A Flush of Glamour

Translated from the Swedish by Jason O'Neill.    
Let’s travel to St Petersburg in Russia to play a few rounds of poker. Okay, fine, but why St Petersburg?
    Well, because it happens to be home to the Taleon Club, one of the world’s most glitzy casinos and a veritable Shangri-la for the Russian elite. It’s an oasis of tsarist glitter and spinning roulette tables, in other words the perfect destination for three denim-clad, middleclass lads.  
    So now we’re ensconced in the restaurant section on the Repin train departing from Helsinki, Finland, with dreams of elusive aces and kings. We need all the help we can get, if we’re to survive this ordeal. My two travel companions are undoubtedly experienced poker players, one of them even insisting on calling himself Slick Pete when the going gets tough, while my other compatriot is known to use the alias of Andy K in Las Vegas. Yours truly plays in a much lower division. This means the other lads can run rings around me at the poker table.   
     Why so?
     Because poker, as anyone with more than a passing familiarity with the pastime knows, is a game in which luck is of little consequence in the long run. Those of us with a reasonable command of probability calculus, the ability to maintain a cool head and bluff sophisticatedly will invariably emerge as winners of the game in the long run. So when the yearly world championships in poker are held in Las Vegas with a million dollars in prize money it is neither a game of lottery nor bingo, nor a mere nostalgic trip back to the Wild West, but a battle between professional players armed with various strategies, bluff tactics, and experience.       
    I am not sure about the mental well-being of those who play for a living. I have misgivings, however. 
    Only a few hours in the company of this poker entourage and one’s regular life evaporates with the smell of the thick, meat-based Solyanka soup in the roof of the train compartment. Card combinations such as pairs of clubs, three of a kind or preferably a full hand permeate one’s consciousness as the train rushes eastward until a few moments later one finds oneself walking over the mighty River Neva on the Liteyny Bridge in St Petersburg.   
    I’m on a poker trip to Russia with Slick Pete and Andy K.
    Life back home is but a fiction.
    Next evening. Slick Pete tells us to get dressed. It is time to take the kingdom. For Slick Pete this means a wine-red silk shirt, a smooth and tailored woollen jacket, black trousers, and patent-leather shoes so immaculate that one can see one’s reflection in them. Andy K dons a dark grey suit and a black silk shirt. I also get booted and suited. Slick Pete eyes my red and white tie with suspicion, however.   
    ‘Look, it’s like this,’ he says, poker players do not wear ties.
    He even seems to imply that the tie will be a drawback in the psychological battle at the table where involuntary facial expressions, nervous finger tapping, and apparently also clothes items, are registered and dissected by one’s fellow combatants. 
    It is completely silent in the hotel room. It is in fateful moments such as these that one’s personal sense of honour is put to the test. If I take off the tie, I will irrevocably and forever be beholden to the poker world and Slick Pete. If I keep it on, however, I run the risk of being seen as a laughing stock by the cream of Russian casino society.
    It’s a foregone conclusion, really. Three well-dressed men stroll along the proud main street of St Petersburg, Nevsky Prospekt. One of them is wearing a tie.
    It’s a weekday evening and we’re in breach of the universal behavioural norm that applies in any modern metropolis: to dress anonymously, blend into the crowd, and carry as little cash as possible in your pockets. It is also odd that two worlds as different as the world we‘re entering and the world where the street children play by the metro station lie side by side.
    An evening in a luxury casino or a life in the gutter, those are the two newest realities on offer in the cultural capital of Russia.
    At number 59 on the Mojka Canal, a stone’s throw from the Nevsky Prospekt, flashy European luxury cars and the hall porter in his top hat bear witness to the entrance of another world. We proceed in and leave everything else behind us. I let Pete and Andy handle the verbal negotiations with the slender and graceful black-haired woman who welcomes us into the large entrance done in the style of the Renaissance. The oak panels, enormous fireplace, and paintings on the walls leave our mouths agape as we walk through the metal detector and skip up the initial stairway in a proud manner. We walk past the ‘modest’ waiting room in the style of Louis XVI only to be finally sucked into the enormous baroque gambling room with its myriad mirrors, glittering embellishments, and four-metre high, original Baccarat crystal chandeliers. Paradoxically enough, there is also a dramatic ceiling painting illustrating the workers’ and peasants’ revolution in 1917.        
    Where in heaven’s name are we exactly?
    This is the former residence of the great 19th century merchant Stephan Eliseyev. A palace that underwent a meticulous four and a half year renovation during the late 90s and has now been transformed into an exclusive casino modelled on the Monte Carlo of the 1860s and not the vulgar white trash casinos in Las Vegas where slot machines are a dime a dozen. Here all gambling is handled sans machine, something that is no mere coincidence: Taleon is in Petersburg, and Petersburg is in Europe, not Asia or America.
