Loser Takes Al

We sat in the gardens afterwards in the early evening sun and I worked hard on my system, for I felt as though I were working against time. I said to Cary, “Give me a thousand francs. I’ve got to check up.”

“But, darling,” she said, “do you realize we’ve only got five thousand left. Soon we shan’t have anything even for rolls.”

“Thank God for that. I can’t bear the sight of a roll.”

“Then let’s change to ices instead. They don’t cost any more. And, think, we can change our diet, darling. Coffee ices for lunch, strawberry ices for dinner. Darling, I’m longing for dinner.”

“If my system is finished in time, we’ll have steaks…”

I took the thousand and went into the cuisine. Paper in hand I watched the table carefully for a quarter of an hour before betting and then quite quietly and steadily I lost, but when I had no more tokens to play my numbers came up in just the right order. I went out again to Cary. I said, “The devil was right. It’s a question of capital.”

She said sadly, “You are getting like all the others.”

“What do you mean?”

“You think numbers, you dream numbers. You wake up in the night and say ‘Zéro deux’. You write on bits of paper at meals.”

“Do you call them meals?”

“There are four thousand francs in my bag and they’ve got to last us till the Seagull comes. We aren’t going to gamble any more. I don’t believe in your system. A week ago you said you couldn’t beat the bank.”

“I hadn’t studied…”

“That’s what the devil said—he’d studied. You’ll be selling your system soon for a glass of whisky.”

She got up and walked back to the hotel and I didn’t follow. I thought, a wife ought to believe in her husband to the bitter end and we hadn’t been married a week; and then after a while I began to see her point of view. For the last few days I hadn’t been much company, and what a life it had been—afraid to meet the porter’s eye, and that was exactly what I met as I came into the hotel.

He blocked my way and said, “The manager’s compliments, sir, and could you spare him a few moments. In his room.” I thought: they can’t send her to prison too, only me, and I thought: the Gom, that egotistical bastard on the eighth floor who has let us in for all this because he’s too great to remember his promises. He makes the world and then he goes and rests on the seventh day and his creation can go to pot that day for all he cares. If only for one moment I could have had him in my power—if he could have depended on my remembering him, but it was as if I was doomed to be an idea of his, he would never be an idea of mine.

“Sit down, Mr Bertram,” the manager said. He pushed a cigarette box across to me. “Smoke?” He had the politeness of a man who has executed many people in his time.

“Thanks,” I said.

“The weather has not been quite so warm as one would expect at this time of year.”

“Oh, better than England, you know.”

“I do hope you are enjoying your stay.” This, I supposed, was the routine—just to show there was no ill-feeling—one has one’s duty. I wished he would come to an end.

“Very much, thank you.”

“And your wife too?”

“Oh yes. Yes.”

He paused, and I thought: now it comes. He said, “By the way, Mr Bertram, I think this is your first visit?”

“Yes.”

“We rather pride ourselves here on our cooking. I don’t think you will find better food in Europe.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“I don’t want to be intrusive, Mr Bertram, please forgive me if I am, but we have noticed that you don’t seem to care for our restaurant, and we are very anxious that you and your wife should be happy here in Monte Carlo. Any complaint you might have—the service, the wine…?”

“Oh, I’ve no complaint. No complaint at all.”

“I didn’t think you would have, Mr Bertram. I have great confidence in our service here. I came to the conclusion—you will forgive me if I’m intrusive—”

“Yes. Oh yes.”

“I know that our English clients often have trouble over currency. A little bad luck at the tables can so easily upset their arrangements in these days.”

“Yes. I suppose so.”

“So it occurred to me, Mr Bertram, that perhaps—how shall I put it—you might be, as it were, a little—you will forgive me, won’t you—well, short of funds?”

My mouth felt very dry now that the moment had come. I couldn’t find the bold frank words I wanted to use. I said, “Well,” and goggled across the desk. There was a portrait of the Prince of Monaco on the wall and a huge ornate inkstand on the desk and I could hear the train going by to Italy. It was like a last look at freedom.