It loudly states, in black and red: I am here,
not to be snubbed.
"Let's play some baccarat" - he sneers - "I am tired of this game."
We stretch our limbs and Eli surveys the killing fields we leave
behind. He tremulously stacks the chips on one another, by size and
then by colour. We carry them with trepidation all the way to the
cashier and convert them to pesetas. Eli halves the tottering mound. He
entreats me to deposit one of the two resulting heaps in the strongbox
in our room.
He pleadingly commands me:
"No matter how much I beg and threaten, order or cajole - do not be
tempted to obey me. Do not bring down this money."
I eagerly acquiesce.
"And now" - he rubs his hands - "Let's fry this fish in its own fat.
Let's use some of the profits to dine in the casino's restaurant. Do
you know that eateries in gambling dens are the best in the world?"
I don't. It is my first trip away from Israel. But he is right, the
food is mouth-watering. A gypsy band of violins plays in the background.
Now, cleaned out gamblers alight by our burdened table and pat Eli's
upright back. They greet him eagerly, as though, through him, they
humble the much unloved establishment. They questioningly glance at me,
a cold appraising look.
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