Jerusalem Poker jq-2

by Edward Whittemore

  I believe it, I do. All these years I've been circling around like my pigeons up there. Well why not pop another song of time so we can see the scheme of things over the Old City?

  Cairo opened another bottle of champagne and the pigeons scattered in the air. The two men watched them swoop back and slowly begin to circle.

  Ah that's better, that's nicely reassuring. For a moment there all this was unsettling my mind. Here I'd been thinking about finding the Sinai Bible these last dozen years and more, thinking no one in the game knew the great secret of its existence but me, and what do I discover all of a sudden? You and Munk both knew about it, that's what. And you, Cairo. Just a couple of months ago we spent a long night up here talking together, deciding to end the game, and you let me run on about the Sinai Bible as if you'd never heard of it. Guilty or not?

  Cairo smiled.

  No, I never did anything like that.

  You didn't? Is my mind adrift and afloat in the manner of Haj Harun? I certainly thought you did.

  No. I simply asked you how you'd heard about it. And more important, what it meant to you.

  Is that all?

  Yes.

  And I just ran on and on after that? Well I do that, I know. But why didn't you interrupt me and say you already bloody well knew about the Sinai Bible? That everyone in the game knew about it? Of course, what else, since it's just about the oldest piece of goods in Jerusalem.

  About three thousand years old? said Cairo, smiling.

  Joe groaned.

  Oh all right, so I was running on and you were just being a good listener. But tell me this, Cairo. After you'd heard about the Sinai Bible, why weren't you ever interested in finding it? Why wasn't Munk?

  I guess we had our own goals in the game.

  And so you did. And so in the end, all we know is where the game ends. Jerusalem naturally. Jerusalem of course. Saith ending of endings end. Jerusalem as it was and will be. And here we are with you and Munk and that nasty little Nubar all cousins today, friends and foes alike related, and where does that leave me? Don't I get to be related to someone?

  I would think so. In fact since you were the youngest of thirty-three brothers, I would think you must have quite a few nieces and nephews, not to mention their children.

  True, I must. Quite a few. Even though seventeen of my brothers were killed fighting in the Great War, that still leaves room for a number of nieces and nephews and their children.

  Where are the rest of your brothers?

  America mostly, scattered around something called the Bronx. I'll have to look them up someday. But you and Munk and little Nubar all second cousins a century after the fact. That was some job for one great-grandfather, this tireless young Luigi. Whatever became of him?

  He died of dysentery at St Catherine's monastery in 1817. Do you know anything about St Catherine's?

  Just that it's quiet and remote. I tramped in there once to have a turn around and climb the mountain.

  Wanted to know what it felt like to stand up there, but of course no one spoke to me or gave me any tablets.

  A lobster tail cracked in Joe's hands.

  Oh my God, wait, you're not going to tell me that's where Skanderbeg Wallenstein found the Sinai Bible?

  Of course.

  Where else, of course, naturally that was the place. Anything more?

  That's also where he did his forgery. In a cave just below the summit.

  Joe whistled softly.

  Full circle, no stop. St Catherine's it is on all counts, all points touched and none left out, the miracle of the mountain and why not. Luigi fathers everyone and then dies there, having been a Christian and a Jew and a Moslem at one time or another, and then one of his sons finds the original Bible there and forges a new original there. And then one of his great-grandsons, our very own Munk of course, finds his cause there, through the intervention of a Japanese baron of course, just as you'd expect, and soon this said Munk will proceed to win the Great Jerusalem Poker Game, of course and of course. It's the nature of the game assuredly and it's all clear to me now, now that it's behind me. That rogue Luigi has brought it all together, and nicely so. But he must have been a mischievous one, that's what he must have been, carrying on and about the way he did and ordering and disordering things a century later. Ah yes. And tell me, Cairo, speaking of nasty little Nubar, what do you hear about him these days?

  He's in Venice and doesn't seem to be faring too well. There could be drastic news soon.

  Can't say I wouldn't be ready for that. Never did like the way he tried to tinker with our game. To my mind you either sit down and play or you don't.

  And lastly, said Cairo, there's the name Johann Luigi used when he was traveling in disguise.

