He sat and watched the steam rise from the cup of tea, the tag of the tea bag a wild flapping flag. His poker face flickered with general disapproval. The cold wind flicked at his knuckles and nose, trying to blow him down the hill.
He huddled deeper into his coat behind the table. As a new player to the game, he had been given an unlucky seat in the wind. Hard, mid-afternoon eyes cracked open only slightly, any glitter long blown away by the cold, cruel wind, he waited, not like you or me, but with that timeless gambler's expectation, flavored by Soviet patience, born in long lines and longer politics.
He crouched, watching the people trickle past, greedy eyes watching those magic checkered clay chips falling from deep open pockets and flashing in the wind as the green felt table faded into old cobblestone and yellow brick.
The steam rose and fled from the cup of tea as the tag spun in the gusts. He calculated how much for tea, bread, the subway, and how long since the last big win. It had been too long but this is his game, his secret fishing hole and he had all the time he needed.
He has been playing all his life. He remembered long evenings with his brother and days in the dorm with his classmates, and always the triumphant shout of the winner, "Fool!" That's the name of the game and what you are if you lose.
It is that endlessly popular game with the short deck of cards that only costs a hryvnia and a half, sixes through aces. You can see it in the train, two old uncles slapping the cards onto a briefcase held on their knees. It is there while the workers of the world eat their lunch, some sleeping, but always a crowd throwing the cards down and laughing at the ritual jokes.
On long nights the quickly slipping cards rustle like soft syllables of home and always the grin, snort of merriment, and that harsh word, "Durok!" Sometimes, with even more glee the last card, a six of diamonds, is slapped on the shoulder along with the loud, laughing cry of "Traitor!"
It was the gamble that drew him, as the excitement never dims with the long, cold hours. It was fueled by the gossip that slipped up and down the hill with the tea and coffee lady, her mysterious bag full of the latest hint about a samovar collector or someone's big sale. And always the loud foreigners, unaware of how far hryvnias go when they have to.
That was the real mirage that kept one waiting and made sleep flee in the middle of the night as pages of an old dictionary flipped, searching for that new word to snare another rich one.
Now he plays this endless test of self and prediction. This game is a little different. Instead of cards he has a table of relics from our already ancient history and the cards are laid on the table for all to see, like the triumphant winner with a hand full of trump.
He has an old tarnished samovar and tea glass holders, a couple of books with some old rubles in them and the requisite golden fringed red cloth covered with all the heroic badges of that triumphant march to communism now lost in capitalism.
He sits with cards displayed as the unwitting players amble by. Carefully scanning the crowd, searching for the hidden signs of money, one of those rich collectors or even better a foreigner. Every day the cold makes the bones brittle or the sun boils dreams of glittering gold. Everywhere the people swim past in endless variety to be read and watched because the game gives no second chances.
Players come in endless variations, the natives and the foreigners, the artistic, the collectors and the window shoppers, all bringing one's daily bread. They stop, having spotted a badge, ask the price and, by judging their resources, he gives the price. But the real fun comes with the foreigners; this is the play, so delicate and demanding.
There are the ones who are trying to appear native, their clumsy Russian and strange accents so nasal and slurred. They speak Russian even when you speak English. And there are the deaf mutes that walk by with their native girl, point to something, walk on, confer in whispers and she returns to ask, both of them playing the game with such handsome profits. The girls are an amusing part of the game with their dyed hair, smiles, and those carefully picked clothes and practiced accent; such clever schemers.
Then, there are the obviously foreign, new to the scene and completely unaware of the game. They plunge in with loud English and then we play another charade, that of bargaining, extolling the virtues of this ancient piece of silver, not less than two hundred years old, and reluctantly haggling the price down a few hryvnia just for this special customer.
A catch like this is a real win; it never happens frequently enough but when at last it comes electricity fills the air. He is an old hand at the game and beginner's excitement is long gone. But the feelings after a win still can't be suppressed.
He brags to his neighbor, and with the sparkle back in his eyes he waits the rest of the day eagerly awaiting more luck. Sometimes, if one didn't get too jumpy and distracted, the luck might come again.
In the evening when everyone was packing up, with money in his pocket, he would go look for more cards. He might even walk down the hill to one of the small time losers there and bargain for something at its real worth, maybe even throw in a trade. Something that had been there when you made your lucky sale might help them out.
Then home to pay some rent and get a bottle of something good instead of the usual, to spark the wonderful euphoria and simple happiness - and a renewal of energy to face another week or two on the slope.
With luck returned all those dreams of really striking it big and paying his protection money for a whole year to keep the price from going up every month or to buy a better, even more lucky spot on the hill. One could even pay the priest to come and say a stronger, better prayer than last year for your table and place in the street.
Oh, the possibilities were simply endless. Even coming home to the room he rented from an old man and hearing him mumble as usual about kissing foreigners heels and spitting on his homeland couldn't dampen his spirits, for all is simply wonderful and tomorrow would be even better.
Garrison Way is an American from North Dakota who is in Ukraine for mainly linguistic purposes, teaching English and studying Russian.
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