I started this book a while back and even attempted to give the idea to Malcolm Gladwell. No dice as Malcolm was busy but his secretary did reply.
The premise is simple. There is a casino in Qatar where unlimited stakes are available. Nations can gamble their entire economies if they wish.
There are five table table games (roulette, blackjack, poker, craps and baccarat). Five nations, among others pony up. There are also five individualized back-stories. Whatever happens in the casino that night changes the lives of those people forever. A metaphor for real life?
Countries:
Russia
Lesotho
US
Greece
China
And here is what I've done so far. I hand it over for anyone who has the time and the desire to write this properly! An idea is worth 5% so that's what I'd like if ever published!
Good luck:
Approximately
three miles north of Doha city centre, Qatar, there lies a palace of
exceptional pulchritude. Those fortunate enough to view it from a mile away
have their breath taken away. Welcome to the Diwan Emiri Palace. But you are
not welcome. Visitors are strictly prohibited even though the various artefacts
and golden sculptures are enough to feed the eyes and mouths of the world.
Protected
like an old fort, a moat is present in the form of an oasis. There is no
portcullis but since no one makes it to the gates without permission – no need.
If you had a strong pair of binoculars or a personal NASA satellite, you may be
able to make out the separate rooms. Sometimes, his highness, Emir, Sheik Hamad
bin Khalifa Al Thani resides there. Hamad arrives by helicopter; rides from
room to room on his Segway; and will often take his private yacht out for
trips. Hamad remembers that one must conquer by air, land and sea.
The
Segway must be docked at the top of a forty feet flight of stairs. These steps
lead to a place which many within the palace have never laid eyes on. A place
so secret neither Hamad’s wives nor twenty three of his twenty four children
have even peeked inside. Only two other Qataris have entered besides the
cleaning staff and those who built it - Hamad bin Jassim bin Jaber bin Muhammad
Al Thani – the serving Prime Minister of Qatar; and the Emir’s son Tamim bin
Hamad bin Khalifa Al-Thani, Crown Prince of Qatar. Their names appear alike as
the ruling family in Qatar are all descended from the ‘Al Thani’ family which
itself was born out of the Banu Tamim.
The
Emir (Sheik Hamad) has a good relationship with both his heir (Tamim) and
country’s Prime Minister (Hamad bin Jassim); not least strengthened by the
goings-on in this very room.
Sheik
Hamad walks over to the retina scanner located within a panel which can only be
activated using his palm. He enters a room so preposterously adorned, he is
almost ashamed. He knows that its contents could go some way to solving poverty
in sub-Saharan Africa but also understands that it is needed. Money is power;
and the exudation of the latter leads to more power. Then why, he asks himself,
does no one else see this room. سيفعلون – ‘They will’.
His
Eminence is granted access and takes in his surroundings. Straight ahead, $250
million dollars’ worth of painting hangs on the wall. A Cezzane – The Card
Players. An oil canvas paid for by a country which owes its fortune to the
original source. The irony is lost on Sheik Hamad who stares intently at the
masterpiece. He didn’t bid for it himself but was instrumental in its coming to
Qatar. No budget was assigned for the Cezzane previously owned by the shipping
magnate George Embiricos. G.P.S. a high-class intermediary bidding service were
instructed to bring the painting to Qatar by all means necessary. They managed
this after a brief battle with two art collectors, William Acquavella and Larry
Gagosian.
Sheik
Hamad studies the painting as usual, marvelling at both its simplicity and
complexity. His second wife, Mozah bint Nasser Al Missned once commented “what
is all the fuss about?”, but she could never understand without seeing it up
close. It was in fact their eldest daughter Sheikha Mayassa who had championed
the idea of bringing history’s greatest paintings to Qatar. This particular
painting was the embodiment of Qatar’s history and future progress. Two
ensconced gentlemen are playing cards but interestingly only look at their own
hand. Qatar is not concerned with other nations’ wealth. Qatar is destined to
be the richest country and to do this must simply worry about its own
accumulation. Sheik Hamad can even see a slight resemblance between himself and
the left player, though he is French.
Sheika
Mayassa did not care to look at the artwork. Sheik Hamad however had plans for
his hideaway. On the north wall, Cezanne’s rival, Edvard Munch was competing
for the attention of the room. The Scream in pastel was purchased for a mere
$137 million, including dealer fees, but is actually the better creation in its
owner’s eyes. Ah – if only Munch had made just one. Then it would be on par
with the Mona Lisa.
