“How amusing,” he lisped. “The Colonel was under the impression…Most amusing.”
But his comment proved ill-timed. The enraged Colonel, unable to reach the croupier, vented his pent-up fury by slamming his fist into the monocled face, and sent the man sprawling under the table.
That fine gentleman emerged deathly pale (sans monocle) from below and produced a revolver as big as a hambone from a back pocket.
“That’s all we needed!” exclaimed Guszti, the cheerful hostess, almost gladly. And without so much as straining her biceps she hustled the gun-toting dandy into the adjoining room.
Mr. Zöld seized the ensuing pause to remove his monocle, and assuming a rather innocent and even pained expression (perhaps regretting the fop’s malheur) he rose, radiating empathy.
“Gentlemen, we’re not playing for beans here. I believe it’s in everyone’s interest that we continue playing fair and square.”
“The police ought to be told about what’s going on here,” the Colonel persisted, grinding his teeth.
Mr. Zöld gestured unctuously:
“These gentlemen are my daily guests,” quoth he, deferentially looking around as if the company assembled around the roulette wheel were the very cream of the nation’s paladins and standard-bearing knighthood. “They will testify that the play in these rooms is strictly above the board. And anyway, in roulette the croupier is a mere intermediary handling the players’ bets,” he added, as an edifying afterthought.
“The person who brought me here assured me zero wouldn’t count,” the Colonel bellowed.
Mr. Zöld raised a palm to his ear, as if unsure he had heard the Colonel’s words right — although for the past fifteen minutes the debate had been over this very point. Mr. Zöld merely shook his incredulous head, and asked in tones of deepest injury:
“What could the Colonel mean by that? And anyway, who was the idiot who duped him into believing such nonsense?”
“It was Jalopy!” the Colonel sullenly replied.
“Jalopy,” Mr. Zöld echoed, and emitted a gentle peal of laughter. “What a rascal.”
“Jalopy!” shouted the other players, amidst ironic and derisive guffaws, upon hearing such an absurdity.
Mr. Zöld, pleased as Punch, resumed his seat, and the Colonel, muttering, sucked on his cigar, with only an occasional glance of his bloodshot eyes around the table. Meanwhile in the next room the much-derided Jalopy was the recipient of a cold compress applied by Madame Guszti’s ring-laden fingers. Ah, the glitter of those rubies, emeralds and turquoises on this woman’s marvelously white hands! What a manicured, soft and delightful female hand — Jalopy could have spent all day admiring it. He resolved that, were he to marry, his wife’s fingers would be lavish with rings — even if he’d have to beg, borrow or steal.
Diamant, having crept unnoticed into the card room, now stood, hands in pocket, behind Kálmán. The older man thoroughly despised these whiny, jittery, loud and insolent cardplayers who were incapable of concealing their jubilation or disappointment. Why, back in his days as a celebrated player, he and his confrères would wager entire fortunes without batting an eyelid, and lose without complaint! Yes, back in those days the women left at home started to pray the instant their men stepped out of the house…
Diamant watched the game’s progress in silence, with a disdainful smile, the unlucky gambler’s bitter, scornful expression, observing the sizeable stakes swept away by the croupier. Some of the gentlemen’s faces had already developed a deathly pallor; trembling hands fingered coins after repeated losses; others clutched charms, lucky pennies, as if already fondling the barrel of a revolver, shoulders hunched, like hills crushed by ice, faces stiff in craven prayer to Fortuna, like fire victims before a burnt-out hovel; frenzied groans emerged from throats as players whimpered at unfavorable turns of the ball; one lip-biting, twitching gentleman uttered shouts of “But my dear Géza!” as if that was all he could remember; eyes practically rolled out of their sockets following the thalers and guilders like the rear wheels of a cart, or else they cast hopeful glances toward the croupier’s pile of winnings, as if expecting the soiled banknotes to turn into a white dove that would ascend with a flutter of wings.
The Colonel had by now lost all he had and stood in grim thought, his evening coat dangling crumpled like a circus attendant’s. The henchmen behind the croupier stood shoulder to shoulder, beaming with delight, nudging each other and casting malicious glances at the Colonel, as if they could think of nothing more amusing than a player who had been cleaned out. The spirit of camaraderie egged them on to cruel and inane jests. An old gentleman, absorbed in his calculations, received a playful tap on his bald pate. When he turned around, the culprit was already hiding under the table. But with all their clowning they maintained a deeply respectful and submissive attention to Mr. Zöld’s back.
“Fifty forints on the zero,” the Colonel yelled out, a drowning man’s call for help.
Mr. Zöld snatched back the ball as it spun out. Treacherous and evil was the look he directed at the ashen-faced Colonel.
“Let’s see the dough,” he said softly.
But the Colonel had no “dough.” He fumbled futilely through his wallet. He had not a penny, much less fifty forints.
“Let’s see the dough,” repeated Mr. Zöld. “You can’t play without it.”
“But I’m a Colonel,” roared the officer, straining his voice.
Mr. Zöld’s hand wave was pitying; the other players cast grumpy glances at their fleeced companion who was obstructing the progress of the game. (“It’s already the second time tonight.”)
Diamant took Kálmán by the elbow.
“Let’s go. We’ll only get in trouble here. I bet the Colonel will sign an I.O.U. and keep on playing. I’ve seen it happen plenty of times,” growled the fat, prematurely old Jew. “Look, it’s almost dawn; why don’t we go have some breakfast…I know a small tavern open all night right here on Franciscans’ Place. You’re my guest.”
With a reassuring wink, Mr. Diamant revealed a ten-forint banknote peeking from his vest pocket.
Where did he get the money? Possibly the landlady had pressed it furtively into the palm held out behind his back as she crossed the room, all violet-scented party-going briskness. Or perhaps the banknote had been found on the floor, under the chair of some frenzied gambler, by the eagle-eyed Mr. Diamant, who never loitered in vain around the card tables.
Ten forints was a lot of money. Enough to make the heartsick Kálmán cheer up, and nearly shake hands, as Mr. Diamant did, with the cagey old doorman who let them out through the secret passageway. (Only later did it occur to him that he had been received in this house like a lord while his money and credit had lasted, in the days when he would lightheartedly fling Eveline’s perfumed banknotes on a number on the green baize, confident that the kind maiden’s rosewood moneybox would be forever at his disposal. But Eveline had gone far away since then…At the gambling salon they soon noted his penury, no matter how Mr. Kálmán tried to hide it. The fiacre, naturally on credit, would still wait for him all night on Posta Street; he still bestowed the usual two-forint tip on the doorman, and with a blasé expression chewed on a thick Havana cigar, while observing the progress of the play. In the adjoining room, where he felt sure he was out of sight, he would ask winning players for a small, gentlemanly loan, in strictest confidence. However, Mr. Zöld’s hawkeye saw everything, and no longer was seat number ten reserved for him at the table.)
On the predawn street a tiny woman and a lanky gentleman were walking arm in arm, apparently taking their daily constitutional.