.”
“My name? Of course, it’s no secret.” I deliberated a moment. “Sir Marlon Brando, at your service.”
It was completely logical. Who else could accompany Marilyn Monroe? A bird of the same feather.
Of course, “Ravello” was no more surprised than Sir Juffin had been upon hearing my choice of names for Marilyn. Such is the fleeting nature of earthly fame. Whoever you might be in one World, in another World you might as well be nobody.
“You can just call me Brando,” I said. If this fellow started calling me by my full name, I’d laugh in his face for sure.
I won the first two games easily and swiftly, to my great relief. Now at least I had a bit of breathing space—enough for four more hands anyway. And by that time, my poor head, tormented by incomprehensible matters, would be right as rain again. Well, that’s what I was hoping.
I lost the third game due to sheer stupidity. Mr. Abora Vala, alias Ravello, was suddenly no longer nervous. He realized I was that very provincial numbskull he had taken me for at first, and that I had just gotten lucky. I took this into account. If I started winning again, I’d have to force myself to lose from time to time. Otherwise my newfound friend would get bored.
Then I won four times in a row. Mr. Ravello began to get agitated and I realized needed to cut short my winning streak for a time. The fellow dealt the cards. I looked at mine and discovered that I wouldn’t be able to lose even if I wanted to. My paltry intellectual baggage was incapable of letting me lose with a hand like that. So I won again. It was pitiful to look at my partner. A thief who has just been robbed is a sorry spectacle. I took my cigarettes out of my pocket.
“Care to try one, Ravello? If there’s anything good about living in that backward caliphate, it’s the fine tobacco.”
“Really?” the distracted fellow asked with some hesitation. His furtive eyes stared at me as if trying to detect a local cardsharper behind Marlon Brando’s disguise. But my strange accent and the exotic taste of my cigarettes clearly witnessed to other, faraway origins. We started in on the next round. After considerable effort I managed not only to lose, but also demonstrated my indisputable dimwittedness. This worked to my advantage. I decided to raise the stakes.
“I seem to have just gotten richer,” I said thoughtfully. “And in an hour I think I’ll want to turn in. What do you say we raise the stakes to a crown per game?”
It was amusing to look at Mr. Ravello. The struggle between greed and caution on his expressive face was something to behold. I understood his problem perfectly. On the one hand, I