The
western wall is not nearly as holy as its namesake since it holds a modern
creation - Mark Rothko’s White Center. Sheik Hamad believes this to be the
worst of the four buys since $72.8 million was paid, but it has a place on the
wall. Whilst Qatar should only care about its own progress, the Western World
will be present for the foreseeable future. This painting, he was told by
Mayassa, is sensual and spiritual. There is unity and discord. Sheik Hamad is
an intelligent man and thinks these descriptions are nonsense. Nevertheless,
this pipped Bacon’s Study after Velázquez's Portrait of Pope Innocent X as the
latter image might scare those who view it.
You
will not believe the painting framed on the eastern wall - the holiest of the
four. Sheik Hamad can hardly believe it himself. The fact that the world does
not know the painting was ever sold is a testament to his unwillingness to show
his wares. He is satisfied with having brought the pinnacle of the art world to
Qatar. When Sheik Hamad met with François Hollande, an offer was made which
couldn’t be refused. $7 billion. Enough for 60 hospitals, a meal of some sorts
for every person in the world or, more extravagantly, 1750 Bugati Veyron 16.4
Super Sports (the world’s most expensive car). Yes, Leonardo Da Vinci’s
masterpiece which took three years to paint, Mona Lisa was in the building.
The
room has five tables, each made entirely of gold. The purity of the gold cannot
be questioned. Not only are they 999.96 Tola-stamped gold bars, they are
imprinted with the seal of Sheik Hamdan himself. The gold was approved by the
Central Bank of Qatar’s governor – Abdallah bin Saud Al Thani.
These
tables are where the action takes place. Speaking of which, there are private
bedrooms yet to be slept in, accessed only through secret passages.
For
this is the world’s most exquisite, underground casino ever built. Only these
three men have ever used it but not for long. Soon its doors would open to a
group of selected heavy-hitters who would make Michael Jordan and Tiger Woods
look like two school-kids playing ‘penny up the wall’.
****************************************************************************************
Of course she
wanted to be a figure skater for as long as she could remember. Svetty’s mother
had planted the seed along with a diamante-encrusted pair of skates for her fourth
birthday. Svetty, as she was referred to by all, no longer knew if skating was
her passion – she had been brainwashed. There were some aspects she enjoyed but
Svetty danced to her mother’s tune. And yet, Harriet Rukasenkova could never
afford the luxury she wanted, nay, needed her daughter to enjoy. Her daughter
had shown some promise on the local lakes in Omsk during the winter, the ice on
which was so thick, even a cautious mother needn’t have worried – and nurture
had taken its course.
Svetty, at the
age of thirteen had grown to five feet nothing. With a short-haired bob and
unfortunate, slightly man-ish features, she did not attract too much attention
from the local anything. But as a skater, Svetty was something. No, Svetlana
Rukazenkova was a prodigy – a blind Beethoven; Red Rum found in a field; or Kim
Peek – the original rainman. Without a single paid hour of coaching, Svetty
could figure skate for Russia. Her triple-axel was so graceful, the particles
of ice, shaved off by the blades, spoke to each other and softly collapsed on
the ice, laying the groundwork for a soft landing.
Svetty, with
her mother controlling even her thought process, dreamed of skating for her
country. But no matter how many hours her father clocked in the local steel
mill, there would never be enough roubles. Competitions cost money. They were
free of charge, open to all but one needed the gear. A streamlined lycra
body-suit cost two days’ wages; a coach twenty days; and international travel
cost two hundred. Svetty and her mother knew she had what it took because on
the one occasion people had flocked to their village in Omsk for a local rally,
the crowd had been mesmerised. The literal meaning. People were walking into
each other and even slipping over. But Svetty didn’t. However, the local fame
never spread, particularly because Harriet never asked for help. She would
never beg for anything even if it was a means to an end. People would watch the
girl be flipped in the air by an imaginary partner unsure if they were watching
skating, dance or gymnastics. In fact, they were watching all three. With no
television and therefore moves to mimic, Svetty invented her own bag of tricks
– difficulty rating infinity. In fact, one particular movement had never even
been attempted in international competition. Skating at full-pace, Svetty
leaned forward with her left arm outstretched, right behind her back and
front-flipped, landing on her left leg, bring the right down fast as if about
to attempt a back-somersault. The force generated would ordinarily lead to a
loss of balance but Svetty would ride it out every time. She had to. It was
pretty dangerous – and Harriet was watching.
