Joe nodded to himself. He smiled, recalling that afternoon nearly two years ago when he had rapped on the safe and heard the echoes from deep in the ground. Haj Harun had then told him the truth.
The safe was bottomless. Inside it was a ladder that led down to the caverns of the past, the ruins of a dozen Old Cities, two dozen Old Cities. Because Jerusalem was on a mountaintop, as Haj Harun explained it, and since it had been endlessly destroyed and rebuilt over the millennia, no one had ever bothered to dig away what was left from before. Instead they had built over the ruins, raising the holy mountain ever higher. And only Haj Harun knew the caverns existed, because he alone had lived in all those former Jerusalems.
But he had shared the secret with Joe because Joe had not only befriended him but even believed the things he said, the first person to have done so in two thousand years, which had mystified Haj Harun in the beginning.
Why do you believe what I say, he had asked, instead of beating me when I say it? That’s what everyone else does. They call me an old fool and beat me.
No reason not to believe you, Joe had answered. I haven’t been long in our Holy City, everybody’s Holy City, but I’ve learned enough to know you have to accept twists here the way you might not elsewhere. Different kind of place, that’s all. Eternal city and so forth, daft time spinning out of control for sure on top of the holy mountain. Now you say you’ve lived here three thousand years and who am I to say you haven’t? No one, that’s who. A man has to be in charge of his own memories all right, otherwise nothing would work. So if you say it I’ll believe it and that’s the shape of things.
There had been tears in Haj Harun’s eyes then, and ever since he had been eager to reveal all he knew to his new young friend. The only problem was that Haj Harun was so old the years seemed to slip and slide together for him, and he could seldom remember what he knew.
Munk Szondi was still gazing at the tall antique Turkish safe in the corner.
What does the old man keep in it? he asked.
Now there’s an item for you, said Joe, and would you believe me if I told you? The past. Yes that’s right. He keeps the past, no less, in that tall and narrow safe.
Munk smiled.
Is that so?
It is indeed. What he’s got in there is three thousand years of history, the Holy City’s history, and what do you think of that? You see he’s by way of considering himself the custodian of Jerusalem, the one and only legitimate article. And me myself, I’m by way of thinking he’s right.
Munk shuffled the cards.
Who appointed him to this exalted position?
Self-appointed he was. Had to be. No one else had been around long enough to do the honors. Not that he wasn’t voted into the job too, he was. By general acclamation of the citizenry, accompanied by great applause.
When was that? asked Munk.
Well let’s see, it must have been a little before 700 B.C. Seems about that time the accursed Assyrians were ready to make their move in their monstrous chariots, accosting the lands to the north on their way down to a-conquer Jerusalem and everyone in the city was a-scared and agog at the danger. Commerce and the assorted religions were coming to a standstill, don’t you see, so maybe soon there would be no Holy City at all here, nothing but gnashing of teeth and lamentations. Do you follow me, Munk?
Yes.
Now first you have to remember Haj Harun wasn’t then at all what you see today. He was a greatly respected figure here, a veritable local hero and especially renowned for his oratory. Are you remembering, Munk?
Yes.
All right. He squares his shoulders and strides down into the marketplace to assay the Assyrian situation and assail all doubts and provide assurances or assumptions as the case may be, assuming his role in other words, assiduous defender that he be, just going right out there to arrest the Assyrian confusion with his powerful voice and presence.
Citizens, he shouts, take heart with me.
He stands there smiling and nodding with confidence, shouting this over and over, but his fellow Jerusalemites aren’t assimilating any of it. They’re just plain scared so there are more teary dirges and dreary threnodies.
The Assyrians are a-coming, scream the citizens. But we can save ourselves, shouts Haj Harun.
How? scream the citizens. By hiding the city’s sacred objects, shouts Haj Harun.
Well of course, the sacred objects, no one had thought of that. If they could hide the city’s precious sacred objects for a while, say a century or two or three, then the Assyrian danger would surely pass as all dangers do and the Assyrians would have to lug their monstrously heavy chariots back up north where they came from. Then the citizens could bring out their sacred objects once more and be as prosperous as ever, a proper Holy City with its proper holy goods in place.
So it’s right you are, the sacred objects, and a powerful sigh of relief passes around the marketplace.
Good, scream the citizens, let’s hide them for two or three centuries. But where?
Consternation then. Doubt all around. Everyone knows the Assyrians have a dreadful reputation for breaking things up and down to get their hands on sacred objects, especially those of a Holy City, for the Assyrians are nothing if not unholy. So the mob screams again.
Hide them by all means. But where?
Here, shouts Haj Harun in triumph, whipping up his cloak to reveal a gigantic money belt strapped around his waist and a huge shepherd’s sack on his back, both previously unsuspected although the citizenry was thinking their hero had looked a trifle overweight and hunchbacked that morning when he got up to address them.
