Yevgeni Arkady Mihailovich looked at the poker hand. Ace and ten of diamonds were a strong start. King of hearts, seven of clubs and four of diamonds followed. He didn’t have a winning hand, but it was a decent position. It was strengthened when the next card was six of diamonds.
Four diamonds and an Ace high card. Were they worth a gamble? The screen blinked a thirty second countdown. He raised fifty and clicked.
Another round of betting, which increased his stake in the pot by another one-hundred-fifty. On the third round he threw caution to the wind, tired and frustrated, and matched a four hundred seventy-five increase.
Two of the smaller players pulled out. Yevgeny guessed they had minor pairs, fives or below.
The last card was nine of clubs. He had nothing. The winner had three sevens.
Yevgeny clicked out. He’d started the evening with one hundred-seventy five thousand credits. The result of six nights careful play. After tonight he was down to one hundred-thousand. If he dipped below that it was back to playing on small tables where players came in with pots of ten thousand, bet it all in one go, and hoped to luck.
The computer powered down leaving a welcoming womb of darkness and silence. He eased into the hallway where the smell of fresh varenyky was strong. Well, the smell of cabbage was strong. Thursday dinner was always cabbage varenyky. He hoped there would be salo to go with them, the bacon fat made them perfect.
“Zhenya, are you still awake?”
“Yes, Mamma. Tomorrow’s dinner smells good.”
“Get some sleep!”
“Yes, Mamma.”
He hated his diminutive, Zhenya. When he won the poker tournament, got to America, he would be Arkady. Arkady ‘The Ukrainian’ Mihailovich. Champion poker player.
He opened the bedroom door carefully, keeping the squeak as gentle as possible.
“Did you win again tonight?”
“Katerin, you should be asleep. You have school in the morning.”
“It’s only history in the morning. I already know what the Russians do to Ukraine. But you’re going to take us to America, aren’t you Arkady?”
Yevgeni shook his head in the darkness. Twelve years old, cynical about school and world politics, but convinced her nineteen year old brother would guarantee her future.
He got into his bed and stared at the ceiling which remained unseen in the dark. He laced his hands behind his head and took a deep breath.
“You didn’t win did you?”
“Not tonight, Katerin. Some nights you lose.”
He heard her shift in her bed, turning to face him.
“You will win, Yevgeni. You will beat them all.”
“Go to sleep, Kat.”
“Tell me what it will be like, when we go to America.”
He smiled, her enthusiasm was infectious. She watched US television shows all the time, learning English on the hoof. Sometimes she came out with a full sentence, telling their mother it was a compliment about whatever they were eating. He always assumed it was a vulgarity, but he wasn’t as linguistically advanced.
“It’ll be like Hungary, but with more money and more food and less Russians. Maybe I lied about the Russians. But they’ll have to play by American rules.”
His sister sighed, “Yes. Night, Yevgeni.”
He closed his eyes and cards flowed across his vision. The small pair he folded, and then watched The Turn and River pull out the matching pair. The flush he chased to thirty-five thousand, only to be beaten by a higher ranked flush.
It was the same after every session. Winning hands were inconsequential, forgotten apart from the increasing bankroll. Virtual bankroll. He had six weeks to get up to a million. With a million he was into a play-off game. Win the play-off, and he went to Vegas with a seat at the championship tables, for real money.
This was the reason losing hands burned against his eyelids.
‘I am The Ukrainian. The cards flow and the cards roll.’
His own mantra, and he ran it over every bum hand he remembered. Since age fifteen he had played poker. When Mamma thought he was running statistical analysis for a non-existent business class, he was playing poker. Then he read about poker, watched poker, dreamt poker.
It didn’t come naturally. He’d no savant ability to look at the hand and work out the other players cards. But he had ingrained the odds for each winning hand into his consciousness. Sometimes it wasn’t enough, like tonight.
Tomorrow was another day, another night.
Sleep proved elusive. Lying in the dark the cards refused to go away, refused to give way. Eventually he felt round for his headphones and turned the radio on. More talk of Russia massing troops on the eastern border, preparing to swallow another chunk of the country, like it had Crimea. Not that any Ukrainian would miss them. Most Crimeans thought things had gone backward since Stalin.
Eventually sleep did come, and with it dreams of poker chips and Katerin shaking her fist at a Russian flag.
In the morning they ate breakfast and listened as the President announced a limited general mobilisation. His mother looked at him, and he could see her remembering her Father who had been killed fighting the Germans at Stalingrad. When Ukrainian and Russian had fought together.
“It’s okay Mamma. The odds are that nothing will happen.”
She ruffled his hair and spooned more porridge into his bowl. Katerin came through with the mail.
“Here’s one for you Yevgeni.”
The envelope was official, a small Ukrainian flag embossed in the corner. He opened it, and read the name of the unit he was assigned to. It meant nothing. He didn’t memorise army units like card hands.
His Mamma started weeping, guessing what the letter was. Katerin took it from him and read it calmly.
“Looks like America must wait Yevgeni,” she said.
End
Original story by stuartcturnbull art by OpenClipart-Vectors via Pixabay