    A smart waitress appears and extends a menu without prices as everything is on the house. We sit down and proceed to drink and eat, while attempting to look suitably nonchalant and experienced in the ways of the world. It has to be admitted that even Slick Pete and Andy K look slightly taken aback. The surroundings are more than they bargained for.
    Pete and Andy explain repeatedly how I'm to play if I wish to avoid being tossed out of the tournament immediately. I’m to fold in the event that I'm not holding anything of value and not bluff, as I will be found out immediately. I ‘m to play aggressively should I possess a good hand. I also receive a long lecture on what “a good hand” amounts to in practice as there are clear mathematical rules pertaining to this. In addition, I should maintain a cool head and so on, ad nauseam. 
    The surveillance cameras that lie concealed behind each corner lamp in the waiting room register us, of course, as three different casino hosts appear at various intervals and wonder if ‘everything is okay’. Everything is quite all right, since we explain that we’re here to play poker and not roulette. Therefore it is also okay that we wait for the time being and not set our money immediately into circulation. There are more than twenty uniformed employees, although there are only a handful of roulette playing customers at best. The air conditioning system pumps a steady stream of fresh 16-degree air into the room, which is devoid of windows. The ceiling lighting is constant and the walls without clocks blur all sense of time. The meadow flowers in the picturesque vases in the toilets bring a touch of summer to the proceedings.
    There is a forty-something Russian lady with eyebrows so sharp and delicate that they look as if they were fashioned with a surgical knife. Each time the roulette ball is set in motion she starts to place her chips methodically on the squares. It may look as if she’s in control, but once the ball stops spinning, her hands start to twitch upon the green felt of the roulette table.  She bites her lower lip and the ball’s movements grow slower and the chips are placed at a quickening pace. It is only when the croupier cries out ‘No more bets’ (some betting commands are always given in English) that the lady shows what she is capable of, her arms beginning to work in hysterical overtime as she slings forth playing chips. Her gaze is wild, much wilder than the roulette ball, which is already bouncing and darting on the wheel in search of the number that Lady Luck has chosen. She hurls forth her last playing chips when the roulette ball suddenly stops and the spell is broken, the weasel is transformed back into a woman, her pulse rate turns back to normal, and she even sits down… Until the next time the roulette wheel is spun. She rises and starts to place her chips methodically on the table, the ball spins ever slower, her arms work in hysterical overtime, and acquire a life of their own.
    After observing her for half an hour, my diagnosis is all but complete. She is lost in a perpetual loop and cannot shake herself loose.
    In fact, she is the proud bearer of a Petersburgian tradition. When visiting the city in 1839, the French traveller Astolphe de Custine described the life of the society women thus: ‘They rise late, spend the day at their toilets, the evening at visits, and gamble thru the night. To forget themselves, to lose themselves in a round of excitement, is the apparent end of their existence.’
    We ’re escorted into the Music Room, where we are required to put down an initial 150 dollars towards playing chips. Everyone receives a lot denoting the table he or she will be playing at. Then we sit down around an oval table in the Music Room with wreath-shaped decorations, a fireplace adorned with a lion, eight poker playing Russians, while attempting to conceal our shaking hands.   
    Poker has its origins in older European card games such as Poque and Bouilotte, and was developed further on the Mississippi River on steamboats, which to all intents and purposes were floating gambling dens. The version that is most widely played today, Texas hold ‘em, was invented around 1920 in Texas and is the preferred game among poker professionals around the world.   
    In the game two cards are dealt face down to each player. The communal pot of three cards or the so-called Flop is then placed on the table, and an additional two cards at a later stage in the game. Naturally, the object of the game is to obtain as good a hand as possible by combining five cards from both the communal pot and your own cards. During the course of the game, one can call, raise, bluff, employ tactical thinking, and work out probability ratios as well as the psychology of your fellow card players. All of this is done with a view to getting your hands on the other players’ stakes. If one’s playing chips run out, one gets tossed out of the game. The last player left at the table wins the jackpot.     
    Only one thought fills my head when the first cards are dealt, i.e. the echoes of Pete and Andy admonishing me to fold if my cards are lousy, and always retain a cool composure. Therefore, I transform myself into a machine with a single pre-programmed command —to throw in my cards and fold. Utterly petrified, I focus my gaze with the force of a diamond drill on a fixed point on the wall, which almost starts to smoulder. I fold and once again fold until we’ve completed a round, eight hands in all, and to my astonishment notice that I’m still in the game. I’ve survived.   
