Chapter
1. The Blind Bet
There was
no time here. It had been abolished as unnecessary, just as medicines are
abolished when they can no longer save.
Windows
were missing, as were clocks. Only harsh white electrical light beat into the
eyes, creating unnaturally sharp shadows.
In the
center of the room, blinded by the electric light, stood a table. The rest of
the space drowned in thick shadow that smelled of dust and stale tension.
Four people
sat at the table.
The one who
sat at the head placed his palms on the green baize.
His
fingers, long and nervous, felt the nap of the fabric, as if trying to read a
text written in Braille. But the baize was empty.
— Bets are
made, — he pronounced. His voice sounded confident, with those velvety,
commanding notes that brook no objections.
He looked
straight ahead, but his gaze, covered by a cloudy whitish film, passed through
his interlocutors, through the walls, resting on nonexistent horizons.
He had not
seen reality for a long time — and therefore believed only in his own visions.
—
Gentlemen, the wheel is launched. I feel its rotation.
The woman
sitting at his right hand nodded hastily. She fixed her eyes on his lips,
catching every movement, every twitch of the facial muscles.
An
expression of fanatical devotion and slight fright was frozen in her eyes.
She was not
afraid of his orders — she was afraid of the moment when the orders would
cease, and she would have to think for herself.
—
Absolutely correct, — she said, too loudly for such a small room. — The
rotation is flawless. We are all ready.
We await
your signal.
She heard
neither the humming of the lamp overhead nor the creaking of chairs.
For her,
the world was a silent film in which only the orders of the one sitting at the
head had meaning.
If he had
said "we are falling," she would have nodded with the same enthusiasm.
The third
participant — a young man with a tired, intelligent face — sat opposite.
He looked
not at the Master of the table, but at the baize, and saw what the Blind Man
did not see and the Deaf Woman did not notice: the table was tilted, there was
no roulette wheel on it – only an inclined plane leading nowhere.
For the
first time, he clearly felt that even the geometry of the room was against
those present.
Here,
neither chance nor justice existed — only the illusion that they were possible.
The man
opened his mouth to stop the madness, to shout: "You cannot win, the rules
are physically violated!".
But only a
wheezing, pitiful croak escaped his throat. His tongue, as if pressed down by
an invisible seal, did not obey.
He banged
his fist hard on the table.
Feeling the
vibration, the woman instinctively flinched and decided that he was simply
expressing impatience. The Blind Man at the head of the table merely smiled at
his own thoughts.
— I hear
the excitement, — he pronounced with satisfaction, mistaking the knock of
despair for an expression of agreement. — Excellent.
But to win,
we need capital. Where is our resource?
All three
turned their heads to the fourth corner of the table.
There, in a
deep, sagging armchair, sat Someone. It was an old man so ancient that his skin
resembled parchment, and his posture — a pile of discarded clothes.
He did not
move. His eyes were open but looked into the void, his ears were overgrown with
gray hair, his mouth was half-open.
He was
here. And he was not here.
The old man
was locked in the black, soundproof, and silent cocoon of his own body. He did
not know that he was in the "Onisac’s" room.
He did not
know that sitting opposite him were those who had decided to dispose of his
fate.
In his dry,
knotty hand was clenched a single object. A heavy, dull-shining round piece. The
last chip.
The Blind
Man reached across the table, his fingers moving predatorily in the air,
groping for the target.
— It is
time, — he whispered. — Make the contribution.
The old man
trembled barely noticeably, and this trembling in the timeless room sounded
louder than any scream.
Chapter
2. The Mechanics of Extraction
The Blind
Man's hand, groping along the baize, finally stumbled upon the cold, dry hand
of the old man. The Fourth flinched.
In his
world, this touch was like an electric shock — the sudden intrusion of an
unknown entity into absolute darkness.
He clenched
his fist even tighter, so that his knuckles turned white, instinctively
protecting the only thing that connected him to reality.
— He is
being stubborn, — stated the Blind Man, without changing the benevolent
expression on his face. — Holding onto the past.
This is
typical of those who do not see the perspective.
For the
Blind Man, the past was an enemy. He had long forgotten his own, and others'
pasts irritated him like dust settled on a perfectly pure idea.
