Pagano’s three was more than enough.
‘Bank wins.’ The croupier couldn’t hold back a smile of wonder, or perhaps of sincere appreciation.
Pagano shouted.
The public applauded.
Justine touched Kociss’s bottom, then the bottom of an incredulous, stunned, ecstatic Jean Azzoni.
Lucien Mariani burst into a sustained paean he had stored up for several days.
‘As Napoleon said,’ he began, ‘only great men commit great mistakes. I should add: it is by their errors that you shall know them. Nowadays, too many things can be bought. A plebeian can be accompanied by an imperial procession, as long as he has the money to pay for it. A yokel can buy an imperial palace. Even the throne and the title of emperor are the object of a trade that is far from noble. So how are we to distinguish the true emperor? What is it that money cannot buy, and no instructor can ever teach? Not the imperial gait, nor imperial speech, however difficult it may be. Not court ceremonial. No. Nor the souclass="underline" as Faust teaches us, it can be acquired by the most skilful businessman.’ He paused and shook his head. He looked around and allowed his eye to rest on Bao Dai. ‘It is the way of losing, I tell you. It does not depend solely upon the individual’s possessions, but also on the serenity with which he can renounce them, even if he is down to his last few pennies, precisely because the rich man without money is just a poor man, but the emperor without money is still the emperor. Yes, gentlemen: I assert that Waterloo consecrated Napoleon more than any victories whose dates and locations I cannot, I confess, even recall. As to you, your majesty, today you have demonstrated that your way of losing is, without any doubt, truly imperial.’
Cary, Hitch and Grace saw the murmurs and laughter rising like a tidal wave, crossing the hall, sweeping away all whispered conversation, forcing heads to turn and finally crashing against the walls of the casino. Everyone, absolutely everyone, was watching the chemin tables.
‘It’s the emperor! Sitting with him is a real-ly fun-ny Italian boy,’ said a balding man, accentuating those two words in a ludicrous falsetto, and accompanying the whole phrase with the gestures of an orchestral conductor.
‘Bao Dai?’ asked Cary.
‘Yes,’ replied Hitch.
‘Let’s see this emperor at work!’ said Grace with a smile, moving towards the table that was the source of all the hubbub.
Cary looked at his enchanting leading lady, her way of walking, her head floating elegantly on a splendid neck. and yet again there was that feeling of déjà vu, like a sudden flush. He put one foot in front of the other, followed her, meanwhile wondering what on earth.
‘More than an emperor, he’s an interesting character,’ muttered Hitch. ‘And his companions, you must have noticed them. They’re as bizarre as he is, and even showier.’
‘The two popinjays? Of course, old man,’ Cary replied. ‘And yet they do have a certain sarcastic, coherent style.’
The Italian boy, on the other hand, seemed to have someone else’s style. Someone (his girlfriend? his parents?) had dressed him and smartened him up, his clothes looked like a prosthesis, worn more with enthusiasm than confidence. He snorted, he rejoiced, uttered strange incantations, ran his handkerchief over his forehead, had the comments of the bystanders translated by one of Bao Dai’s two companions, whom he called ‘Signor Azzoni’.
Azzoni snorted, rejoiced, uttered strange incantations and ran his handkerchief over his forehead.
The emperor snorted, uttered exotic incantations, ran his handkerchief over his forehead and had the boy’s comments translated by the second companion, whom he called ‘Monsieur Mariani’.
Mariani snorted, laughed at Azzoni’s incantations and ran his handkerchief over his forehead.
The boy won and laughed, narrowing his eyes. The emperor lost and distributed polite smiles.
The whores blew kisses to all and sundry.
Each time he won, the boy got up and hugged the whores, who adored him. Azzoni dragged him back to the table.
Salvatore Pagano alias Kociss alias ‘Totore ’a Maronna’ alias ‘Shithead’ leaned towards Jean Azzoni and asked, ‘But isn’t that man over there an American actor? Isn’t it Gary Cooper?’
‘No, paesano. Gary Cooper’s taller, I can assure you of that. It’s Cary Grant, and before we speak his name we should all wash our mouths out with soap.’
‘And who’s the blonde? Marilyn Monroe?’
‘No, my ignorant and wretched friend: her name is Grace Kelly. Everyone’s talking about her.’
‘And the fat guy? Is he Winston Churchill?’
For two seconds Azzoni didn’t speak.
‘Yes, that’s exactly who it is.’
‘The Italian guy’s luck is incredible. How long is he going to go on
winning for?’ Cary asked Hitch.
‘All evening, I expect.’
‘But it isn’t possible —’
‘Shall we bet that he isn’t going to lose a hand before the emperor withdraws?’
‘Oh, come off it.’
‘No, I mean it. If I win, I’ll suggest giving him a part in the film, and in one scene you’ll wear a hat. Are you on?’
‘I’m on. A part in which scene?’
‘The flower market.’
‘Brilliant. And the hat?’
‘John Robie when he’s in hiding, sitting on the wharf. Pretending to be a fisherman.’
‘Good idea. But you’d better resign yourself, you’re not going to win, it’s a matter of probability. And God doesn’t want to see me in a hat, he knows they don’t suit me!’
Half an hour later Azzoni and Mariani were almost drunk and increasingly dishevelled. They egged on the players as though they were at a bullfight, they yelled comments in an incomprehensible argot and provoked the mirth of the onlookers.
Azzoni slapped his protégé hard on the back.
Mariani consoled the emperor, telling him that it wasn’t his money anyway.
The emperor laughed and said, ‘J’en ai rien à foutre! J’en ai rien à foutre!’
Cary and Grace laughed. Hitch digested the scene.
Cary leaned towards Hitch and asked, ‘What is the emperor saying?’
‘His adviser is pointing out that it isn’t his money, I don’t know what he’s referring to. The emperor agrees, and is repeating: I don’t give a fuck.’
‘Mind your language, old man! What would Her Majesty say?’
‘But can he say something like that?’ asked Grace, slightly too loudly.
‘He’s the fucking emperor, madam, and he may say whatever the fuck he pleases, if you’ll excuse my saying so!’ called Mariani in plebeian but passable English, his eyes reduced to tiny slits by an irrepressible smile.
Grace blushed and smiled. Azzoni and the Italian boy applauded her.
Cary burst out laughing and encouraged them by raising his glass in a toast.
The boy returned the gesture and called, ‘I washing my mouth with the soap, Mister Grent!’
‘What on earth is he talking about?’ Cary asked Hitch.
‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
Zollo came back into the hall and distinctly heard the word ‘Fuck’.
In a place like this? Was that possible? Then applause and unbridled laughter. And Pagano’s voice. You’re not going to tell me that that great shithead.
‘Stiiiiiv!’ he heard someone shouting. It came from the chemin tables. He felt his blood boiling and heard a whistling in his ears, like a pressure cooker.
Don’t go to the tables. Do you hear me? No tables. Don’t make me regret that I took you here. I’ll be an hour at the most.