I was lucky to find a room in an older hotel in Monaco for thirty dollars a night. The room was warm and comfortable, the owners were pleasant, and it was only a few short blocks from the casinos.

I trimmed my beard, put on my tie and jacket, pocketed a wad of my Saudi earnings, and made my way down the quaint little streets to the casinos. I was going to put my fortune to good use.

I would start out small, making fifty dollar bets on the roulette table.

I remembered reading that the author, Dostoyevsky, who had lost huge sums of money on the roulette wheel, had believed that the only true moment of perfection was when a man conceived of the number he was going to bet, and at that moment, within that concept, he existed in a state of perfection, for no one could say what reality would bring.

I bought a scotch and strolled about the casino. I ordered another, a double this time, and neared the roulette wheel. A man and a woman were playing. The limit on the table was equal to two thousand American dollars. I took a deep breath, and studied the wheel, trying to sink into its rhythms. A four appeared. The next number would be a ten. I knew it would be. Nine months in the lonely Arab desert had put me in better touch with my psychic self. The croupier flicked the white ball while at the same time spinning the numbered wheel. Around it went, and with decisive clicks the ball jumped from number to number until it rested in the eleven slot.

Not ten, but close.

My nerves had come alive and were tingling with excitement. All of my attention was focused on the wheel. Here I go, I told myself. There was no sense in waiting any longer. I could bet mentally for the rest of my life, but I