A ruse, they scream. Will it work?
Haj Harun smiles. It will, he shouts. I used the same belt and the same sack in a similar situation some time ago when the Egyptians were coming.
The Egyptians, scream the citizens in dismay, you must have been younger and stronger then. Younger, shouts Haj Harun, but I’m still strong.
A queasy lot, the citizens of Jerusalem, then as now. So many prophets are always passing through here saying this or that is the absolute truth of the matter, and always contradicting each other, that the citizens naturally tend to be suspicious.
Is the money belt big enough? they scream. Is the shepherd’s sack? And are you going to sign receipts?
Well Haj Harun shouts he is and all is well and in another minute they’re bringing their sacred objects from every corner of the city, jewels and gold in all shapes and sizes and even some wood, and Haj Harun stuffs it all away in his money belt and his shepherd’s sack and signs the receipts they wanted. Then he tries to get to his feet.
Groans from the crowd, groans all around.
Can’t you even stand up? they scream. If you have to sit there for the next century or two you’re certainly not much of a hiding place.
Well it’s hard, God knows. It’s the hardest thing your man’s ever done but he does it, he manages, he gets to his feet. After all he has to, the future of the eternal city depends on it. So he lets fall his cloak and takes one staggering step and then another, looking fat and terribly deformed, not unlike a Jerusalem merchant trying to waddle away from the marketplace under the weight of his profits.
And just in time, because up there on the ramparts the ram’s horns are beginning to sound announcing the imminent arrival of the advance Assyrian assault force, which is to say their ferocious and justly a-feared cavalry.
The mob scatters for cover. The marketplace is empty. Only Haj Harun is left behind because he can’t move fast enough. Stumbling crookedly with his burden of public safety, he slips into a side alley. Do you see it, Munk?
Yes.
Good. Well the gates bang open and the dreaded Assyrian cavalry comes thundering down the street shaking the cobblestones, and now your man knows why their accursed cavalry is so justly a-feared. I mean, my God, can you believe it? The Assyrians don’t ride horses, that’s why. They ride winged lions just like you’ve seen in the pictures. Great roaring
bounding lions with manes a-flowing and wings a-spreading. So it’s here come the bloody Assyrians all right. Are you still there, Munk?
Yes.
I thought so. Now here’s the difficulty. Your man only thought he was slipping into that side alley. Actually he wasn’t. Actually that side alley was far too narrow to accommodate both him and the gigantic stuffed money belt and the huge stuffed shepherd’s sack. Actually he’s still out there in the open, Jerusalem’s portable altar bearing all the goods, right there in the middle of the street with the cavalry bounding toward him, those wicked winged lions breathing fire and looking for a fresh piece of meat to guzzle. Guzzle meat? Of course they could with that fiery breath of theirs, easily and more. What next, you say?
What happened next, Joe?
A miracle of faith, that’s what. He wasn’t about to drop the goods and run the way you or I would. No, he stayed right there in the open and thought fast. Listen, he said, reassuring himself, if Belteshazzar could do it so can I. He had faith and so do I. I’ve always served the Holy City and I’m not stopping now, winged lions or no. Jerusalem forever, that’s the job. His very words. Are you still with me, Munk?
I am, but who’s this new character on the scene?
You mean this fellow Belteshazzar? Apparently he was some gent who was thrown to the lions by an unjust king but who survived because he was innocent and knew it, just as Haj Harun did. Faith, you see. Anyway Haj Harun stands his ground in the middle of the street as the onslaught approaches at a frightful pace. The cavalry comes thundering down on him and the lead lion, near starved for real Jerusalem meat, opens his jaws wide and takes a terrifying snap at Haj Harun.
Well saints preserve us, you could just hear those jaws crack. The lion had aimed at Haj Harun’s middle, you see, and planted his vicious bite on the money belt, and with all those precious sacred objects packed so tightly together in there, the thing was harder than stone. So crack went the lead lion’s teeth, snap went its jaw, and the beast rolled over on the cobblestones at Haj Harun’s feet, whining pathetically.
Well that slowed the advance. The next lion took a more tentative snap at what looked like a huge succulent deformity growing out of Haj Harun’s back, hitting the stuffed shepherd’s sack where it hurt and down he went with his front teeth broken off, howling between the roars, letting the other lions know this article in the middle of the street wasn’t worth the biting.
