Elena entered the train carriage first. She’d always been used to the man entering first, whether it was a restaurant or a house ahead of her. It was how her father had brought her up, to wait for the man to enter first. He taught her a man’s role was to be a protector, and if he couldn’t, she should leave him.
Except there was no leaving Peter Serf. He was her captor and unless and until Dimitar could raise a million bucks, she would stay that way. It had been a fortnight, but it felt like forever since she had seen Bulgaria – since she’d been home.
‘Des billets, monsieur?’ the train guard said, and Peter Serf held their tickets out to him as he entered the compartment behind Elena. Even the train guard thought it was the man’s job, she reasoned.
They had the carriage to themselves, as it was practically empty in first class. The guard soon left and was almost immediately replaced in their compartment by a mature woman with a kindly face pushing a drink trolley. She took a food order and left them with two caffè americanos.
Elena drank her coffee, thinking of her Mum back in Bulgaria, whom the woman pushing the trolley reminded her of. She tried to picture her mother’s face, but it was a struggle. Not the vague shape or distinguishing features, but the detail, the wrinkles, the lines, her smile. Those came back to her blurred. She had only seen her a fortnight ago and now, she was appropriating her face to a waitress. This nightmare had to end.
‘Your boy is doing well,’ Serf smiled as a sickly grin started to grow on his cheeks, climbing toward his ears like ivy.
‘Good for you, then. You’re the one who wants his money. I just want him.’
‘Like you wanted him last night?’ Serf smiled. There was a sick sense of superiority about his manner. Like the cat who got the cream, Elena thought.
‘Last night was about righting a wrong. What will you think of the next time Paris comes to your mind?’
‘You, of course.’
‘Then a memory has been changed.’ She said.
For a while, they drank without speaking. The day was waking, the air clearing. Their food arrived and they ate in silence. Elena thought of Dimitar as his day began, wondering where he was and what he was doing.
Peter Serf thought of no such thing because he knew exactly where Dimitar was and what he had been up to the previous night.
*
Dimitar woke to a view of Simone’s back. His eyes focused and he watched as her shoulder blades creased as she turned over. They were both bare. The night before, this had led to comfort, two lonely people finding a mate with which to distract themselves from the jobs they must do. The morning was a spotlight shining directly down on them, however, and the mood had changed.
‘I feel bad about last night.’ Dimitar confessed.
‘Because of your friend?’ Simone said. She sat up, pulling the thin sheet up over herself.
‘Because I have to stay on the right track. Not take any diversions, no matter how enjoyable.’
‘So you found it enjoyable too?’
‘Of course I did,’ he said, stroking her hand. ‘I’m not made of stone. But I came to you for help, not…’ The rest of what he was about to say was lost in the void of self-reflection.
Their eyes met again. Dimitar had just 90 minutes before he needed to be at the poker table for the second day of a tournament that might change things, might push him finally on to the target he had in his mind’s eye – the million dollars he needed to save Elena.
‘Not now. Not… like this. It isn’t right.’ He said.
‘And if you win today?’
He rose, turning away from her as he dressed.
‘I need a shower. Maybe I’ll have it cold.’ He smiled a little as he turned back to face her, now at least partly clothed.
Simone let the sheet slip from her body.
‘Maybe I could join you.’
*
An hour and a half later, Dimitar arrived at the tournament room. Back in the moment, he was now focused. As he’d walked through the ship, he’d been processing what had happened with Simone. Had it helped him focus on what he needed to do? Was she good for him? Or was he distracting himself from the task at hand? It felt like the first answer was right.
As play began, Dimitar noticed that ‘Slim’ McCoy was on the other side of the room. Ten tables filled the cardroom, with everything a little more spaced out. There was a feature table that was lit brightly at the front of the ballroom. Dimitar was near the back, buried in Seat 1 of a table featuring none of the players he recognized from the previous day.
Partially obscured from the other players by the dealer, Dimitar played some of the best poker of his life. The night had allowed him to distance himself from the financial target of the money he needed and instead allowed him to focus on each decision he made at the poker table. Starting third in chips, he had the chip lead by the lunch break and avoided as much of the media coverage at the event as he could, politely declining an interview in English by a sideline reporter.
‘I don’t speak good English,’ he said, but he told the presenter he would speak if he won. The presenter laughed and told him she would hold him to that promise. Dimitar guessed she said the same thing to a lot of players.
It didn’t matter that Dimitar was under the new pressure of being in the lead. With 70 players left, he grew into a monster stack. With fewer than 50, the money bubble’s approach saw his influence grow even further. With four tables left, he was joined by Slim McCoy after a table break, and both men looked good for a spot at the final table.
‘Young man, I see the rigours of last night haven’t dampened your determination.’ Slim stated, winking at Dimitar.
‘Looks like your early night did the same for you. How about we chop it if we make it to heads-up?’ Dimitar joked.
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.