Chapter Thirty
The building wasn’t always a casino.
William thinks that it was probably built as a palace.
He assumes, rightly or wrongly, that in this once-royal city most grand buildings of a certain era were originally palaces or some ducal equivalent.
Proudly flaunting those ornate carved crests at their top and the grand, balconied windows below, they were clearly ideal spots for looking down on warriors marching past in triumph or for being envied by peasants looking resentfully up.
But he really doesn’t have that much of an idea and, to be honest, he hasn’t the time to mull on history right now.
He is simply relieved that the place remains here thirty years on, still lit up like Christmas and still with a constant flow, through its revolving doors, of not particularly smartly dressed or attractive people, some looking more cheerful than others.
He is also hugely impressed that he recalls where it was, although a surreptitious visit to Google Maps didn’t exactly hurt.
He does wonder briefly, as the curious threesome stroll together down a thankfully quiet side street, how he would have been able to explain Google to his young friends, had they caught him at it.
He could, of course, have informed them that he had only just invented it (the name a cool abbreviation of, say, his own fine Scottish handle – ‘Gordon… Ogilvy’ – and the whole thing simply a prototype) but he had a feeling that the tiny, pocket-sized phone would have freaked them out well before he could have segued into enhanced lying mode.
It suddenly reminds William of a book he had loved as a boy, one that his favourite teacher had loaned him, because the man must have recognised that here was an imagination at work.
It was Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee at the Court of King Arthur.
Dear Lord, he hasn’t thought about this in years.
Or of the kindness of Mr Paterson at Govan High, the first guy who persuaded him that, despite his provenance, he could be something, that he could write himself into a career, although the English master most probably hadn’t been thinking of slogans for portable air-compressors.
“So this is your brilliant reconciliation plan?”
The young man’s dour scepticism shocks William out of his reverie. “We came here on our honeymoon, Will,” he explains, enjoying a rare excursion into truth. This very same night, the night of the silent procession, as he has thankfully recalled. “Nearly lost my shirt. Fanta was not happy.”
“Well that’s encouraging,” says Will.
“I do not like juego – the gamble – Gordon.”
“I know, Lu,” says William, who recalls only too well.
Then, realising that he shouldn’t know this at all, he recovers swiftly.
“I know how you might feel. See, I didn’t like the juego either.
Until I discovered I had a sixth sense.” And are my bollocks ever going to stop coming out of my mouth? he muses quietly.
“Yeah, right, Gordon,” says Will, who doesn’t believe the bollocks either. “And I’m the third witch in Macbeth. C’mon, Lu.”
“How’s your team Partick Thistle doing these days?” says William.
“What?” says Will, eyes widening, suddenly a lot more impressed. “Can you see us wi’ a win coming?”
“I said I was psychic – not a bloody miracle worker.”
William turns to an equally awed Lu, with a knowing smile. “How do you think I was such a good Sherlock Holm-ess?”
William Sutherland – detective, psychic, master of coincidence, eponymous inventor of Google – has no intention of accompanying them through the revolving doors, however convinced they now are of his “powers”. It was bad enough just walking here.
He has deliberately remained a few feet behind the youngsters, watching as they glide unwittingly through the bodies of people who look to William as corporeal and contemporary as himself but might as well have been ghosts to his 1995 counterparts.
He certainly didn’t wish the same thing to happen in reverse and for Will or Lu to witness him ploughing through their fellow travellers and their bulky cameras, without a second glance.
He tells them what he believes they need to know, in as much detail as he can muster from the first time round, then slips tactfully and quietly away.
To his surprise, he knows now what he has to do.
*
Will thinks he has died and gone to Monte Carlo.
The small casino is as heart-achingly glamorous as he imagined it would be, the movies being his only real frame of reference.
Okay, the seated men gambling aren’t in immaculately tailored tuxedos or look like oily oligarchs just off their luxury yachts.
And the women haven’t all poured themselves into gorgeous gowns that shimmer under massive chandeliers, along with the tiny beads of excitement that lie like translucent pearls on their stupendous cleavage.
But the tables are there, brimming with decks and chips and card shoes and roulette wheels.
And the staff are suitably smartly dressed, possibly more so than the clientele, each one dealing and shovelling and croupiering with consummate skill and élan.
Will Sutherland is as happy as a dog with two dicks and informs Lu of the same.
And now he spies a couple who complete the picture, making it truly beyond worthwhile.
The man is about Gordon’s age, but so much classier, with a full head of rich, silver hair and a tan that Will is convinced won’t fade with the season.
From his wrist a chunky gold Rolex the size of Big Ben appears to be sending beams of wealth out into the room.
The Rolexed arm is made even more impressive by being confidently rested on the naked back of its owner’s considerably younger and more beautiful companion.
Lu takes this in then observes that her husband isn’t just taking it in but laminating it, framing it and sticking it on the biggest wall in his dream house. So she gives him a nudge that manages to be simultaneously playful and corrective.
He shrugs an unconvincing apology and tries to recall what Gordon has just told them. Struggling at the same time not to wonder why the hell they should believe this curiously omnipresent old guy for a single second.
Okay, I’m getting something. Now try to remember exactly what I’m going to tell you. At 2AM the staff will change…
There are no clocks in the place and, of course, Will’s watch is at the bottom of a Triana fountain.
So he takes Lu’s hand and holds it until the tiny watch face informs him that the time is ripe.
And, sure enough, Gordon’s next prophesy is equally accurate, as they knew it would be, although God knows how he got there.
The croupier on the busiest table is a local girl, someone you both know…
Lu and Will see Paloma. Despite their smiles, she stays absolutely professional.
…But you’ll need to pretend you don’t. If you want to stay on her table.
Paloma’s workstation is the roulette table and she manages it with the utmost seriousness.
