The Search for Joyful

The Search for Joyful by Benedict Freedman Page A

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that pierced you with drums and syncopated music intoned by a beautiful black singer.
    â€œHow do you like it? Exciting, huh?” I nodded numbly as he pointed. “Over here they’re shooting craps. The dice have to bounce off the rail for the throw to count. If they don’t, look out, some thug is apt to chop off your hand.” One player was talking to his dice, beseeching them. A woman was kissing hers. Everything was extravagant, exaggerated.
    â€œAnd over here, Montreal’s own game, barbotte. You’ll find it played in any alley for penny stakes—and here for enough money to buy all the buildings on the Place d’Armes.”
    He herded us over for a better look. “It’s the stupidest dice game ever invented: five winning combinations, five losing, nothing else counts. A strictly even chance, minus the cut of up to five percent the house skims off on each roll. Played with tiny ‘peewee’ dice, easy to shave. No skill, no strategy, no technique whatsoever—just plain dumb luck.”
    Crowded around the table were a raucous and ill-assorted bunch of frenzied gamblers, some dressed to the nines, one who looked as though he’d slept in the bus station. This man, unshaven and reeking of cabbage, was rolling the dice, a mad gleam in his eyes.
    â€œThat’s Marcel. They call him Magister Ludi, King of the Games. He has more luck than any living person, of both kinds, good and bad. You should have been here last week when he came in without an overcoat. He pawned it for six bucks, lost that stake in two rolls, scraped his pockets for all the change he had on him, lost that, and finally panhandled nickels and dimes from the spectators to make a last two-dollar bet. He won. And won again. Walked away at closing time with more than seven thousand dollars. He bought a new wardrobe, paid a year’s room and board in advance at some fleabag inn, and he’s back tonight losing the rest.”
    Making room for the vultures who wanted to savor Magister Ludi’s bankruptcy, Robert finally brought us to a table where he was welcomed by players and croupiers alike.
    â€œThis is my game,” he announced. “Roulette. Le rouge et le noir. ”
    Through the din I heard the croupier calling numbers and colors, the French words an invocation.
    â€œSo, little ladies,” Robert adapted his manner to the place, “what is your pleasure? What will it be? Red or black? Even or odd? Columns? Rows? Or thirty-five to one on your lucky number?”
    â€œYou go ahead, Robert,” Mandy urged. “Kathy and I will just watch until we get the hang of it.”
    â€œNo,” I declared. When the pony sheds! Where did he get off, standing me up? “Place your bet, Robert. And I will too.”
    â€œKathy!” Mandy was as amazed by this new side of me as I was. “Are you really going to?”
    I laughed and repeated her words back to her, “No use going to a gambling casino if you don’t gamble.”
    â€œA woman after my own heart,” Robert encouraged.
    â€œIn that case . . .” Mandy followed reluctantly.
    Robert stepped up to the roulette table and placed his chips on Black. The croupier barked his warning call, the gigantic wheel spun, sending out sparks of light, and the money was raked away. Bettors lost and bettors won, their winnings added to the piles in front of them.
    I picked a person with a mountain of chips before him, a gentleman with a malacca cane adorned in mother-of-pearl. The handle unscrewed, and out came a small flask from which he refreshed himself in moments of stress. He seemed to be the luckiest one there, and when he put his chips on Red, I emptied my purse and placed the first and last bet of my life.
    My last, because after it was explained to me in French that the house accepted only chips, not cash, and the croupier with a resigned expression exchanged my money for a small, very small pile from a

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