“Fifty thousand dollars,” Polly said.
The American woman turned pale. “You’re serious?”
“We’re Chinese,” the Twins explained in unison; without humor, though. They were still fixated on the fly.
“That’s a lot of kidneys and livers,” I exclaimed, and covered my mouth. Polly nodded as if she’d had the same thought. The American woman stared at me, then sat down.
Without a second thought for its audience, the fly took off, having failed to reach either border. The sisters relaxed. Polly played with her bracelet.
I took the opportunity to ask a question that had been on my mind since last night. “Is Monte Carlo the only reason for going to France, Polly?”
“Actually we’re on our way to Lourdes.”
“Ah, why Lourdes?”
Polly picked up a pack of roasted almonds the flight attendant had placed on the arm of her pod. She pulled it open and slipped a couple into her mouth. Despite her mouth being half full, she answered in precise English, with a touch of the schoolmarm in her manner. “Of the world’s three universal religions, one is based on a profound insight into human psychology and one is based on a profound insight into the kind of social structure that is necessary for people to live in peace and harmony. Got it so far?”
“I think so.”
“The former is Buddhism, and the latter is Islam. The other world religion is an insane collection of primitive magic and mumbo-jumbo, with cadavers resurrecting and walking around with holes in them, lepers suddenly healing and the blind suddenly seeing, virgins giving birth and snakes that talk. Since it’s all a blatant lie, something has to be done to keep the faithful dropping coins onto the plate, or the economic model on which the whole pious edifice is based will collapse in less than a generation. It needs miracle machines. Lourdes is the most important. Of course, since there are no miracles, you have to have a large collection of people willing to lie to themselves. We are talking about the terminally ill, of course.”
“Okay. Why are we so interested?”
She made a gesture of impatience. “Terminally ill-not every organ is busted-need money for real medical treatment when the abracadabra fails-sell something-anything-find a close relative to sell one of theirs-alternatively need a new organ-will pay anything, ask no questions.”
“It’s your marketplace?”
“One of them.”
At Nice a guy in a business suit was waiting with a sign: MADEMOISELLES YIP AND PARTY. He led us to his limo, which was a big, dark Benz with automatic gearshift and tinted windows. In a few minutes we’d joined the motorway system that goes all the way to Italy. We turned off at Monaco, and suddenly we were in a Ferrari jam: any color you like, so long as it’s red or yellow. They were driven by middle-aged men wearing cravats, all of whom had women beside them wearing Hermes scarves over their heads, along with sunglasses, which could be worn on the scarf or nose, according to taste. When we got to the hotel, which was almost as famous as the casino, the staff all knew the Twins. They didn’t try to distinguish between them, simply called them both Mademoiselle Yip.
My room was king-size with a view over the Mediterranean, which didn’t strike me as much different from the other seas I’d seen. I was wallowing in the king-size tub with faux-ancient tap fittings circa 1920 (you could turn them on and off with your big toe, but it was quite a stretch-the gel was out of this world: lime and thyme with a touch of primrose and great bubbles), when a deep gong announced someone at the door.
It was housekeeping with a complete casino-goer’s rig: tuxedo, black pants with shiny stripe down the outside leg, plum bow tie ready-tied (a handy hook-and-eye catch at the back for bumpkins like me), shiny black patent leather shoes, and dress shirt with frills down the front and pearl buttons. It all fit perfectly. It was ten P.M., the hour when serious players start to make their way to the tables.
At the top of the steps to the famous casino a footman in livery bowed at Lilly, Polly, and me.
“The best of France is a museum,” Lilly whispered.
“The more you pay, the better behaved the exhibits,” Polly said.
“They think a vagina is masculine, and their patron saint is a transsexual roasted in a suit of armor,” Lilly said.
“No wonder they’re so screwed up,” Polly said.
I didn’t know much about gamblers, but I knew vice when I saw it. The Twins, both in black evening gowns with pearls, silver earrings, and icy diamonds that glittered, owned all the signs, including fetishism. These two wealthy heiresses who took limos and six-star hotels for granted swooned over the casino’s old brass and worn carpets, while a delicious tension came and went in their eyes, and they clasped and unclasped each other’s hands. “Every time is like the first,” Lilly said.
“You remember the first?” I asked. I imagined Maurice Chevalier introducing them to champagne right here in the velvet lobby.
“We won twenty dollars. Daddy wouldn’t let us bet more.”
“I remember the roulette wheel, how big and heavy and silent, and how everyone seemed to hold their breath.”
“One of the Beatles was here, I forget which one-he lost ten thousand dollars in a bet on black.”
I already knew that roulette was the star of the show, and we would proceed slowly toward the wheel by way of lesser pleasures. They bought a bunch of chips from the tux behind the grille, and we paused at the slot machines. These were not serious bets, but both women had serious faces. I understood: this was the reading of the entrails before the invasion of Troy. How well or badly they did would determine how recklessly or conservatively they played on the grown-up tables.
Lilly gasped, squealed, giggled: three oranges in a row. The machine coughed up chips as if it had taken an expectorant, but the total win was hardly more than a hundred dollars. Polly didn’t fare so well, but she was happy enough with a couple of pineapples and a carrot, which delivered about five dollars. They gazed into each other’s eyes like newlyweds, then remembered me and held my hands on either side.
Let’s face it, every man likes to be king for a night. I was feeling like a million dollars myself when we finally took the steps up into the main hall. All the guys in tuxedos envied me. The more generous shared humorous grins, while the meaner spirits would have liked to spit on the carpet: two beautiful women, and I wasn’t even Italian! Hey, I was having a ball after all. These startlingly beautiful, rich, young(ish) women were spoiling me here. I was almost skipping while I hummed: As I walk along the boulevard with an independent air I can hear the girls declare He must be a millionaire He’s the man who broke the bank at Monte Caaaaarlo.
(Okay, so I am a tad bipolar, but there’s no need for anyone to get judgmentaclass="underline" what do you do for variety yourself, DFR?)
We spent an hour or so on blackjack, then finally took the short set of steps up to the big table. The Yip party will only play French roulette, messieurs-don’t even think of imposing English rules, merci all the same.
“Faites vos jeus,” the croupier said, but like all pros, Lilly and Polly waited until a nanosecond before the ball fell into the last two rows of the wheel, which is to say just before the implacable Frenchman said “Rien ne va plus.” Lilly put a thousand dollars on red, which was an even-money bet. Polly also put five hundred on red, and a hundred dollars each on 9, 11, 13, and 15. Focus on the spinning wheel was total. The table was silent. A public hanging would not have produced greater concentration in a crowd. The ball stopped on red, which was good for Lilly, but-even better for Polly-it landed on 13. At 35 to 1 it was a serious win. Lilly and Polly exchanged glances. Did I detect a certain reticence in both sets of Chinese eyes?
“One and three add up to four,” Lilly said, “the number of death. I can’t believe you did that.”
“Me either,” Polly said, “I just wasn’t thinking.” She seemed seriously penitent, as if she had inadvertently made a pact with the devil.