The Ballad of Nixon and Brezhnev

Chapter 4 - Burning Poker Love Game

Cigar smoke wafted across the room as Nixon reclined in his chair and studied Brezhnev across the poker table. The cards were covered in a soft glow from a single chandelier, their faces glowing like little secrets just waiting to be discovered. The two men's tension grew increasingly intense, as the focus moved from diplomatic chitchat to individual self-esteem. Nixon's jaw tightened and his fingers thumped uncomfortably on the edge of his cards as Brezhnev, with a broad, self-assured grin, fiddled with a pile of poker chips.

"Five-card draw, standard rules," Brezhnev declared, his voice booming over the room. "Best hand wins."

Nixon narrowed his eyes and nodded curtly, looking at his cards. His thoughts were racing, not with the game per se, but with its consequences. He thought, This isn't just poker. This is a psychological struggle, a mirror of the Cold War. It felt like every move on a geopolitical chessboard, and Nixon could not get rid of the feeling that Brezhnev somehow held the upper hand. Perhaps it was the sly smile that lingered on his face, or the way his hands moved. Oh my god, he's lying. I'm aware of it.

Both men became more confident as the rounds went on, their competitive natures fully in evidence. Brezhnev was brazenly marking cards, creasing the edges with his big, callused fingers. Not to be outdone, Nixon started to tuck extra cards into his sleeve, a tactic he picked up from shady poker games in Congress.

The quiet sounds of Vivaldi's La Notte that had been playing in the background abruptly stopped midway through the game, and Elvis Presley's signature bassline from Burning Love took its place, increasing the tension. The lively pulse of the music shattered the deadly serious looks on the two leaders' faces as it flooded the room.

Nixon's hand froze mid-air, a look of disbelief washing over him. "What the hell is that?" he muttered, his face contorting in confusion.

A radio announcer's voice crackled through the speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen, as the night continues, we're honored to have President Nixon and General Secretary Brezhnev joining us... maybe they could use a little burning love themselves, huh?" The joke landed with all the grace of a train derailment.

The room fell silent, with the exception of a slight card shuffling sound. Nixon's gaze flicked from the radio to Brezhnev, who, to his credit, appeared just as perplexed. The ridiculousness of the situation hovered between the two guys as they sat in stunned silence for a minute.

"Well," Brezhnev said after a beat, flashing a wry smile, "I didn't expect that soundtrack." He chuckled, trying to break the ice.

Nixon, his paranoia spiking, forced a laugh. "Yeah, uh, maybe the DJ's a little too enthusiastic about detente." But inside, his thoughts swirled. Is this part of Brezhnev's game? He glanced again at his cards. The Russian was becoming overconfident and too at ease. There was a problem.

Nixon felt it was time to relocate when the following round started. He reached under the table and slid a hand beneath it, removing an ace from his sleeve and sliding it into his hand. Brezhnev's eyes briefly wavered, but Nixon saw it coming. Gosh darn, he noticed that.

Brezhnev, not to be outdone, took a long puff from his cigar, let out the smoke gradually, and then flipped his hand over with a royal flush. His smile was too big, as if he was daring Nixon to doubt it.

Nixon's heart pounded in his chest. A fucking royal flush? He glared at Brezhnev, but before he could accuse him, Brezhnev raised his glass. "To luck," the General Secretary said, his voice dripping with false modesty. "Sometimes it's all about who the cards favor."

"Yeah," Nixon muttered, barely keeping his frustration in check as he downed the rest of his scotch. "Luck."

The game continued, with every hand getting increasingly absurd. Nixon's inner monologue became increasingly paranoid as he became persuaded that Brezhnev had rigged the cards, stacked the deck, and even bought off the dealer, a young diplomat who appeared to be growing more and more scared with each hand of cards. Despite their poker faces, the two guys were nearly sweating with competition; the tension in the room was tangible.

Finally, as the pile of chips on the table grew to obscene proportions, Nixon leaned forward, locking eyes with Brezhnev. "I'm all in," he declared, pushing his entire stack of chips into the center of the table. His hand, sweaty but steady, revealed an impossible full house.

Brezhnev's grin faltered for the briefest of moments. "All in, eh? Very bold, Dick."

Nixon was overcome with a rare sense of success and could not contain his smirk.

But Brezhnev, unruffled, slid his chips forward with a devilish smile. "Then so am I," he said calmly, flipping over his cards—another royal flush.

The room went still, all eyes on the table. Nixon's heart sank, his mind racing. How in the actual fuck...?

Brezhnev leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's just a game, Richard." His beaming, broad smile reappeared, as though he had won something far more significant than a game of poker.

Nixon sat back, seething behind a mask of polite acceptance, his mind churning. It's never just a game with this Russky bastard. As the Russian leader raised his glass once more, the announcer's voice crackled back over the radio.

"And that's all for tonight, Swiss citizens of Geneva! Remember, sometimes all you need is a little burning love!"

The room erupted into awkward laughter, but Nixon's smile never reached his eyes.

"Sacre bleu," Garber muttered under his breath. "And, that was a game of friendship! Let us all move closer to the left side of the room for a photo-op," declared Garber closing the semi-casual event, while signalling his aides.