He pulled
the old man's fist slightly towards himself. The fist did not yield.
The woman
on the right leaned forward. She did not hear the Blind Man's words, but she
saw the tension of the veins on his hand and the elder's resistance.
In her
eyes, widened by a constant desire to please, one conclusion could be read:
rebellion. The old man is breaking the rules. He is hindering the Game.
The Deaf
Woman stood up. Her chair flew back with a crash, but she did not notice it.
— He is
blocking the bet! — she shouted, looking at the Blind Man and awaiting his
approval. — Should I intervene?.
The Blind
Man, hearing the sharp movement of air and her shrill voice, winced but nodded
approvingly.
— Help him
make the right decision. We must manage to place the bet before the wheel stops.
The woman
walked around the table. The Mute jumped up. He understood what was about to
happen.
He saw how
the old man's hooked fingers dug into the metal of the chip, as if this were
not a game, but a matter of life and death.
The Mute
knew that the old man was not "being greedy," he was simply
terrified. He grabbed the woman by the elbow.
The Mute
knew: if he could squeeze out even a sound — he would not be heard anyway.
In this
room, sound was not a means of communication, but proof of powerlessness.
He shook
his head, opening his mouth soundlessly, trying to articulate: "Don't! It
hurts him!".
The Deaf
Woman stopped for only a second and glanced at the Mute with contempt.
She did not
hear his ragged breathing, did not hear the pitiful creak of the old chair
under the old man.
She saw
only a distorted face and grasping hands.
— Don't
interfere! — she cut him off, shaking off his hand. — You were always a
weakling. The Master ordered the bet to be made.
She threw
her whole body weight onto the old man. Her breathing was calm, almost measured
— this is how people breathe when doing habitual work.
For her,
the infliction of pain was a routine procedure.
The old man
thrashed soundlessly in the chair. For him, what was happening was hell:
invisible demons were tearing him apart.
The Deaf
Woman dug her well-groomed nails into his fingers, methodically, one by one,
prying them open.
— Just like
that, — the Blind Man said encouragingly, listening to the struggle. — A little
more persistence. It is for the common good.
When we
break the bank, he will be the first to thank us.
At that
moment, the blind deaf-mute old man finally realized that he was holding onto
not a chip — the last thing that was his.
He was
holding onto the feeling that his life still belonged to him alone.
A joint
crunched. The Mute squeezed his eyes shut. The old man, in his eternal deaf
night, unclenched his fingers. Pain proved stronger than instinct.
The round
heavy object slipped out of his palm and rolled across the green baize. Clink.
Clink. Clink.
The sound
was strange: instead of the dull thud of expensive plastic on soft felt, there
rang out the rolling strike of metal against a resonating wooden tabletop.
The Blind
Man covered the object with his palm. His face lit up.
— Got it, —
he exhaled. — Now listen to me carefully. We are betting on zero.
He
pronounced this like a prayer, having long lost faith in God, but still
believing in luck.
The Mute
opened his eyes. He looked at the object under the Blind Man's hand.
He looked
at the crippled hand of the old man, and then at the Deaf Woman, who was
fastidiously wiping her fingers with a napkin.
And he
realized that the game was over before it had even begun.
Chapter
3. Heads or Tails
The Blind
Man wound up. The gesture was theatrical, sweeping — this is how the fates of
empires are decided, staking everything one has.
— Zero! —
he shouted. — All on zero!
He
unclenched his fingers. The object flew from his hand, hit the surface of the
table, and spun.
The Mute
blinked. The world blinked with him.
In that
instant, the green baize under his gaze rippled.
The deep
emerald color faded, became covered in greasy spots and a mesh of fine cracks. The
velvet vanished.
Instead,
sticky, worn oilcloth with a faded floral pattern emerged. At first, the warm,
humid smell, mixed with frying fat, was faint.
And then it
hit like a wave. The illusion crumbled, revealing real life.
The lamp
overhead flickered and buzzed, transforming from a designer light fixture into
a bare bulb without a shade, covered in flyspecks.
The walls
narrowed, the noble gloom was replaced by the grayness of cheap wallpaper
peeling at the seams.