  Do you tell me that? I was just hoping there might be one last tiny item tucked away somewhere. What name could it have been?

  Sheik Ibrahim ibn Harun.

  Was it now. Well well well. I think he deserves a toast for that as well as everything else. Let's hoist a glass to Sheik Luigi and his particular names. I like the idea of him calling himself Abraham, the son of Harun. Who's to say after all? On his way down from Aleppo, when he began his wanderings, he just might have stopped in Jerusalem and met a remarkable gent by the name of Harun, and decided that if he was going to wander in these parts it would be best to become the adopted son of that remarkable elderly gent, honoring the old man too that way and also maybe picking up a little of the old sorcerer's magic by association, just in case a miracle became necessary, which it seems to me his wanderings certainly were. Yes indeed, a striking possibility and worth a toast to cap our Christmas celebration.

  They got to their feet beside the table heaped with lobster shells and bottles. Joe was wearing mittens, Cairo had put on his gloves. The weather had grown colder as the afternoon wore on. The sky was dark and it looked like snow again. They stood with mufflers wrapped around their ears, gazing out over the Old City.

  To Sheik Luigi, said Joe. Without him there never would have been the longest poker game in the back room of Haj Harun's former antiquities shop.

  They drank, then went inside the little hut and threw their glasses into the small grate where a turf fire was slumbering.

  A Christmas and was it not, Cairo?

  A time, Joe. A good time for all of us.

  Joe lowered his eyes. He looked down at the floor.

  Ah God willing, for some of us anyway. Peace to seek.

  -16-

  Venice 1933

  And it was here beneath the Grand Canal that he would secretly plan the destruction of the Great Jerusalem Poker Swindle and decree the ruin of its three criminal founders.

  On a cold December day in 1933, Nubar lay shivering in bed watching the thick winter fog roll up against the windows of his palazzo in Venice. Sophia was now sending him cables almost every day inquiring about his health, asking him what his plans were, wondering how his short holiday in Venice had inexplicably stretched into a stay of nearly a year.

  WHAT ARE YOU DOING THERE, NUBAR?

  It was terrible. He couldn't possibly tell Sophia what he was doing.

  TO BE FRANK, I'M IN HIDING. I HAD TO ESCAPE FROM ALBANIA BECAUSE OF AN

  INCIDENT IN A FISHING VILLAGE AND I CAN'T COME BACK RIGHT NOW BECAUSE

  OF THE LIES THAT MIGHT BE TOLD ABOUT ME. PEOPLE WILL DO THAT, JUST LIE AND

  LIE. BUT NO MATTER HOW OUTRAGEOUSLY I'M SLANDERED, BUBBA, I'LL TRIUMPH

  IN THE END, I PROMISE YOU.

  And he could even imagine exactly what her response would be.

  PROMISES, NUBAR? SPARE ME, DON'T PROMISE ME ANYTHING. JUST TELL ME HOW

  YOU SPEND YOUR DAYS. ARE YOU GETTING OUT OF THE HOUSE ENOUGH AND ARE

  YOU DRESSING WARMLY?

  And another statement of fact.

  WELL TO BE FRANK AGAIN, BUBBA, I DON'T DRESS AT ALL DURING THE DAY

  BECAUSE I NEVER GET OUT OF BED. DAYLIGHT FRIGHTENS ME. SO I LIE IN BED ALL

  DAY SWILLING MULBERRY RAK
I, WHICH IS ABSOLUTELY FOUL, THE WORST THING

  IN THE WORLD FOR A STOMACH AS GASEOUS AS MINE. BUT YOU SEE I FEEL A NEED

  TO DRINK AND A COMPULSIVE NEED TO DRINK ONLY THAT. AND WHILE SPENDING

  THESE LISTLESS DAYS IN BED, AS I'VE DONE FOR MONTHS, I CONTINUE TO WORK

  ON MY JOURNALS, WHICH ARE TITLED THE BOY.

  And another imagined response.