    It feels as I’ve accomplished something truly remarkable.
    Therefore, I reward myself by turning my head around and notice that I’m wedged between a completely bald businessman with an assortment of rings and a Rolex watch, and a dopey character in cotton shirt and specs. The basic rule in any casino is that one is allowed to remain anonymous if one wishes to. This is the main reason why players seldom indulge in anything other than superficial chitchat with unknown players. On the contrary, distance is often a trump card and a necessity. This is also the case today. Practically no one addresses us, except the casino employees, and we respond in kind. It is clear that we’re the only strangers sitting in at the table. This is probably the reason why Slick Pete immediately re-christens the Rolex guy Kojak and the dopey character Moron (pronounced with a broad American accent). For this is the name of the game at the table, to observe, analyse, and develop a healthy contempt for your fellow, unknown players. All of this acts as a kind of adrenaline rush, which props you up in anticipation of future clashes.       
    Kojak, Moron, Andy K and Slick Pete … my only fellow human beings right now.
    Surprisingly enough, there is a cheerful and gregarious atmosphere at the table. They’re all friends, an affluent in-crowd meeting up again, while telling each other jokes and gambling at leisure. They all seem to be having fun and there’s definitely no sense or fear of losing. All the Russians in the room can afford to lose their stake without so much as batting an eyelid.
    Although poker tournaments are held every evening at the Taleon, the club has earned its reputation on the back of its Sunday brunch. Exclusive lotteries are organised for the society ladies with all of the crème de la crème present and frolicking. Nothing particularly remarkable in itself one might say. There are, of course, other distinguished restaurants in St Petersburg, although few establishments have the same aura of glamorous living and classical European style laced with Russian panache. The Taleon is quite simply a free haven for the wealthy elite. In a city of five million inhabitants, there is always a big enough clique —mostly nouveau riche businessmen of some sort, who want to play blackjack, roulette, and poker. The riffraff have to content themselves with moving pawns on chessboards in local parks.         
    There are a couple of middle-aged men accompanied by their wives, a young dark-haired woman who everyone seems to know and, of course, the real players such as Moron and Kojak who inspect us surreptitiously and ponder our style of play, while never openly displaying their curiosity. Moron actually grows a littler nervous as we exchange a few words in Swedish behind his back during the intervals between hands. This suits us just fine, as the psychological aspect of the game is crucial. The role of an insolent outsider is perfect; maybe it will throw him off keel.     
    I fold continuously, until twenty hands later I suddenly end up with a pair of kings, a brilliant initial hand. I then raise, drawing in the anonymous bloke next to Kojak, whom I’ve been a bit afraid of until now.
    It’s him against me.  
    The Flop is dealt and consists of a king, an eight, and a three, which means that I’m holding three kings (my own two kings plus the king on the table). I raise my stake considerably and he follows suit. Two indifferent cards follow, prompting the anonymous bloke to raise his bet, while I use a ridiculous amount of time to figure out whether he can hold a better hand than I can in theory. Now is probably the time to acknowledge that I’ve been suckered and revert to the tears of a crying baby. Instead, I decide to raise my bet. He matches my bet and hurls his entire stake on to the table. He reveals two eights, which raises his tally to three eights in this case. I let my two kings glide across the table and a faint sigh can be heard as the anonymous guy is flung out of the game. Because of the three kings in my possession, I get to perform the time-honoured and avaricious gesture of leaning forward and enveloping the entire jackpot with both arms and shovelling it towards my place at the table.
    A capitalist’s wet dream come true in modern day Russia or perhaps even a sign of the times?
    At the same place as three kings beat three eights today, there was a temporary wooden winter palace where Empress Elisabeth, daughter to Peter the Great, reigned in the eighteenth century. It was here that Tsar Paul I took his first steps as a child and his mother experienced her rich love life and spun her intrigues. It’s from this location, for example, that she sent her troops to overthrow her husband Peter III.        
    These are all things that the Taleon club is proud of, although the natural links to current casino activities are somewhat murky. Catherine the Great actually tried to ban the gambling of the city’s elite by decree at the end of the eighteenth century, albeit with slender success. 
    However, history does give the casino a genuine patina of glamour and a kind of cultural platform. Especially as the building that replaced the temporary winter palace would go on to house the French sculptor Etienne Falconet, who in the 1770s created the famous Bronze Horseman for the city’s founder, Peter the Great. The sculpture remains one of the city’s top cultural draws.
