Night by night, however, her expectation diminishes. She is not waiting for me, or for anyone else. She has given up the extravagant hope that someone might do something impartial for her — or that she might just go home.
So I ate. Scallops made no dent in me, nor did orange duck. For that matter, I was starving for the next two days even though I ate nonstop, night and day. I continued going out, too, yet strangely no one at the Venetian recognized me any longer. It was as if they were watching me from the wings and no one dared interrupt me, or even tap me on the shoulder, but at the same time none of them came up to me and asked if I would like a glass of naughty lemonade, as they had done so assiduously before. I raked in huge winnings night after night, always playing at the same table at the Venetian, I think it was table number four, and after a week there at table number five, just next to it. I took to wearing sunglasses during those nights, those quiet nights, and my dandy kid gloves that nevertheless gave me the air of a fussy bank teller afraid of getting germs on his fingers. I played cocooned in this way and unaffected by the body odor and the bad breath and the sudden gusts of cold air and the sound of the jongleurs and minstrels weaving their way through the crowds. I played and after I had won I went to McSorley’s Ale House, Morton’s of Chicago, Madeira and Portofino and Fogo Samba and Lei Garden and Imperial House Dim Sum and gorged myself on steaks, bamboo-pressed noodles, Hakka salted chicken, mui choy kau yuk (vegetables with pork belly), noh mi ap (rice-stuffed duck), or linguine with clams. Even seated at the table, and only an hour after eating a whole plate of ngiong tofu or kiu nyuk (sliced pork with mustard greens), I would feel my stomach growl and I would look forward to racing to one of the Venetian restaurants and ordering a meal for three.
I was waiting for Thursday to come, and on that very day, before taking the ferry over to Hong Kong for my appointment with Dao-Ming, I called a cab to take me to the Paiza. As far as I was aware, it was the easiest high-roller place in which to place a high bet, and I had made up my mind to give all my money to Dao-Ming, as I should have done long before. So why not triple it all and make of it a stupendous gift?
When I arrived, the staff recognized me, but with some difficulty, and from their embarrassed smiles I could see that they were perturbed by the drastic change in my appearance that my bouts of fever and hunger had brought about. They bowed nevertheless and one of them took me to the private elevators, even alleviating me of my awkward-looking Adidas bag. We talked about the weather. Inside, the bag was whisked away and I was told the chips would be brought to one of the private rooms.
I asked if these were numbered.
“Not strictly,” the girl said.
“If you count counterclockwise,” I said, “could you number them up to ten?”
“Of course.”
“Then — I am sure you’ll understand — I would like to be in the ninth one.”
She smiled.
“Don’t worry, sir. Players ask for that one all the time, as you can imagine.”
“Yes, I can imagine!”
“One minute. Can I seat you here and have you served a cocktail while I see if the room has a place?”
I nodded and sat. I felt quite warm in there, and when the dry martini came I dried my face with the paper napkin. I could see the enormous lantern suspended solemnly in the semidark, the replicas of the Xin terra-cotta army and paintings recessed into the walls. Everything was familiar and yet everything was also subtly altered since the last time I had been there. I felt smaller, shabbier, even though in reality I was in far better shape than I had been, at least from the perspective of the casino. I drank the martini in three even gulps. After fifteen minutes the girl returned.
“There is a place in that room, sir. There are two other players. Would you like to know who they are?”
“It’s nothing to me.”
“Very well, sir. Follow me. There’s no maximum bet here.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“Your chips will be here shortly.”
It was one of the rooms upholstered in red leather, similar to the ones I had seen and played in before. The walls were papered with pale green fleur-de-lis. There was a tall vertical painting of two English noblemen posed with hunting rifles next to a brace of slaughtered pheasants. As in other paintings, their eyes were very slightly Asian and they looked down at the players with an uncanny precision. A ruined abbey peeped up from behind the painted willows of a nonexistent England, and beneath this painting a real log fire gently flickered between iron dogs, pokers and hearth brushes slung from a polished brass tree. A basket of wood lay there as well, lending a faint perfume to the whole room. Along the mantelpiece stood sponges and insects encased in glass balls. At either end were two blocks of books simply painted onto the walls as a trompe l’oeil, the collected works of Dickens. I came in and saw my chips assembled neatly at the far end of the table. The two Chinese players there looked up quickly and shifted their eyes to accommodate a foreigner who looked like he had TB. They nodded. They were well-heeled, obviously, dressed in the city way, in navy blue and gold ties, with voluminous stockpiles of chips at their elbows. A bottle of Haut-Brion stood opened on a castered service, with the cork laid ceremoniously on a saucer. It looked like some kind of wine-stained insect lying there on a white doily. I felt warm and bothered as I sat.
We were all introduced and they shook my hand. Mellifluous English of the British variety, school-induced.
“We were waiting for you,” one of them smiled. “Can we offer you a glass of claret?”
“Why not?”
I took off my claustrophobic jacket.
The wine was served, we raised our glasses and sipped. Haut-Brion ’81: a fine hospitable touch.
The dealer let us find our own moment to get started, and then asked me very quietly how much I was thinking of laying down for my first bet.
“Well,” I said, equally quietly, “I am making only one bet tonight.”
There was a small stir.
“One, sir?”
“Yes, I had a dream last night that I could make only one bet tonight. I am superstitious about my dreams.”
Everyone nodded.
“I see,” the dealer said. “And how much were you thinking of placing on your bet?”
“All of it.”
They looked down at the mountain of chips.
I was not sure how this would go down, but the two players were obviously delighted. They broke into jaded grins. I had, apparently, spiced up a dull evening. The dealer noted this and didn’t bother asking them formally if this was to their taste.
“Very well,” he said. “All of it on one play. Gentlemen?”