Wayne puts his cards on the table, face down.
“I’m folding.”
“Oh no! Remember the Alamo!”
Soro slides some coins next to Smiley’s, and decorously adds a few more.
“I see you,” Smiley says, while he puts in two more coins, “and I’ll raise you. But first things first, I wanna know what makes you tick, Soro. What are you after?”
“What am I after?” Soro answers. “Four aces.”
“I’m not askin’ about the game,” Smiley says, laughing as he speaks. “In life, what do you want outta life?” And in a serious tone he adds, “As for the game, I’m calling.”
Smiley puts one more coin on the table, he really does want to see what Soro’s got, he’s curious.
With a flip of her wrist, Soro-Sarah shows her cards: four aces and a joker. She has five of a kind. And she answers Smiley’s question without altering her girlish voice one bit.
“I want to act. On the stage of the Theatre de L’Odeon”—she pronounces the theater’s name in perfect French. “As a Kickapoo Indian in a romantic comedy, lithe and pretty, dancing bare-legged. A Kickapoo or a Hasinai or a Tejas Indian, a very pretty one.”
She throws her head back in laughter, with a woman’s grace. No one joins her. She gets up from her chair and moves her arms strangely. This breaks the ice, the men break into laughter, everyone except Smiley. Goddamn fucking faggot! I wasn’t born to lose a card game to a faggot — who wants to be an actor! As a Kickapoo! Who the hell am I playing cards with! I was told he was … argh! Saying these things to himself will have to suffice. He can’t let this faggot beat him at cards and make him act like a fool, so he hides his anger. So the young man wants to be an Indian girl? You think you’ll shock me with that? Go be a Kickapoo, or two Kickapoos, for all I care!
“Kickapoo Indian,” he scoffs, throwing her a look that’s like he’s spitting at her with his eyes. “How bizarre!”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Sarah-Soro says. “Who wouldn’t adore me if I were a beautiful Kickapoo in love?”
She says this loud and clear. Along with the three card players, the rest of the Café Ronsard turns to look at her, curious about something which, at this point, there’s little doubt: is this young man a woman?
“Next question,” continues Smiley; every inch the cardsharp, he sees through her ruse. “What’s your favorite story?”
“Cliquot. Some day I’ll write it.”
“Write? That seems awful girly to me,” Blade says, voicing the thought on everyone’s mind, not just Smiley’s.
“I disagree,” says Smiley. “Writing is manly, if you tell the story right. I’m not familiar with the one you mention,” he changes his tone, he was about to start laughing, his curiosity has lifted his spirits. Now he’s genuinely interested in this person. Nothing interests him more (not even cards) than a good story. “Cliquot?”
“I’ll tell it to you, because I like you, sir,” Sarah-Soro says, looking into his eyes. She gets up from the table, goes to the bar, gestures for a drink and points to what she wants.
“The same?”
Sarah nods. The barkeep fills a glass and comes over to her, as close as he can. Cruz walks over and stops right next to Soro.
“Shh. Listen up!”
Even the Eagles stop talking. All eyes in the Café Ronsard are on Sarah-Soro.
She turns a little, without turning her back completely on the barkeep. She begins:
“The story of Cliquot. Told by its author, before writing it. Once upon a time there was a racehorse called Cliquot. Cliquot ended up belonging to a young mustachioed man …”
A man interrupts. “Like you.”
Silence. Sarah lets her expression do the talking. Me? All y’all here know I’m a woman. I just dressed this way to sit with Smiley and play cards, I never thought I’d fool anyone; don’t tell me you’re that stupid.
“A real man. Not like me.”
“I’m not familiar with this story,” Smiley says, admiring the faggot’s nerve. A smile lights up his face. “Cliquot?” he asks again.
“I don’t want to be interrupted, gentlemen. Telling a story is like staging a play. Now listen up.
“The story of Cliquot, as told by its author before writing it. Cliquot was a horse famous for his speed. His new owner, a handsome fellow, let’s call him Neil Emory, hired a famous jockey. But the jockey couldn’t ride Cliquot, the horse was too spirited. He had everything it took to be the best, to win every race, but … who could ride him? The owner tried another jockey, who failed, and another, who failed, and another … whom Cliquot killed. Or maybe not, let’s say he just wounded him badly because killing him makes Cliquot look bad, but he really did kill him. Cliquot had a strong, unpredictable spirit.
“Then, Neil Emory, Cliquot’s owner, suffered a reversal of fortune. He was going to have to sell Cliquot. To a guy who was a real bastard. You heard me right: a bastard.
“Then a tiny jockey showed up with his manager. This tiny jockey never opened his mouth. The manager told Cliquot’s heavy-hearted owner that this jockey wanted to race Cliquot, and that there was no doubt he’d succeed. His fee? A small percentage of the winnings. That was the deal, no trials. If he accepted the offer, great. If not, forget it.
“Neil Emory, broke as he was, accepted, despite not knowing what he was getting himself into. He needed the money. There was no risk to him, just to his handsome Cliquot, but under the circumstances he didn’t have an option.
“So they announced that Cliquot was going to race. Everyone bet against him. ‘And they’re off!’ Cliquot was slow off the start. Three seconds later he hit his stride, he was gaining. Two seconds, he was neck and neck with the leader. The crowd went wild. Cliquot looked like he was flying. Neil Emory, his owner, was afraid it was the jockey who would go flying any second. Cliquot stayed focused. He continued racing, concentrating on the course and the finish line, with composure he’d never seen before. He pulled ahead and won the race by two lengths.
“Neil Emory got out of debt. More victories followed. He made a small fortune lickety-split, even larger than the one he had before.
“The winning jockey, after several incidents I can’t tell you about because I haven’t invented them yet, won Cliquot’s owner’s heart. The jockey was really a woman named Gwendolyn Gwinn. They began a passionate love affair. This isn’t an important part of the story and it won’t take up much space, it’s a concession to female readers; the horse races are what’s important, because Cliquot has to keep winning them … I prefer cards and horseraces to affairs of the heart, which bore me to tears. They’re all the same. Have you seen the size of a human heart? It’s about the same as a fist. How can that compare with the whole wide world?” She spreads her arms.
“We’ll discover (you’ll see how) that Gwendolyn was Cliquot’s previous owner, and had been forced to sell him because of her own financial difficulties. I need to work on the details, I mean I haven’t made them all up yet. There needs to be some conflict with the fellow who pretends to be her manager, I can’t leave that loose end. There should be something about his role in her financial ruin, he’s a real evil guy. And the guy who wants to buy Cliquot is the one responsible for Gwendolyn’s financial ruin, he’s her father’s lawyer and wanted to marry her for her money. She refused, and he fucked her over … Hear that? Fucked her over.
“So Neil Emory’s real wife shows up (I still haven’t made up her name), returning from a trip to Paris where she was spending what little money her husband had left. She’s back because she heard fortune is smiling on Neil Emory again and she doesn’t want to lose it (you see, it’s the fortune she cares about, not Emory), and certainly not to a woman who came into his life dressed as a jockey.