Seeing Dead People
by Richard Froude

Richard Burton, August 5th

(& William S. Burroughs, August 2nd; Marilyn Monroe, August 5th; Alec Guinness, August 5th)

Richard Burton knows how to play poker. He explains that it is much more than acting; rather, observing. He tells me enough that I do not embarrass him when I join his game, but, of course, not enough that I may pose any threat. He supplies me with the money that I should gamble with. Such arrangements with clients are commonplace: I am never expected to pay.

Burton’s game has been down a member ever since Alec Guinness was caught with a pair of jacks quite literally up his sleeve. According to Richard, William Burroughs did not take kindly to this. Having suspected Guinness for a number of weeks, Burroughs eventually exposed an uncanny knack for producing the goods by pulling a handgun. Under the circumstances, Guinness predictably (pun intended) folded, and revealed his dirty little secret. Burroughs was categorical in his disdain. Alec Guinness was not welcome at this table.

Richard has given me a few basic instructions. I should not attempt to indulge any of his fellows in conversation. I should not act as if he and I are acquainted outside the game, and I should play as if the money were mine. It would reflect poorly on him if his fellows understood that the fourth player at their table was a hired man, more specifically hired by him. And what fellows they are: beside Burroughs sits Marilyn Monroe.

She is dressed more conservatively than I would expect and, unlike the others, sports dark glasses that the low artificial lights do not demand. We are sitting at a round table in the brasserie. Her attention often seems elsewhere. Over my shoulder, toward the doorway. Somewhere else other than here. As if she is fishing for distractions, maybe waiting for someone. A visitor who she knows will never arrive.

Burroughs is the exact opposite. His attention does not waver from the table. He takes large sips of an indiscernible vodka drink known only to him and the waiter. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

Quite how this group came together I am unsure. Burton often refers to it as his game. But he also refers to Wales as his country, Elizabeth Taylor as his wife, and Dylan Thomas as his poet, his tone exercising a certain exclusivity to the possessive. He will acknowledge that Wales is also my country, but not to the extent that it is his. However, the fashion in which Burroughs presides over each hand, and Burton’s subtle deferrals to him, suggests that it is William Seward who is the head cheese.

The game runs much as expected. I try a couple of unsuccessful bluffs. Winnings are split somewhat evenly between Burton and Monroe. I have the sense that Burroughs is biding his time, realizing that I have been caught up in my own behavior, not making the observations that Burton had prescribed. Thus far my cards have been unremarkable. A pair of sixes, a near miss on a flush. We break after an hour or so.

The first hand after we resume, Marilyn takes a large pot from Burroughs, her full house beating his three queens. She shows no sign of excitement, sweeps the money across the table with an air approaching sadness. My float seeps away through unimpressive hands, unconvincing bluffs, and one sizeable loss to Richard Burton: an unwise gamble on two low pairs.

With little money left to play with, I am dealt four kings. Wearing the bravado of a novice on my sleeve I drastically raise the stakes. It’s too much for Burroughs. He bows out with an uncharacteristic smirk. I am confident, and more so, excited to be at last playing with a potentially winning hand.

Marilyn’s in. Burton too. I raise the stakes again and am carried away to my own Casino Royale and all that comes with it. I peer out of this fantasy to glance around the brasserie and find Richard Burton eyeing me with the sole intention of reminding me why I am at this table.

I have no choice but to fold.