  SPARE ME, NUBAR, I KNOW HOW YOU ATE WHEN YOU WERE A BOY. POORLY. NOW

  PLEASE DON'T MAKE ME DRAG EVERYTHING OUT OF YOU. ARE YOU EATING

  PROPERLY OR NOT?

  And a statement of fact again, and a response, and on and on.

  I'M EATING A SINGLE BAKED CHICKEN WING TWICE A DAY, BUBBA, ONE AROUND

  NOON AND ANOTHER IN THE EVENING, AND THAT'S ALL I EAT. I ADMIT IT DOESN'T

  SOUND LIKE MUCH, BUT AGAIN I SEEM TO HAVE A COMPULSIVE NEED TO EAT NO

  MORE THAN THAT, AND TO EAT ONLY THAT. IT'S ODD, I AGREE. OBVIOUSLY I'M

  STARVING MYSELF TO DEATH.

  * * *

  PLEASE, NUBAR, SPARE ME YOUR LURID FANTASIES AND TELL ME HOW YOU SPEND

  YOUR EVENINGS. ARE YOU WRITING POETRY AGAIN?

  * * *

  NO, BUBBA, I'D HARDLY CALL MY EVENINGS POETRY. I CONTINUE SWILLING

  MULBERRY RAKI AFTER SUNDOWN, BUT THEN I DO SO FROM A WOODEN CANTEEN

  THAT I CARRY WITH ME TO THE PIAZZA IN FRONT OF SAN MARCO'S, WHERE, IN THE

  RAIN AND THE DRIZZLE, I HAUNT THE VAST FOG-BOUND EXPANSES SEARCHING IN

  VAIN FOR SOMEONE, ANYONE, TO GIVE ONE OF MY JOURNALS TO.

  * * *

  DO YOU WEAR A HAT, NUBAR? AND PLEASE REMEMBER TO TAKE ALONG A SCARF

  EVEN IF YOU KEEP IT IN YOUR POCKET.

  * * *

  OR NOT EVEN THAT, BUBBA, THEY DON'T EVEN HAVE TO TAKE ONE OF THE

  JOURNALS. I'D SETTLE FOR VERY LITTLE NOW. IN FACT I'D BE QUITE HAPPY IF

  SOMEONE, ANYONE, JUST ALLOWED ME TO READ A BRIEF EXCERPT FROM ONE OF

  THE JOURNALS TO HIM OR HER.

  * * *

  GOOD, NUBAR. I'M GLAD YOU'RE TAKING A SCARF WITH YOU WHEN YOU GO OUT

  IN THE EVENING.

  * * *

  AND IS THAT TOO MUCH TO EXPECT, BUBBA? TO ASK SOMEONE TO STOP FOR JUST

  A MINUTE TO HEAR THE WHOLE TRUTH ABOUT GRONK? AND THE WHOLE TRUTH AS

  WELL ABOUT THE DESTRUCTIVE THINGS THAT WERE DONE THERE BY A VILE AND

  UTTERLY SELFISH AFGHAN, A MAN SO CONTEMPTIBLE HE WAS OFFICIALLY

  DESCRIBED IN AN ALBANIAN COURT OF LAW AS THAT FILTHY FOREIGNER?

  * * *

  PLEASE DON'T BE SO IMPATIENT WITH FOREIGNERS, NUBAR. I'VE ONLY KNOWN

  ONE PERSON FROM AFGHANISTAN, THE PRINCESS WHO VISITED US YEARS AGO, AND SHE WAS AS LOVELY AS ANYONE COULD BE.

  * * *

  NO, YOU WOULDN'T THINK SO, BUBBA, BUT APPARENTLY IT IS TOO MUCH TO

  EXPECT. APPARENTLY THERE'S NOT ONE PERSON ON THIS EARTH WHO'S WILLING

  TO LISTEN TO THE WHOLE TRUTH ABOUT THE AA.

  * * *

  IS THAT A WORD, NUBAR? WAS THE TRANSMISSION FAULTY OR HAVE I MISSED

  SOMETHING?