Svetty existed
but she could hardly say she’d lived, not that she was prone to talking about
her feelings. Home schooled by Harriet, who only had basic Russian grammar and
mathematics herself, Svetty felt herself questioning her mum’s interpretation
of the cold war. Whilst her mother was patriotic, she lacked any real knowledge
and Svetty’s imaginary grades began to drop. But her skating ability improved
at a similar rate.
The 2018 Pyeongchang
Winter Olympics was the goal. She would be in her prime age-wise though experience-wise,
some foetuses had more exposure to competitive skating. Talent aside, it would
take a series of improbable events for Harriet’s goal (for her daughter) to be
realised. Meanwhile, the first component was already in transit.
On a typically
frozen summer morning in 2013, a slender, well groomed man got off the train at
Omsk station. He had seven bosses ahead of him and was therefore nobody special
in the sports agency world. Ruslan Timoshenko - part Russian, part Uzbek from
the new era was a young man who knew almost nothing about ice-skating. However,
a gambler by pastime, Ruslan was always willing to take a risk. A man from Svetty’s home town, Magomed Adiev,
had travelled to Vladikavkaz, where Ruslan lived and they quickly became
friends. The man spoke for hours about his ‘billion rouble ideas’ but as of yet
nothing had come to fruition.
‘I’ve been
keeping this one back Rusty this whole time’, Magomed said with an almost
flirtatious smile.
‘Go on Mag.
What is it this time? A bullet-proof vest that is a duvet and a portable tent?
Maybe you’ve improved on your pen-umbrella combination? Time Travel? Oooo I
hope it’s time travel!
‘You sarcastic
son of a whore. I’m helping you out here.’
‘Ok! I’m
listening. Hit me.’
‘Svetlana
Rukasenkova. I know for a fact you’ve never heard of her. No one has. She’s a
figure skater from my own town. I know I am prone to exaggeration but I think
she could be, or already is the greatest skater the world has ever seen.’
‘Tell me more.’
Rusty was genuinely intrigued.
‘You can see
for yourself. I know where she’ll be and at what time.’
‘Are you
stalking her?!’
‘Don’t be so
stupid. Svetty and her mother Harriet are on the lakes every single day without
fail, honing her craft. There is what you might call a local buzz but this my
friend is an untapped resource. Go over there and see for yourself.’
‘I actually
work with one figure skater. More trouble than she’s worth. That bitch is
sleeping with her coach and wants to earn for the both of them. Only problem
is, she’s useless. Got a bronze three years ago but there’s more chance of me
getting one this year!’
There was a
silence as both men began to day-dream.
‘And what would
you like for this tip my friend?’
‘A five percent
finder’s fee on all future earnings. Nothing up front. A modest request
wouldn’t you say.
‘I’m not going
to haggle with you. But if she turns out to be a three-legged swine, I’m
billing you for half my expenses. There is no way my bosses will sanction this
trip on their dime.’
‘Best to leave
your company out of this altogether. She doesn’t need a management team – just
you. You won’t be wanting to share any of her future profits when she becomes a
global superstar.’
‘What does she
look like?’
‘She’s no oil
painting.’
‘This sounds
like a disaster.’
‘Take a punt.’
‘You know I
will’
‘Which is why I
came to you. Good luck and remember. Go easy with the mother. She’s a little
bit prickly. She needs help but doesn’t like charity.’
Ruslan, from
the (relatively) warm comfort of his two bedroom apartment in Kirovsk, St
Petersburg, had done some extra research on ice-skating. He had compiled a list
of extremely difficult manoeuvres to test this apparent prodigy.
‘I’ve never
heard of it’, Harriet replied when asked if her daughter could perform a Toeless
Lutz. After brief introductions which included a glass of hot water and a
tasteless biscuit, the three of them had walked from their barn to the ‘rink’.
‘Well it’s a well-recognised
move in competitions.’
‘Explain it to
me and Svetlana will do it. 100%.’
Ruslan
proceeded to explain the steps involved. Before he could finish, Svetty backed away
like any professional skater would do and performed Ruslan’s instruction to
absolute perfection followed by her signature front-flip into a triple axel.
Ruslan, not one
for messing about simply stated ‘I’ve seen enough’ and motioned for Harriet to
move inside for grown-up discussions. Harriet had braced herself for this day
but knew she wasn’t in a position to make outrageous demands. This man could
walk away and it might be another ten years before someone else arrived with
the power to make things happen. She would let him talk.
