Макс Фрай - The Stranger

“Would you like some diversion?” he asked innocently. “Excuse me for being so forward, but that’s our custom around here. My friends have been enjoying their game for an hour, and I have no partner. We’re not playing for high stakes, so you won’t be risking your fortune.”

You’re darn straight I won’t, I thought maliciously. A certain cheerful and overzealous fellow already had.

“My name is Ravello,” he said.

Oh no it isn’t, you debonair player, you—it’s Abora Vala, as I recall.

“Don’t be shy, sir,” this cavalier liar whispered to me. “In Kettari it’s the custom to dispense with ceremony in making one another’s acquaintance, in particular if the gentlemen have the chance to while away the evening at a game of Krak. What is that you’re smoking, if I may ask?”

“This? A friend of mine brought it back with him from somewhere—from Kumon, I believe, the capital of the Kumon Caliphate.” I had read this name in Manga Melifaro’s Encyclopedia of the World , and, to be honest, I wasn’t sure whether such a place really existed. I truly hoped he hadn’t gotten it wrong.

“The chap is a merchant, or pirate—you never know with these sailors,” I added. “You’ve never seen anything like these smoking sticks before?”

“Never.”

This time I had every reason to believe that Mr. “Ravello” was telling the truth.

“And where are you from yourself?” he asked me.

“From the County Vook, the Borderlands. Isn’t it obvious from my accent? Well, let’s play, then, if you haven’t reconsidered. But no high stakes.”

“One crown per game?” my tempter suggested.

I whistled. Right—no high stakes.

The speed at which Lonli-Lokli had emptied our money pouch no longer seemed so improbable to me.

“Half a crown,” I insisted. “I’m not such a rich man, especially tonight.”

He nodded. A half crown for a game is no small potatoes either, I thought.

The only thing left to do now was to place my hopes in Sir Juffin’s success. Two losses, and I could begin to undress, or go home—which wasn’t really part of my plan.

We finally settled down at a small table by the far corner of the bar. Several pairs of sly Kettarian eyes stared at me from the nearby tables. I shivered. I felt sure they were going to try to bamboozle me. I wasn’t sure how, but I knew they would try.

“Be so kind as to tell me your name, sir,” “Ravello” probed cautiously. “Perhaps you have your reasons for not introducing yourself, but I have to address you in some way or other.”

“My name? Of course, it’s no secret.” I deliberated a moment. “Sir Marlon Brando, at your service.”

It was completely logical. Who else could accompany Marilyn Monroe? A bird of the same feather.

Of course, “Ravello” was no more surprised than Sir Juffin had been upon hearing my choice of names for Marilyn. Such is the fleeting nature of earthly fame. Whoever you might be in one World, in another World you might as well be nobody.

“You can just call me Brando,” I said. If this fellow started calling me by my full name, I’d laugh in his face for sure.

I won the first two games easily and swiftly, to my great relief. Now at least I had a bit of breathing space—enough for four more hands anyway. And by that time, my poor head, tormented by incomprehensible matters, would be right as rain again. Well, that’s what I was hoping.

I lost the third game due to sheer stupidity. Mr. Abora Vala, alias Ravello, was suddenly no longer nervous. He realized I was that very provincial numbskull he had taken me for at first, and that I had just gotten lucky. I took this into account. If I started winning again, I’d have to force myself to lose from time to time. Otherwise my newfound friend would get bored.

Then I won four times in a row. Mr. Ravello began to get agitated and I realized needed to cut short my winning streak for a time. The fellow dealt the cards. I looked at mine and discovered that I wouldn’t be able to lose even if I wanted to. My paltry intellectual baggage was incapable of letting me lose with a hand like that. So I won again. It was pitiful to look at my partner. A thief who has just been robbed is a sorry spectacle. I took my cigarettes out of my pocket.

“Care to try one, Ravello? If there’s anything good about living in that backward caliphate, it’s the fine tobacco.”

“Really?” the distracted fellow asked with some hesitation. His furtive eyes stared at me as if trying to detect a local cardsharper behind Marlon Brando’s disguise. But my strange accent and the exotic taste of my cigarettes clearly witnessed to other, faraway origins. We started in on the next round. After considerable effort I managed not only to lose, but also demonstrated my indisputable dimwittedness. This worked to my advantage. I decided to raise the stakes.

“I seem to have just gotten richer,” I said thoughtfully. “And in an hour I think I’ll want to turn in. What do you say we raise the stakes to a crown per game?”

It was amusing to look at Mr. Ravello. The struggle between greed and caution on his expressive face was something to behold. I understood his problem perfectly. On the one hand, I was too lucky by far; on the other, I was a perfect dolt. Moreover, if the stakes were raised in the hour remaining, there would be plenty of time for him to win it all back. Otherwise, who could say? Of course, he agreed. The fellow was both daring and cunning—just ripe for taking the bait.

Then I won six rounds so easily I was surprised myself. My theory about inheriting a sizable chunk of luck from your card-playing mentor proved to be a sound one. Here was the proof, clear as day. Sir Juffin must have a huge surplus of this blasted luck.

“Not having any luck today, Ravello?” someone asked with studied indifference from the nearby table.

Up to now, the other patrons hadn’t paid the slightest bit of attention to our game.

He’s probably the local champion, some sort of rescue squad. Now he’ll have to come to grips with me. In my joy, I ordered another glass of Jubatic Juice. I never thought I’d let myself go like this.

“No luck,” my partner admitted mournfully.

“Well, if you’re not having any luck, you’d better go home and go to bed,” the new gentleman advised. “The moon is out tonight, and you haven’t so much as glanced at it.”

“You’re right about that, Tarra,” my victim said with a sigh. “Today the only luck I’m going to see is when my head’s on my pillow. But Mr. Brando here isn’t tired yet, is he?” He looked at me quizzically.

Not a chance, I said to myself. I guess the idea was that this local ace would step in and save the day. Well, we’ll just have to see about that. I’m rather curious to see how it will turn out myself.

“I think I’m just getting the hang of it,” I said, assuming the bemused expression of a victor who has won by chance rather than skill. “But if you want to stop the game, I won’t insist.”

“My friend’s name is Tarra. As far as I know, his partner, Mr. Linulan is always expected home by this time. But Tarra is a solitary man. Maybe you’d like to keep him company?” Ravello asked. It seemed I was meant to take the bait; and take the bait I did.

Mr. Tarra closely resembled his predecessor. He even had the same silvery gray hair surrounding a long-nosed face of indeterminate age. Is it just coincidence, or a widespread Kettarian phenotype? I wondered. Maybe it’s even simpler than that—they’re brothers, and this is a family business. Without engaging in too much idle chit-chat, Mr. Tarra and I got down to work. Suffice it to say, the so-called Mr. Ravello had the temerity not to go anywhere at all, but just to move to the next table. Of course, I pretended not to notice.