another. With a tilt of his head, he answered, ‘Yes, I’ll play.’
He pulled it off again, though it was different this time. The energy around him had changed. He and the roulette wheel were two separate entities now, no longer in sync. Yet he didn’t budge. He remained planted in his seat, watching the goddess watch the ball spin.
The lights came on. He took this as a good sign and continued to bet. He gained again and then again. The stakes were high. It was dangerous. It was insane. The Chinese tried to look unperturbed but their nervousness was beginning to show. Among the crowd Adem caught the eyes of the Moroccan, his brow furrowed in anguish. Shaking his head, the man mouthed, ‘Enough, brother!’
But Adem couldn’t quit. She was staring at him from the other end of the table, her lips like cherries, full and inviting, and he felt the possibility, a chance in a thousand but a chance nevertheless, of winning her heart if he kept on winning at roulette. Seconds later he heard someone call her and that’s how he found out her name: Roxana.
Straight-up bet. He placed all his chips on the number fourteen. The ball spun counter to the wheel, like the two tides in his life, family and freedom, pulling him in opposite directions. A chorus of sighs rose from the onlookers – ripples of water reaching the shores. Now the ball made a jolt before finally landing in a slot. The wheel moved through another full turn. Her face lit up with amazement and appreciation, and something that he likened to admiration. He didn’t need to look to know that he had won.
That was when one of the Chinese muttered under his breath, but in a loud-enough voice, ‘Don’t you have a family waitin’, my friend? They must be worried for you. It’s getting late.’
The hidden warning and the word
family
drew a thick curtain between him and the roulette, him and the room, him and her. Adem plunked the chips in a box, cashed them in and strode out. An acquaintance gave him a lift half of the way and he walked the remaining half.
There were piles of rubbish on the streets of East London; rotting waste was strewn everywhere, randomly scattered. The world had gone berserk. Everyone was on strike: firemen, miners, bakers, hospital workers, bin men. No one wanted to play the game any more. No one but the gamblers.
It was four in the morning when he reached the house on Lavender Grove. He smoked on the sofa, the cigarette turning to ash between his fingers, the pile of money warm and loyal next to him. Sixteen thousand, four hundred pounds. Since everyone was sound asleep, he couldn’t tell his family about his victory. It would have to wait. He lay wide-eyed in the dusky living room, seized by a sense of loneliness so profound as to be insurmountable. He could hear the rasp of his wife’s breathing. And his two sons, daughter, even the goldfish . . . All wrapped in a mysterious serenity.
This he had noticed while doing his military service back in Turkey. When more than three people slept in a narrow place, sooner or later their breaths would become synchronized. Perhaps it was God’s way of telling us that if we could just let go of ourselves, we would all eventually be in step and there would be no more disputes. The thought was new to him and he enjoyed it for a while. But even if there was a harmony somewhere, he could not be part of it. It occurred to him, the way it had on other occasions, that he was a man just like any other, no better and no worse, but that he was failing the people he cared about. He wondered, for the umpteenth time, whether his own flesh and blood would be better off without him.
Unable to sleep, he left the flat at dawn. He carried the money with him, though he was aware that it was a foolish thing to do. Hackney was full of muggers and thieves who would not mind breaking his ribs for such a large sum. His walk changed to a lope, and he flinched and went cold each time a stranger approached him on the
He pulled it off again, though it was different this time. The energy around him had changed. He and the roulette wheel were two separate entities now, no longer in sync. Yet he didn’t budge. He remained planted in his seat, watching the goddess watch the ball spin.
The lights came on. He took this as a good sign and continued to bet. He gained again and then again. The stakes were high. It was dangerous. It was insane. The Chinese tried to look unperturbed but their nervousness was beginning to show. Among the crowd Adem caught the eyes of the Moroccan, his brow furrowed in anguish. Shaking his head, the man mouthed, ‘Enough, brother!’
But Adem couldn’t quit. She was staring at him from the other end of the table, her lips like cherries, full and inviting, and he felt the possibility, a chance in a thousand but a chance nevertheless, of winning her heart if he kept on winning at roulette. Seconds later he heard someone call her and that’s how he found out her name: Roxana.
Straight-up bet. He placed all his chips on the number fourteen. The ball spun counter to the wheel, like the two tides in his life, family and freedom, pulling him in opposite directions. A chorus of sighs rose from the onlookers – ripples of water reaching the shores. Now the ball made a jolt before finally landing in a slot. The wheel moved through another full turn. Her face lit up with amazement and appreciation, and something that he likened to admiration. He didn’t need to look to know that he had won.
That was when one of the Chinese muttered under his breath, but in a loud-enough voice, ‘Don’t you have a family waitin’, my friend? They must be worried for you. It’s getting late.’
The hidden warning and the word
family
drew a thick curtain between him and the roulette, him and the room, him and her. Adem plunked the chips in a box, cashed them in and strode out. An acquaintance gave him a lift half of the way and he walked the remaining half.
There were piles of rubbish on the streets of East London; rotting waste was strewn everywhere, randomly scattered. The world had gone berserk. Everyone was on strike: firemen, miners, bakers, hospital workers, bin men. No one wanted to play the game any more. No one but the gamblers.
It was four in the morning when he reached the house on Lavender Grove. He smoked on the sofa, the cigarette turning to ash between his fingers, the pile of money warm and loyal next to him. Sixteen thousand, four hundred pounds. Since everyone was sound asleep, he couldn’t tell his family about his victory. It would have to wait. He lay wide-eyed in the dusky living room, seized by a sense of loneliness so profound as to be insurmountable. He could hear the rasp of his wife’s breathing. And his two sons, daughter, even the goldfish . . . All wrapped in a mysterious serenity.
This he had noticed while doing his military service back in Turkey. When more than three people slept in a narrow place, sooner or later their breaths would become synchronized. Perhaps it was God’s way of telling us that if we could just let go of ourselves, we would all eventually be in step and there would be no more disputes. The thought was new to him and he enjoyed it for a while. But even if there was a harmony somewhere, he could not be part of it. It occurred to him, the way it had on other occasions, that he was a man just like any other, no better and no worse, but that he was failing the people he cared about. He wondered, for the umpteenth time, whether his own flesh and blood would be better off without him.
Unable to sleep, he left the flat at dawn. He carried the money with him, though he was aware that it was a foolish thing to do. Hackney was full of muggers and thieves who would not mind breaking his ribs for such a large sum. His walk changed to a lope, and he flinched and went cold each time a stranger approached him on the
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