  * * *

  THEY'RE INITIALS, BUBBA, AND THERE ARE SOME DEMENTED PEOPLE WHO MIGHT

  EVEN CLAIM THEY STOOD FOR THE ALBANIAN-AFGHAN SACRED BAND, A TOTAL

  LIE. FROM ITS INCEPTION THAT NOTORIOUS ORGANIZATION WAS ACTUALLY THE

  ALL-AFGHANISTAN SACRED BAND, A FOREIGN MADNESS AND A FOREIGN

  CONSPIRACY BENT ON DUPING INNOCENT ALBANIAN FARM BOYS INTO

  PERFORMING FOUL AFGHAN ACTS. YOU'VE HEARD THE AFGHAN SAYING ABOUT

  WOMEN AND BOYS AND GOATS, IN THAT ASCENDING ORDER?

  * * *

  PLEASE, NUBAR, NO MORE CONSPIRACIES.

  * * *

  BUT DON'T YOU SEE WHAT I'M GETTING AT, BUBBA? WHEN I VENTURE INTO THE

  RAIN AND FOG OF THAT HUGE PIAZZA IN THE EVENING, AND CONTINUE GOING

  AROUND AND AROUND IT ALL NIGHT, I'M SHAMEFULLY IGNORED AND EVEN

  SHUNNED, AS IF I WERE SOME LOATHSOME CREATURE. AND I'M STARVING AND MY

  VISION IS BEGINNING TO BLUR AND ON TOP OF EVERYTHING ELSE I STILL HAVE

  ALL MY OLD SYMPTOMS OF MERCURY POISONING. SO YOU SEE MY LIFE HAS

  ALMOST BEEN RUINED BECAUSE OF A FILTHY FOREIGNER WHO WAS RESPONSIBLE

  FOR EVERYTHING, AND THAT'S THE WHOLE TRUTH. MY JOURNALS EXPLAIN IT

  CLEARLY AND SUCCINCTLY.

  * * *

  TAKE A HOT BATH, NUBAR. GET A GOOD NIGHT'S SLEEP AND TOMORROW THINGS

  WILL LOOK BETTER.

  To be frank with Sophia? It was out of the question. There was no way he could tell her what he was really doing in Venice. He could only go on making up imaginary activities and receiving Sophia's worried responses. The exchange seemed endless.

  I'M VISITING PALACES, BUBBA, STUDYING THE WORKS OF VERONESE.

  * * *

  ARE YOU SURE, NUBAR? I NEVER KNEW YOU WERE INTERESTED IN ART. WHAT

  HAPPENED TO MERCURY?

  * * *

  AND I'M ALSO VISITING MUSEUMS, BUBBA, MAKING A STUDY OF THE RISE AND

  FALL OF MARITIME POWER IN THE MEDITERRANEAN.

  * * *

  MARITIME POWER IS FINE, NUBAR, BUT ARE YOU DRINKING MINERAL WATER FOR

  YOUR GAS?

  * * *

  MINERAL WATER SUPERB, BUBBA. GAS UNDER CONTROL.

  * * *

  I'M SO GLAD, NUBAR. AND YOU PROMISE YOU'RE EATING PROPERLY? A NICE PIECE

  OF FISH OR VEAL AT LEAST ONCE A DAY? NOT JUST RAW VEGETABLES AND THAT

  DREADFUL WHOLE WHEAT BREAD OF YOURS?

  * * *

  WITH ALL THESE ITALIAN DELICACIES BEFORE ME, BUBBA, I HAVEN'T TOUCHED

  WHOLE WHEAT IN MONTHS, AND YOU CAN BE SURE OF THAT.

  * * *

  ARE YOU SURE, NUBAR?

  * * *

  ABSOLUTELY. BESIDES, BUBBA, WILD BOAR HAS JUST COME INTO SEASON AND I MUST HAVE GAINED TWENTY POUNDS ALREADY.

  * * *

  WONDERFUL, NUBAR, KEEP IT UP.

  * * *

  I WILL, BUBBA, I CERTAINLY WILL. I'M FAT AND SLEEK AND EVERYTHING'S

  PERFECT, SO I GUESS THAT'S IT FOR NOW. CHEERIO.

  * * *

  NOW DON'T GET ANGRY, NUBAR, BUT WILD BOAR IS VERY RICH AND I SIMPLY

  MUST KNOW. ARE YOU REGULAR? JUST CABLE YES OR NO.

