For a while I was immersed in that maze that allowed me to discover the strangest and most paradoxical thing that one carries inside when faced with harsh cards: the folds of the human soul. 

In 1977, when gambling was officially legalized in Spain and casinos began to be built, illicit poker and baccarat games still operated in Madrid, with large sums of money being exchanged outside the realm of legality. I spent some time immersed in this underground world, learning more about the strange and paradoxical aspects of human nature than any Harvard education could provide. These illegal establishments were typically located in luxurious villas, surrounded by large gardens to avoid disturbing neighbors with the late-night activity. The police, aware of these activities, would occasionally raid the games, but would usually allow them to continue, presumably in exchange for bribes. After a raid, the gamblers would be informed of the new location of the next game. Before descending into this underworld, my friends and I would play friendly games of poker after our Saturday gatherings, sometimes in our homes, other times in an appliance store owned by one of the players. I recall a game at the studio of the painter Pepe Diaz, where we used a bullfighter’s cape as a tablecloth. Diaz had a wolf-dog named Gogol, who would howl mournfully whenever his owner lost a bet. We were wary of the potential danger if Gogol sensed his owner was losing badly. According to Diaz, playing a Bach sonata would calm the dog, but not always. The cello would agitate him, and we would have to confine him behind a makeshift barrier of landscape and portrait paintings. Our poker table was a diverse mix of journalists, comedians, poets, judges, filmmakers, and the appliance salesman. However, the first time I entered an illicit gambling den, I encountered a different crowd: professional gamblers, a skeleton-thin marquise covered in jewels, a wholesale ham dealer, a junkyard owner, a slot machine king, a fence for stolen gold, a representative of a famous bra brand, a firefighter, a doctor who had forgotten how to take a pulse, and various passing criminals, including a man who exported shark bellies to Russia. From these individuals, I learned that if you can’t identify the fool in a game within two hours, you are the fool. I disliked losing, which made me a bad gambler but saved me from falling into gambling addiction. A true addict only celebrates a win because it allows them to keep playing until they lose. After losing all their money, they feel the ashes of defeat on their tongue, experiencing a perverse pleasure in their own destruction. The only thing left to do is despise themselves, feel sorry for themselves, and pray for better luck next time. I finally left the underground gambling scene for good after witnessing a large man, half Arab, half Jewish, half Christian, suddenly die during a game. In the shock that followed, the owner of the den, who had been dozing in an armchair, asked if the man owed the house any money before taking his wallet and diamond ring. That night, I lost my faith in the god of chance.