    The merchant family Eliseyev built this palace and pursued successful business ventures such as supplying the city’s upper classes with wine and foodstuffs. After the revolution, the Bolsheviks plundered and stripped the palace of all movable property. Some valuable artworks by French sculptor Auguste Rodin were saved, however, and remain intact in St Petersburg’s world famous art museum, the Hermitage. The palace then became a well-known writer’s residence founded by none other than Maxim Gorky and later on, of course, an institute for Marxism and Leninism.
    The fairytale get its happy ending when the company with the typically Russian name of The Center for Humanitarian and Business Co-operation takes over the dilapidated building at the beginning of the 90s, buys out the previous occupants, and relocates them. All of which is testified to by the grateful letter of thanks on the company’s website. The corporation thus transforms the building into a magnificent casino, housing one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city. Just in time for the tercentennial celebrations this year, a luxury hotel, probably one of the most expensive establishments in the history of St Petersburg, was also unveiled in the same building complex.
    Kojak’s mobile phone goes off in the middle of the game, but no one lets themselves be disturbed, it’s normalno and Kojak shouts irately ‘Yes’, once again ‘Da’ and finally four times ’Da’ for good measure into the mouthpiece of his phone and hangs up. It’s tempting to draw conclusions from this conversation as to the source of his money, but a mere suggestion that one is curious would be enough to destroy the most important currency at a poker table, i.e. respect.
    A nouveau riche Russian is reluctant to tell you what it is he exactly does, other than that it involves some kind of ‘business’. To crown everything Kojak has started to relieve the entire table of any surplus monies. He plays aggressively, raises repeatedly, and manages repeatedly to lay his hands on the initial pot as no one is prepared to match his bets.       
    Moron sits beside me on the other side and keeps a low profile. His gaze is empty, though his pile of chips extends to the tip of his nose. He plays incessantly with a chip by holding it between his forefinger and thumb, and tapping it on the table. A muffled and monotonous clicking sound reaches my ears; rushes throw my eardrums and lodges in my cranium. However, there is nothing unusual about this. This is an activity shared by gamblers around the globe. It’s their way of ruminating and displaying seemingly meaningless and unintelligent behaviour that is in fact an essential activity. The rumination and constant clicking is quite simply their way of psychologically crushing their opponents.    
    The hours pass by and the tempo picks up. Slick Pete orders a salmon sandwich, which he proceeds to eat in a leisurely manner with elaborate chewing motions. This is possibly an attempt to break the concentration of the other players or then again, maybe he’s just being sluggish.
    Maybe he just knows his gambling lore. Legend has it that when the notorious gambler and politician John Montague, fourth Earl of Sandwich, suddenly became hungry, he ordered a piece of meat between two slices of bread. The dish, which was later dubbed a sandwich in his honour, is the same delicacy my compatriot Slick Pete is eating 250 years later at the gambling table.      
    Some of the amateur players at our table throw in the towel, as they haven’t really got a chance against the likes of Kojak and Moron in the long run. Andy K is sitting at a nearby table and is running out of playing chips. Similarly, it’s curtains for either the dark-haired woman or me. The dark-haired woman confronts me in a duel and crushes me completely. We meet again in the next hand and both have decent hands, so we bet everything we’ve got. When the last card from the communal pot is dealt, there are only two cards in the deck that can save her from ruin. The lady rises and is on her way from the table. One of the two cards that can still save her appears, however, which means that I bid my leave instead. Everything draws to an end as the two remaining tables are merged into a single table with ten players. And it has to be said that none of these players are wearing a tie.
    I seek solace at the roulette table and although it has only been four hours since I heard the cry of ‘No more bets!’ I still recognise the whirling dervish with the wild gaze at the roulette table throwing in her last playing chips. 
    Even Slick Pete meets his nemesis at the poker table. It is just a matter of facing the situation and accepting the fact that we’re all a little bit poorer. We therefore eat one more lunch at the expense of the house with a clear conscience and proceed into the cigar room in a manner appropriate to three well-groomed gentlemen, although none of us has the slightest intention of lighting up a Havana. Andy and Pete order cognac and grappa, however, but to their embarrassment have to fork out sixteen dollars per drink, as only privileged guests receive complimentary drinks in the cigar room with its dark-brown, walnut walls and grey-blue, leather armchairs. 
    Kojak and Moron also meet their match at the poker table in the form of a Russian player with Asian features who outplays them and racks up a few thousand dollars. The regular patrons move to a nearby table, as they’re far from done tonight and there’s loads of money to gamble. I will have to exact my personal and childish revenge on the Taleon by other means. I abandon all my principles momentarily and sit beside the roulette lady and wait for her to reach her climax-as there has to be something magical in that particular moment - and place all my chips on black like a true amateur.
    The roulette lady lets off a banshee cry as the ball darts, bounces and finally lands… in my favour.