The
spinning object slowed down. It was not a chip. It was a heavy silver 1921
"Morgan" dollar — the only value remaining to the blind deaf-mute old
man from the times when he still remembered something.
The coin
hit the edge of an empty tin can serving as an ashtray and froze tails up.
The four
sat in the cramped kitchen-living room of a trailer sheathed in cheap siding. Outside,
beyond the thin wall, the cicadas of Arkansas were shrilling, and an old air
conditioner hummed, trying in vain to disperse the stifling, humid air.
The Father
(The Blind) sat in a faded tank top, staring with unseeing eyes into the
working fan.
He did not
see the yellow stains on the ceiling, did not see the cockroach crawling along
the edge of the sink.
In his
world, he had just made the greatest investment.
— Bet
accepted, — he wheezed, leaning back on the spine of the shaky chair. — Now we
just have to wait. The market will turn.
I feel the
vibration of success. America is a land of opportunity for those who are not
afraid to take risks.
The Mother
(The Deaf) stood at the stove. She was flipping cheap burger patties.
Grease
hissed and splattered onto her hands, but she did not react.
She heard
neither the monotonous muttering of the Father nor the whimpering of the
Grandfather. She simply performed a function, mechanically, like a wound-up
doll.
When the
Son tried to knock on the table, drawing attention to the old man's swollen
hand, she did not even turn around.
She had
long become deaf to problems that can only be solved by money that does not
exist.
The Son
(The Mute) sat opposite the Father. He looked at the silver dollar lying amidst
ketchup stains.
He knew
that this dollar would go not to "investments," but to lottery
tickets or to cover debts that the Father had incurred by signing papers
without looking.
The Son
wanted to scream that the house was mortgaged, that Grandfather needed a
doctor, not violence. But he remained silent.
In this
house, as in this state, smart people were not liked. They were considered
"wise guys".
Silence was
his only inheritance — and his only protection. That is why he learned to be
silent in order to survive.
In the
corner, on the sagging sofa, huddled the Grandfather (The Fourth). He cradled a
broken finger.
A veteran
of a forgotten war, he had left his sight and hearing in a crater from an
explosion half a century ago.
And his
voice he, like his grandson, rejected himself — he simply fell silent,
realizing that it is impossible to shout through from his deaf absolute
darkness.
Now he was
not a hero, but simply a body from which the last cents were being squeezed.
For him,
neither Arkansas nor America existed. Only pain and darkness.
The air
conditioner twitched, as if trying to warn them about something. But here, no
one pays attention to warnings.
Suddenly,
the picture on the old TV standing on the refrigerator flickered. An emergency
broadcast from Washington was on.
The camera
showed the Senate podium. People in expensive suits were deciding the fate of
the nation. And the Son saw with horror the mirror reflection of their kitchen.
As if the
TV were not broadcasting news, but peeping at them and broadcasting the
family's fate live on air.
One
senator, looking over heads (Blind to reality), confidently proclaimed: — We
see prosperity!.
We see
light at the end of the tunnel! We only need a few more resources from the
population to start the wheel of the economy!.
Congressmen
(Deaf to pleas) nodded, ignoring the protesters outside the windows of the
Capitol. They did not hear the chanting of the crowd, they heard only their
instructions.
Experts in
the studio (Mutes), invited for analysis, sat with their microphones turned
off. They were given airtime, but not sound.
And the
announcer in the background summarized: "To implement the new plan, full
mobilization of pension fund assets and social guarantees will be required.
This is a
necessary bet. A bet on the future".
The Son
shifted his gaze from the screen to the silver dollar lying on the table. Then
to the Father, who was nodding satisfactorily, listening to the TV.
The circle
closed. They had not left the casino. The whole world was this casino.
And the
Grandfather in the corner — blind, deaf, mute, and robbed — was the
personification of those at whose expense this game is always played.
The Father
reached for the remote and turned up the volume. On the table, like a shard of
an alien era, lay the silver dollar, motionless.
But in the
Father's eyes, it was still spinning.
— Do you
hear, son? — he said, smiling into the void. — They are talking about us. We
are in the game.
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