  * * *

  YES.

  * * *

  MARVELOUS. HAVE A NICE WEEKEND.

  But when the weekend came there were more worried cables from Sophia. Of course she would have stopped sending them if Nubar had told her that he had married upon his arrival in Venice and fathered a son. But then Sophia would have rushed to Venice to meet his wife and see his son, and she would have discovered that his alarmed wife hadn't set eyes on him since the evening of their wedding, when Nubar, thoroughly distraught over the recent events he had fled in Albania, had suddenly begun to harangue his new wife with one of the interminable AA speeches he had been accustomed to delivering in Gronk, ranting on inappropriately about AA rituals and truncheons and discipline, even going so far as to describe in considerable detail the uniforms he had designed for the AA, whereupon the horrified young woman had abandoned him on the spot, screaming that she would never speak to him again, and returned at once to her home in the Armenian community of Venice, where their son Mecklenburg had been born when the time came.

  So naturally Nubar didn't dare to tell Sophia anything about his marriage or his son. Nor could he admit that he had been dangerously deteriorating ever since his arrival in Venice, especially since he had bought his gloomy palazzo on the Grand Canal.

  Slowly starving in his palazzo, in fact, amidst a large unruly staff of slovenly servants who added more of their relatives to the payroll each week in order to rob him. Who had gone from stealing simple items such as paintings and silverware to cleaning out whole rooms in the most unscrupulous manner, until finally the entire palazzo had been stripped bare save for a few pieces of furniture left in his own bedroom.r />
  Intolerable behavior on the part of his thieving servants, who found him so preoccupied with his compulsive fantasies they had recently become so bold as to begin ripping out walls to get at the wiring and the copper tubing and the plumbing, anything at all that they could sell for scrap on the mainland.

  No plumbing. Not even that. For a month now Nubar had been forced to steal flowerpots at night from the cafés he haunted and smuggle them back to his bedroom closet so he could have something to use as a toilet the next morning.

  Fog. The penetrating cold damp fog of a Venetian winter, Nubar adrift in a dream city floating out to sea, lost in the rain and the drizzle on the tides of a landless dream, hiding in bed in his empty palazzo, shivering in a fetal position on a damp December morning.

  Nubar jumped. One of the tall bedroom windows was cracking, shattering, cascading down on him, the window frame having apparently been loosened during the night when a gang of his servants had chiseled away a valuable cornice on that side of the palazzo.

  Nubar shuddered as the glass splintered noisily and came showering down on the bed. When it was over he peeked out from under the covers. Clouds of dense fog were billowing in through the jagged gaping hole, filling the room with an icy dampness.

  Fog, fetal. Nubar felt dizzy. His winter dreams were becoming a nightmare. Soon the fog in the bedroom would be so thick he wouldn't be able to make out the fireplace in the far wall. He had to escape from his bedroom while there was still time, before the fog billowing in through the window swallowed up everything and trapped him in bed for the rest of the winter. With an enormous effort he threw back the covers.

  Naked. He hadn't realized that. No wonder he was so cold. He groped his way over to where the chest of drawers was supposed to be.

  Gone. The servants must have carried it away during the night so they could sell his shirts and socks. He felt his way along the wall to the closet.

  Empty. Nothing but piles of festering flowerpots. They'd taken his suits and shoes and coats to sell as well. He got down on his hands and knees, hoping to find the clothes he'd taken off when he returned at dawn, but after crawling only a few feet he cut his thumb. He popped the bleeding thumb into his mouth.

  Glass everywhere from the broken window. He'd have to find clothes elsewhere.

  Thus toward the middle of the morning on December 21, 1933, a naked Nubar Wallenstein, sole heir to the largest oil fortune in the Middle East, sucking his thumb and shivering violently in a swirling fog, left his fetal position in the master bedroom of his spacious Venetian palazzo and wandered into the corridor on the second floor, in search of clothes to wear on what would be the longest day of his life, under his arm a stack of incoherent journals, bewilderingly contradictory, titled The Boy.