Will can see that his wife’s best friend from art school, a practising artist, is proudly earning the money she needs to survive.
Her long, slender arms poised for action, she is interested only in making profits for the house, without hopefully upsetting too many punters or errant pilgrims.
The three friends exchange very small and surreptitious smiles.
Will is tempted to put all he can afford on the date of their recent wedding. Number six. Nombre sei. Good as any. He’s been bloody lucky with it so far.
You might be thinking – I’ll put all I can afford on our wedding date. Number 6.
Him again! That voice in his head. Somehow it sounds so familiar to Will, and not just because of the Glasgow accent.
But he only met the guy last night. Okay, Gordon was back again this evening at the café, hovering next to him at the urinals and, ah, yes, again just now at the hostel, when Will made the walk of shame.
But the man is still a stranger, if not quite a perfect one.
Well, don’t. Put it on – hold fire, it’s coming – yes – no – yes – Will, your dad’s birthday!
This surprised both of them. But not as much as the explanation.
About time the belt-wielding old shagger did something for you, isn’t it? Oh. Er – sorry, went into a bit of a fugue just there.
Will glances briefly at Lu and smiles. She doesn’t return it, as she is too busy preparing her fulsome lower lip to be firmly bitten by small, strong, perfect teeth.
Which she does to maximum effect as soon as he starts to put all of his chips on 17 and then pauses, as he remembers that prescient voice.
Ah but DON’T do it this first time round. Don’t be hasty like I – don’t be hasty. Wait for the next spin.
Paloma spins the wheel. Lu swiftly grabs back the chips parked beside Will as the teasing, taunting little sod of a white ball whirls swiftly round and smoothly round and slowly round, with that jarring, clickety-clackety racket that sounds like nothing else in the world but can be more poisonous than a rattle snake.
It ends its tantalising journey on the totally untalismanic number four.
Will and Lu breathe a sigh of pecuniary relief.
*
The city is gently winding down as William strolls back to his hotel.
The processions are long gone and the huge, yellow street-cleaning trucks are making their own less devout but just as driven pathways through the candlewax – and petal – and pastry-strewn streets.
He carries a fresh bag of churros and some warm chocolate, but he isn’t dipping.
Deep in thought, he is more confused but also more determined than he has ever been.
Yet a part of him is still able to notice how frequently he can walk through a place with his weary head bowed and his eyes looking relentlessly downwards.
He realises this now, because he finds himself counting discarded McDonald’s cartons and feeling almost upset that this should be one of the markers distinguishing this extraordinary city from the one in which he honeymooned.
As he resolves henceforth to spend more time looking up, a painful thought jolts him.
“Aye, that’s where I made my big mistake first time round! But hopefully tonight, guys—”
He segues into a far more important thought. As he mumbles over and over to himself, in some considerable confusion, one single potent word.
A word that doesn’t actually exist.
“…Forgivingness…”
*
Will is just as confused yet perhaps even more determined. Which is why he is asking Lu with such urgency for the chips she still holds in her hand. When she shakes her head, he slips into pleading mode, with a bit of imploring thrown in.
Finally, as Paloma makes her last call for bets to be placed, there is a loud gasp from the croupier in question and a firm tap on his shoulder.
The rookie gambler finds himself looking first at Lu, whose eyes have grown impossibly wide. He turns slowly to see a large black toreador hat, under which is some unruly blond hair, a noble, smiling-through-adversity countenance and a heavily bandaged nose.
Sandy manages to explain the situation to Paloma in dumb-show.
Putting the entire roulette game on hold, he points accusingly at his old friend, like some righteous, Old Testament prophet, then mimes a sharp push and equally dramatic stumble.
With a face-smash for dessert. Will joins the charade, for all their benefits, by faux-disembowelling himself in contrition.
The other players round the table are intrigued at the same time as they are pissed off, because they are here to lose money, not get involved in childish games.
Paloma, regaining her professional composure, makes one more final final call, aiming it directly at her damaged boyfriend’s so-called best amigo. Time is so nearly up.
A preoccupied Lu makes her fatal mistake.
She rests the chips she holds on the rim of the table, so that she can minister to Sandy, who makes no bones about his yearning for a good minister.
Seizing the opportunity and ignoring the others, Will grabs the chips and sets them firmly down on the temptingly resonant number 17.
Every single one of them.
His distracted young wife suddenly realises where most of their honeymoon money has gone. Lu can only watch in helpless horror as the ball revolves, its demented rattle piercing her brain like a particularly sadistic torture devised by Torquemada himself.
Sandy watches too, the throbbing pain in his face tempered by the smell of excitement just inches away. And the scent of a probable blow-up thereafter.
The innocent, unknowing ball comes to a stop. On number 17.
“YA FUCKING DANCER!” yells a delighted punter, which is probably not an expression he picked up at a casino movie, even in Glasgow. And hardly the insouciant cool of his dreams.
Will turns to Lu, who looks more relieved than elated, and hugs her in that feet-off-the-ground, solar plexus crushing way that only love and a totally undeserved windfall can elicit.
But Lu can spot the fire in her new husband’s eyes, a glow that to her mind almost matches his hair.
She is seriously concerned that he doesn’t blow all their newly-won chips, the colourful motherlode Paloma is delightedly pushing towards him.
That he doesn’t immediately squander it on the date of his ma’s last hospital visit or his first wet dream or some equally arbitrary number that will set them back where they started. Or worse.
She catches Sandy’s gaze. He shrugs, knowingly. The intimate exchange of two people who have never had to worry much about money, as they jointly fear for someone dear to them who patently has.
Shaking her long, shiny hair in a resolute twirl, she grabs Will and practically drags him away from the table towards the cash desk, suspecting that, whatever she does, this wad of pesetas is not going to be in his wallet for long.