The Music of Chance by Paul Auster

test were with himself and not with Pozzi’s ability at cards. The point was to see how long he could live in a state of uncertainty: to act as though he had forgotten about it and in that way use the power of silence to force Pozzi into making the first move. If Pozzi said nothing, then that would mean the kid was nothing but talk. Nashe liked the symmetry of that conundrum. No words would mean it was all words, and all words would mean it was only air and bluff and deception. If Pozzi was serious, he would have to bring up the subject sooner or later, and as time went on, Nashe found himself more and more willing to wait. It was a bit like trying to breathe and hold your breath at the same time, he decided, but now that he had started the experiment, he knew that he was going to carry on with it to the very end.
    Pozzi seemed considerably revived from his long night’s sleep. Nashe heard him turn on the shower just before nine o’clock, and twenty minutes later he was standing in his room, once again wearing the outfit of white towels.
    “How’s the senator feeling this morning?” Nashe said.
    “Better,” Pozzi said. “The bones still ache, but Jackus Pozzius is back in business.”
    “Which means that a little breakfast is probably in order.”
    “Make it a big breakfast. The old pit is crying out for sustenance.”
    “Sunday brunch, then.”
    “Brunch, lunch, I don’t care what you call it. I’m famished.”
    Nashe ordered breakfast to be sent up to the room, and another hour went by with no mention of the test. Nashe began to wonder if Pozzi wasn’t playing the same game that he was: refusing to be the first to talk about it, digging in for a war of nerves. But no sooner did he begin to think this than he discovered that he was wrong. After they had eaten, Pozzi went back to his room to dress. When he returned (wearing the white shirt, the gray slacks, and the loafers—which made him look quite presentable, Nashe thought) he wasted no time in getting down to it. “I thought you wanted to see what kind of poker player I was,” he said. “Maybe we should buy a deck of cards somewhere and get started.”
    “I have the cards,” Nashe said. “I was just waiting until you were ready.”
    “I’m ready. I’ve been ready from the word go.”
    “Good. Then it looks like we’ve come to the moment of truth. Sit down, Jack, and show me your stuff.”
    They played seven-card stud for the next three hours, using torn-up pieces of Plaza stationery to stand in as chips. With only two of them in the game, it was difficult for Nashe to measure the full scope of Pozzi’s talents, but even under those distorted circumstances (which magnified the role of luck and made full-scale betting all but impossible), the kid beat him soundly, nibbling away at Nashe’s paper chips until the whole pile was gone. Nashe was no master, of course, but he was far from inept. He had played nearly every week during his two years at Bowdoin College, and after he joined the fire department in Boston, he had sat in on enough games to know that he could hold his own against most decent players. But the kid was something else, and it did not take Nashe long to understand that. He seemed to concentrate better, to analyze situations more quickly, to be more sure of himself than anyone Nashe had faced in the past. After the firstwipeout, Nashe suggested that he play with two hands instead of one, but the results were essentially the same. If anything, Pozzi made faster work of it than the first time. Nashe won his share of hands, but the take from those wins was always small, significantly smaller than the sums that Pozzi’s winning hands invariably produced. The kid had an unerring knack for knowing when to fold and when to stay in, and he never pushed a losing hand too far, often dropping out after only the third or fourth card had been dealt. In the beginning, Nashe stole a few hands with wild bluffs, but after twenty or thirty minutes,