He uses his fleshy backhand to wipe the frothy mirror. Pressing
his nostrils upwards, ham-handed, he shaves the cobalt patches of his
nascent beard and whiskers.
"I got myself a sucker for a backgammon match. He is from Iran. Was a
Minister of labour or agriculture or something like that..." - he
hisses a curse and cleanses a pearl of blood from prominent chin.
"What else?" - I enquire offhandedly. I know Eli well. He is too calm.
"Listen" - he enthuses as though the idea just budded in his mind -
"there is this Jewish cardiologist, filthy rich, Marc. He lives all by
himself in a six-room apartment in the sixteenth arrondissement. I
introduced him to this chick and now they are getting hitched."
I keep my peace, awaiting the d?nouement. Eli eyes me slyly:
"I told him you are a genius and that we are planning a convention of
Sephardim in Israel, sponsored by Itzhak Navon, the former president.
It set him on fire."
I cross my legs and inspect closely a bloodied mole embedded in my
thigh.
"What have you got there?" - enquires Eli - "Anyhow, this guy is
loaded, I am telling you. We can easily fleece him for five grand or
more for the consultancy we are planning on opening here, in Paris.
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