The Gambler

THE GAMBLER

In the middle of an autumnal Friday evening, Eva dashed across the honking gridlocked Brixton High Road, weaving her way to her local off-licence, clutching a large yellow rucksack. The plan was to stuff it with a litre of gin, soda water, Coca Cola, and a small pouch of rolling tobacco. Ignoring the blaring horns and cursing motorists clutching her rucksack which was now scraping against car doors, she wove back through the mist and pollution, dodging the cars, heading for the cul de sac to her studio flat. 

As she passed Bolton Bookies to her right, she noticed an elderly man dressed in a silver sheen shimmering suit and a thick braided gold chain. He was bent over squinting at by what appeared to be a betting slip. He slowly gazed up at Eva, his solid white panther teeth gleaming and smiled. Exhausted from dodging the traffic, Eva dropped her bag on the pavement at that moment letting the sweat glisten down her back. 

« You look just like my daughter! » He exclaimed. « Are you famous? » Eva blushed, self-conscious since her recently plaited was starting to frizz.

She shook her head and laughed. He was at least thirty years older than her. He had a light West Indian accent. He looked familiar. Perhaps they’d met at a couple of local demonstrations against the escalating police brutality and stop and searches, primarily targeted at young black men.

« You scared of me? » he clucked casually still distracted by the betting slip.

« No. Should I be? » Eva instinctively crossed her arms.

« A young lady who speaks properly and dresses as finely as you do shouldn’t be carrying a large sack without the aid of a gentleman. » He chuckled.

She smiled at his half attempt at a chat up.

« Any luck? » She gestured towards the Bookies.

« Not today. I’m not really a gambler, » he lied.

Eva pulled the diet Coke from her sack to take a sip when some drops fell on her beige silk blouse. He deftly pulled a crisp folded white handkerchief from the top pocket of his jacket and dabbed the cola completely off.

« Now that’s better, » he nodded.

« If you don’t gamble, why are you hanging out at the bookies? » she asked.

He shrugged wearily.

« Don’t you be afraid of me now, »

« I told you I’m not. What’s your name? »

« Pablo. »

« Pablo what? »

« Pablo Wallace. »

« Pablito! » she gasped. « What a coincidence. I knew you looked familiar. Remember we used to be on the poetry board of « Stockwell’s New Voices? » together a few years ago? »

« I should really be heading off home now. » He responded shyly. »It’s nearly tea time. » 

Suddenly he turned and asked, » Do you still believe poetry as a parable still matters? » He asked abruptly, searching her eyes intently and added, « If you do, I’ll kiss both your hands! »

« Why don’t I write my number and address of my flat on the back of your hand and you can come up to mine for a drink later and we can have a proper chat? »

« I’ll see you in half an hour. » He smiled, tearing up the betting slip and tossing it on the pavement.

Eva reached her flat in about twenty minutes, flinging the heavy bag on her counter and kicked off her suede heels. Ten minute later, the doorbell rang. She buzzed him in and Pablo entered the flat quietly, gingerly removing his shoes and nervously eyeing her walnut antique bookshelf. He handed her a blue plastic bag containing two large cans of warm lager which she shoved in the fridge.

« Sit down » Eva urged as she stood at the counter fixing two delicate goblets of gin. « You take soda water? » 

She added soda and ice to her glass,

« Nah. I take it straight. » 

She sat down with the drinks and began to roll a cigarette. « Want one? » she offered. 

He shook his head, having already necked the gin in one go.

« What do you do these days Pablo? You used to work at the open market

 with your brother, right? »

« I don’t. I mean I can’t. I’m an alcoholic and a nutter. »

« You don’t seem crazy to me. You probably just drink too much. »

He’d been clutching a battered leather satchel in his right hand since he entered the flat.

« Would you like to hear a poem? » he asked, pulling a sheet from the satchel.

« Go on » Eva studied his face as closely as an astrologer.

   I am not blue.

  I just miss you my brother

  Moon Monsoons aren’t the same

  And that Roxy girl you wanted

  Got me a bit lonesome

  But neither of us 

  Got pleasure from making love.

      And I asked her was I as good as you? »

Although poem was about suicide, it was a blend of the loss of love and moonlight encounters. It had a a light harmony. When he was finished he examined her eyes for a flicker of judgment.

« It’s shit innit? » 

« Not at all Pablo. Not at all. It’s quite ethereal and haunting, But life is unfair as you know. The victors rarely receive the laurels. »

He helped himself to another gin from the bottle which was now on the table.

« You’re just saying that.» He sucked his teeth. «You’re just tryin to make me fell better and get the hell out of your fancy gaffe.»

« That’s bollocks» Eva hollered back.«My boyfriend is calling me from America in about an hour. «I gotta go to sleep after that. 

Pablo began searching for another poem which he clearly couldn’t find. 

«You sure are an odd one.» he muttered. «Do you usually invite men you don’t really know to your flat alone?« 

She had no response.

He blurted, «I bet you didn’t hear about my brother Kenny who died three years ago. The cops say he killed himself in his cell?!!» and he sucked his teeth bitterly.

Shaken by that revelation Eva stuttered «Pablo, I know you two were close but he wouldn’t like you sad like this. You got, you’ve got too much good work in you, writing in you to finish. You even have kids.» Her eyes turned moist. Hand trembling she began to roll another cigarette, as she recalled how her cousin Jayson shot himself last year.

Pablo rose from his seat, posture rigid as as soldier, clearly ready to leave.

She leaned over and touched his forearm gently. «Let me call you a cab home at least.»

The mini-cab turned up in ten minutes. As he left, Eva handed him twenty quid and he gathered her hands to kiss both the backs of them. Reaching in his pocket for a pen, he wrote his number on the back of her hand. He winked and handed her a pill. «In exchange for those cans I gave you which I know you won’t drink» he chuckled. Eva handed him the brown bag.

After he’d gone, Eva took the sleeping pill, washing it down with a tumbler of straight gin.

  She flopped down on the bed, gazing at the florescent stars she’d stuck there. The phone call never came from America.

Initially she couldn’t sleep, tossing, troubled by Pablo’s predicament and this solemn Friday night.

Eva reached for her mobile and called Pablo.

«Hey Pablo, it’s me. The American poet. How would you fancy half a bottle of gin tonight? I just know I’ll drink the whole damn thing if I don’t get rid of it.»

«See you in 5» He shouted loudly over a cacophony of background voices.

He must have gone to the Red Barrel Pub with her cash for the cab. 

The bell downstairs pressed interminably, only by somebody completely soused.

Eva was in her pyjamas holding the bottle which she promptly handed to him.

He gathered her in a half embrace.

«Girl, you made my night! You sure you’re OK?» He asked swaying. »Why don’t you come down the pub with me and my mates?»

«Thanks. I got an early morning.»

Eva turned and wearily mounted the stairs. 

If Pablo could see her face, he’d see her rolling her sceptical eyes, her mouth puckered in a silent, «Oh, for sure.. »

Unable to relax and gazing out the window, she could see Pablo’s shadow, skipping in the streets like a leprechaun clasping the bottle of gin. His figure then slipped into the night.  

She gotinto bed, as though crushed by an infinite magnitude of absence. Staring at the city lights flickering on the ceiling, she pondered,

Is there anyone out there for me, throughout the unbounded universe? 

Does any companion exist on this earth for me anywhere?

Why am I even alive?

Yet the infinite never responds to questions of the heart.

And for many years Eva had put many miles between her and those she never really believed had ever loved her, that she began to believe that the only true certain sensation in this existence was suffering.

ANORA MANSOUR

DUBLIN 2021