It’s a rare evening when Charon doesn’t find himself in the centre of a crowd, with laughs, cheers and boos of disbelief filling the air. This is one such evening. Charon has cards in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and a mug of wine on the table in front of him that he periodically takes swigs from. Alouette is a relatively simple game, and rounds go quickly. The room is loud and bustling, but his concentration is still good. He’s watching the other players carefully.
He has the Jack of Swords in his hand, which worries him a little. They play that the Jack of Swords is the dud card; whoever takes that trick must lose.
The man he faces leads this trick, and they are down to three cards each. Three kings and three queens have each been played so far, he doesn’t know whether or not he’ll be able to play the Jack at this stage. Charon wins this hand with a nine, to which he receives a mumble from one man, and a couple of claps on the shoulder from watchers.
On his right is a person he has never played with before; somebody he has no great desire to play with again. He’s been sullen and moody the entire time, taking no joy in the games they play. Charon cannot abide somebody who refuses to have fun. This man does smile, however, as he places down his penultimate card, a King of Hearts. He’s clearly been saving it for his own trick.
It’s with a great deal of joy that Charon bursts his bubble, playing the Jack of Swords, losing that man his hand.
“Bad luck, darling,” he comments, taking a drag on his cigarette.
The smoke is knocked out of him, and his hands are emptied, and suddenly he is on the floor with the man – who is a great deal bigger than he is – pinning him down. One hit, and Charon’s nose is bloodied, another and he’s coughing queasily. The man is fuming about cheating and hidden cards, and Charon is insulted. He’s never caught cheating, he’s far too good at it, and he certainly would never cheat at Alouette. Before he can get another punch in, the man is hauled off him, and hands help Charon to his feet.
Dazed, with blood running down his chin and onto his shirt, he is a picture, and he refuses to allow himself to appear as shaken as he is. Despite everything, he hasn’t been physically attacked in a long time, and it doesn’t feel good, not at all. He coughs, and dismisses those fussing at him with a hand wave, and he looks to the person who pulled his assailant off him. Interestingly, this man hadn’t been watching their game.
“Thank you, stranger.” He holds out a small hand to shake as gesture of respect.
