Dimitar and Slim found themselves at opposite ends of the table they now shared, in seats 2 and 8. While other players were seated with them, there was a growing sense that the two men were playing their own game. For the reporters writing updates from the felt, the narrative was easy to focus on. Fans started responding online, watching exciting hands play out on social media, and commenting on the action.
One hand, in particular, hit Dimitar hard, as his lead went the way of Slim, but only in terms of chips. It was a board wetter than the bottle of water Dimitar kept by his side at all times to stay hydrated, counterbalancing the overhead air conditioning and his growing exhaustion. The day would conclude with just six players left, and when a dozen remained, Dimitar flopped middle set as his pocket eights found a third snowman on the T-8-7 flop. All three were hearts, and if a nine appeared, it would allow for a potential straight. And that is exactly what happened when as the nine of diamonds dropped on the turn.
Slim led out, taking the betting lead, so Dimitar raised to see whether the older man had found his straight or flush. Slim re-raised and stared down his young opponent.
‘Fold and I have the chip lead. I’m good with the lead.’ Slim smiled.
‘So am I. The lead is important, but so is having chips.’ Dimitar stated as he tossed his cards face up onto the table, folding. It was a clumsy move, with one of the eights flipping mid-air only to land facedown and some distance away from the first. The dealer turned both cards face up briefly, and Slim smiled. He slid his own cards face down into the muck.
At the next break, only nine players remained as the two men met over a drink at the bar.
‘So, did you have it?’
‘Of course I did. I had the nine, too. I presumed you didn’t have a jack in your hand.’
‘How did you know?’ Dimitar asked.
‘The size of your bet. No jack, and you take a little off, slightly more scared of eight outs rather than seven.’
‘I’m learning all the time.’
‘You’re playing very well and you made a good fold. But don’t show the table how good you are. I made the same mistake so much when I was younger. I wanted the whole world to know how good I was at playing poker.’
‘What’s wrong with that? It shows strength, it instils fear.’
‘Maybe in your home game, or your local casino. But in a game the public can see, it’s different. It can cost you value bets. It can give you a reputation. Any information you give other players helps them establish your range – for betting, raising, calling. Every move you make.’
‘I thought if I showed you, you might show me the bluff… or the straight.’
‘If I do that, who does it help? You? I like you, but I want you to have some doubt. To perhaps think I made a super bluff. I didn’t and you were right to fold, but if I show everyone else that, I not only weaken myself by I expose the truth in a hand. We only help them.’
‘I didn’t think of it like that.’
‘I know. You are a terrific player, Dimitar. But you are tired. Don’t make big mistakes late. You’ll regret them.’
‘I can’t believe you play with this intensity for other people.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Slim. Overhead, a light flashing overhead signified that the action was about to restart. The final two levels of the night would likely bring about the six-handed final table.
‘I mean your charity. You’re playing for other people. None of the money goes to you. But it means so much to you, every hand. I can see that.’
‘It means more to me because I am playing for someone else. They need the money more than me, and I can make more money than I have by playing poker.’
‘You make it sound like the simplest equation.’
The two men got up from their barstools and returned to the table, dodging the other players as they went.
*
The day had been spent watching Europe race by. They had lunched in the dining carriage shortly after noon, Elena choosing sirloin of beef and vegetables, feeling the scar under her dress, a two-inch line of raised skin beneath her clothes, invisible to anyone who passed them, but a permanent reminder of what had happened.
‘At least you’re eating now,’ Serf smiled. ‘You’re getting stronger, Elena.’
After eating, they returned to their own carriage, where they remained for what was left of the lazy afternoon. They retired early to their own beds while the light was still in the sky, each cloud a dusky orange, swallowed up in slow motion by the grey of twilight. To throw herself at Serf would be madness after the night before, so she resisted. She was thinking in terms of plausibility now. What he would believe, how reliable the story would be when he processed it.
As night fell, he woke from a doze and spoke a little. ‘I want you to know that I’m sorry, Elena.’
She switched the light on above her bed. They were only a metre apart, and he left his light off. They could see fine. The sleeper train rumbled on through the countryside of Western Europe.
‘I know you are Peter. That’s why you need to do the right thing.’
‘That’s the first time I’ve really felt like you’ve said my name without hatred in it.’
‘I don’t hate you. I feel sorry for you. And I know that what you’ve been through is partly Dimitar’s fault, but he wasn’t thinking about what would happen to you when he slept with your wife. It was a two-way decision she made with him.’
For a second, Elena noticed the colour of Serf’s eyes pushed to the edges as the black centre of his eyes flared. There was a darkness that she could see as clearly as the light from the lamp at the side of her bed. Except it was the exact opposite. It seemed to suck the life out of the room like a black hole.
‘We’ll never know what happened between them. We don’t know what Dimitar is doing now, or who he is with.’
‘Why do you say that, to hurt me?’
‘Would it hurt him to know that we spent the night together last night?’ he asked.
Elena didn’t answer. Eventually, Serf fell asleep again. She felt under the bed’s covers, then under the base sheet. Then she pushed her fingers under the mattress itself, millimetre by millimetre, so Serf wouldn’t hear the creak of a single bedspring. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Elena’s fingertip brushed against the tip of the steak knife. She pulled her hand away silently and looked at it in the glow of the lamp, which she would leave on.
A single drop of blood emerged. She sucked it away immediately.
About the Author: Paul Seaton has written about poker for over 10 years, interviewing some of the best players ever to play the game such as Daniel Negreanu, Johnny Chan and Phil Hellmuth. Over the years, Paul has reported live from tournaments such as the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas and the European Poker Tour. He has also written for other poker brands where he was Head of Media, as well as BLUFF magazine, where he was Editor.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.