‘Here is my
offer…’ Ruslan was a good man and this was going to be a cheap buy. There was
no need to play hardball.
‘I will take
Svetlana to St Petersburg and she will stay in a hotel for a month. During this
time, she will participate in a series of minor trials. If she’s good enough,
which appears to be the case, she will go for the national trials to secure a
place on the Olympic team. For this part, you should be there also. I will pay Svetlana
5000 roubles per week, until she begins to earn herself, and take care of
expenses. What she chooses to do with the money is her choice. The contract is
valid for a minimum of five years and I receive 20% of all earnings. After I
stop paying Svetlana a salary, it is clearly in my interest for her to earn
money from competitions. What do you say?’
‘I say that we
should ask Svetty. Svetty!! Come here!’
Harriet
outlined the terms with clear pressure for Svetlana to accept the terms. Within
an hour, Ruslan and Svetlana were on their way to Kirovsk.
‘I feel free’,
Svetlana beamed.
‘It’s a bit of
a prison there I must say.’
‘You wouldn’t
even believe it. I haven’t had a good meal since father died. He used to make
the most beautiful Solyanka!’
‘I’m sorry
about that but we’ll soon fix that. I know a very nice steak place!’
*********************************************************************************************
Each playing
card in the deck cost $20,000. With 52 cards, the set was worth over a million
dollars. A painter XXXXX specialising in fine materials, used lapis lazuli
extract to cover each gold plated card. The set took four months to complete
and would be carried over in person from XXXX to the palace.
********************************************************************************************
Thombi Gemima
lived in a place which many more privileged people would deem a shithole. In
fact, the garden contained the only toilet and it was far from pleasant. Thombi
knew no better life but he didn’t enjoy a good shit like he used to. Now there
were at least 17 different diseases filling the ether waiting to pounce. Thombi
knew enough biology to know what food produced faeces more regularly. XXXX, a
known constipation-enforcer, became his favourite food.
Mafeteng,
Lesotho is one of the poorest places on earth within civilisation. Ok, so
Thombi’s family grew their own food, had one rabbit and just enough shelter
for normal night’s sleep; but what he
didn’t have was hope. Life was a prison sentence as money had no way of
entering Thombi’s household bar a miracle. Thombi’s father, Chista, was a
drunk, a proper drunk. He brewed his own moonshine called ‘Joala’ in Gerry cans
and washed away his troubles every day. Chista wasn’t wasting the family money
as none existed. Thombi used to watch his dad stumble back their house and
actually feel a little jealousy. Whilst Thombi went to school, university was
an impossibility. Therefore, he was learning enough to know there was a better
world out there but he had neither the resources nor the know-how to exit the
wilderness. Chista was wasting his life but Thombi would be him in 25 years,
just less inebriated.
But hopes and
dreams are different. A hope necessitates a realistic chance of a particular
event in the future happening. If it happens, great, if not, so be it. A dream
is far more unrealistic. It will inevitably never be achieved but for some
reason it hurts all the more. Thombi used to dream of a force dragging him away
from this waste of life.
Thombi’s mother
had to suffer many woes, not least her aforementioned drunkard of a husband.
She loves her five children equally but there was something different about
Thombi. There was at least a possibility of him making it out the ghetto. Lole
prayed every night to the being she believed to be god that Thombi would save
her family from total despair. Eating the same food over and over again (millet
and plantain) had naturally taken its toll on her health and her willingness to
go on. People often say that you don’t need money to be happy. But the people
saying are either rich or are infinitely rich when compared to the Gemima
family. The tables in life and fucking tilted. The Gimamas happened to be born
on the wrong side of the world. If one of Lole’s ancestors had got on the right
boat or one of Chista’s bloodline had walked one extra mile and joined the
army, life may have been different.
Thombi jogged
home from school as was his wont. Best to keep fit just in case that dream of
going for an Olympic run came true. In his way were three large guys around his
age in his path. Thombi had to slow down as he was going to collide with at
least one them; they were holding firm like a good rugby defence or a police
car-chase trip wire. But stopping was his mistake. This gave the three hoodlums
the time to surround Thombi who hadn’t the slightest idea of why they would
want to attack him. The first shot he blocked with forearms but he held the
motion for two long. The largest lad swung full force and landed flush in
Thombi’s ribs. Standing at 6”1 and weighing in a shade under 200 (though he’d
never weighed himself), the force was not enough to bring him down. It was his
own weight that cost him though. The smallest boy leg-swept him and connected
shin to heel.
