Free The Stories of Eva Luna by Isabel Allende Page B

they carried the table outside so that everyone could witness the game. Never had so much money been bet in Agua Santa, and Riad Halabí was appointed to ensure the fairness of the proceedings. He began by directing the public to stand two steps away, to prevent any cheating, and the Lieutenant and other policemen to leave their weapons at the jail.
    â€œBefore we begin, both players must place their money on the table,” the arbiter declared.
    â€œMy word is good, Turk,” replied the Lieutenant.
    â€œIn that case, my word’s enough, too,” added Tomás Vargas.
    â€œHow will you pay if you lose?” Riad Halabí wanted to know.
    â€œI have a house in the capital; if I lose, Vargas will have the title tomorrow.”
    â€œGood. And you?”
    â€œI will pay with my buried gold.”
    The game was the most exciting thing that had happened in the town in many years. Everyone in Agua Santa, from ancients to young children, gathered in the street to watch. Only Antonia Sierra and Concha Díaz were absent. Neither the Lieutenant nor Tomás Vargas inspired any sympathy, so no one cared who won; the entertainment consisted of speculating on the agonies of the two players and of the people wagering on one or the other. Tomás Vargas had on his side his string of good luck with cards, but the Lieutenant had the advantage of a cool head and his reputation as a hard man.
    The game ended at seven and, according to the agreed terms, Riad Halabí declared the Lieutenant the winner. In his triumph, the policeman maintained the same calm he had shown the preceding week in defeat—no mocking smile, no sarcastic word—he merely sat in his chair picking his teeth with his little fingernail.
    â€œAll right, Vargas; the time has come to dig up your treasure,” he said when the spectators’ excitement had died down.
    Tomás Vargas’s skin was ashen, his shirt was soaked with sweat, and he gasped for air, which seemed to have stuck in his throat. Twice he tried to stand, but each time his knees buckled. Riad Halabí had to support him. Finally he gathered enough strength to start off in the direction of the highway, followed by the Lieutenant, the police, the Turk, the school-teacher Inés, and, behind them, the whole town in a boisterous procession. They had walked a couple of miles when Vargas veered to the right, diving into the riot of gluttonous vegetation that surrounded Agua Santa. There was no path, but with little hesitation he made his way among gigantic trees and huge ferns until he came to the edge of a ravine barely visible through the impenetrable screen of the jungle. The crowd stopped there, while Vargas and the Lieutenant scrambled down the bank. The heat was humid and oppressive, even though it was almost sunset. Tomás Vargas signaled them not to come any farther; he got down on all fours, and crawled beneath some philodendrons with great fleshy leaves. A long minute went by before they heard his howl. The Lieutenant plunged into the foliage, grabbed him by the ankles, and jerked him out.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?”
    â€œIt isn’t there, it isn’t there!”
    â€œWhat do you mean, ‘it isn’t there’?”
    â€œI swear, Lieutenant, I don’t know anything about this; they stole it, they stole my treasure!” and he burst out crying like a widow woman, so overcome he was oblivious to the Lieutenant’s repeated kicks.
    â€œPig! I’ll get my money. On your mother’s grave, I’ll get my money!”
    Riad Halabí hurled himself down the slope of the ravine and removed Vargas from the Lieutenant’s clutches before he kicked him to a pulp. He calmed the Lieutenant, arguing that blows would not resolve anything, and then helped the old man back up the ravine. Tomás Vargas was racked with fear; he was blubbering and staggering and swooning so that the Turk almost had to carry him to get him