Well to make a long story short, a couple of more lions gave it a try and lost their teeth, so that was that. The cavalry charge was broken, toothless lions were whimpering all over the place, and Haj Harun was able to make his slow escape to a remote corner of the Old City. Then some decades or centuries later the Assyrians were no longer the arrogant power they had been, and sure enough they went slinking away to the north with their chariots, as predicted. Haj Harun brought out the city’s sacred objects and redistributed them to the best of his memory, commerce and the assorted religions got underway again and all was well once more in the Holy City. The citizens gave Haj Harun a standing ovation and acclaimed him the unofficial savior of Jerusalem, official status only being temporary and only assigned to prophets before they’re discredited and killed.
And that’s what I meant, Munk, by the job not being just self-appointed. He did appoint himself all right but later the appointment was approved by all concerned, as you’ve just heard. For a time, at least. A while after that, during the Persian occupation, things took a turn for the worse for Haj Harun. In fact he went into a straight decline from which he’s never recovered.
Why the decline?
Don’t know, do I. Time’s tricky, tricky times, all manner of possibilities. But I think the money belt was the culprit. You see it weighed on his kidneys something terrible when he was serving as Jerusalem’s portable altar during the Assyrian afflictions, so badly he had to urinate every minute or two. And you do that over some decades or centuries and it could well cause your ruin. I mean who could accomplish much of a positive nature if they had to leave every minute or two to go to the bog? In such dire circumstances I think anybody would go into a decline. Well then, Munk. In sum, what do you think of this striking Assyrian adventure?
I think Haj Harun showed extraordinary courage.
He did, assuredly.
But there’s one small fact that’s out of place.
Do you tell me that? What could the small item be?
When the lions came charging down the street, Haj Harun was reminded of how someone called Belteshazzar had been saved by his faith.
True.
And it was that recollection that allowed him to stand his ground.
Very true. And so?
That was the man’s Babylonian name. In the West he’s better known by his Hebrew name, Daniel. He was taken to Babylonia at the beginning of the Captivity.
Joe looked confused.
I know the story of Daniel in the lions’ den, Munk, I just didn’t connect it with this other name Haj Harun used. But why’s that matter?
Because it happens that Daniel lived in the sixth century B.C. Did you know that?
I didn’t and I’m always glad to have new information, but I still don’t see why that matters. Why does it, Munk?
Because the Assyrians conquered Palestine in the eighth century B.C. Now how could Haj Harun have recalled Daniel’s exploits two centuries before they happened?
Joe smiled and tapped his nose.
Oh is that all, is that all you had on your mind. Well shouldn’t I cut this deck so you can get on with the deal?
Munk put the pack on the table and Joe cut it. The cards began dropping around the table.
Joe?
Hm?
Well what’s the solution to that?
To what? Haj Harun recalling something that hadn’t happened yet? Something that was still a couple of hundred years in the future?
Yes.
But that’s the whole point, Munk. There’s no solution necessary for Haj Harun. I mean the past is what’s passed and it’s all part of Jerusalem to him, and him defending it although always on the losing side, as you always are when defending the Holy City. A Babylonian king throwing someone to the lions? The Assyrians sooner or later charging up these streets with their lions? All just pieces of the same job, defending Jerusalem, a task he says is both immense and perpetual, which is why he fails. Jacks to open, did you say?
No.
Fair enough, I’ll open anyway. Hey there, what’s the cause of this laughter, Munk?
The idea of Haj Harun keeping the past in a safe.
No laughing matter, as you can see now. And you can also see why he keeps that safe locked. If everyone were to go rifling around through the past the way he does, recalling events before they happen and sorting out confusion to his liking, Jerusalem would be nothing but bloody chaos I say, not able to stand up and do a straightforward job as a Holy City. So it’s no bloody wonder the old man keeps that sentry box on duty, on guard and locked so things will be clear for the rest of us. Now just look at these cards. I’ve no business holding royalty like this, but since I am I’ll just add a little sweetness to the pot before we see what you’re up to, Cairo lad.
4. Solomon’s Quarries
Ah yes, cognac brought to the Holy Land
by the Crusaders to ease the pains of
pilgrims. Well how’s it taste then?
Gone off a bit in eight hundred years?
ON A HOT JULY day in 1922, O’Sullivan Beare lay slumped against the wall in the back room of Haj Harun’s shop. The poker table was bare, the game having been recessed because of the severe heat. Listlessly he inspected the empty glass of poteen in his hand and decided it wasn’t worth the effort to cross the room to refill it.
Haj Harun wandered in, barefoot as usual. An area of crumbling plaster in the wall caught his eye and he stopped to gaze at himself in a nonexistent mirror. He adjusted his rusty Crusader’s helmet, muttering all the while, and retied the two green ribbons unde
r his chin. He also did what he could to straighten his faded yellow cloak, mostly in tatters and hanging unevenly.
A black day, he muttered. Black. A black day for me. Black. A black day for Jerusalem. Black.
Is it now? said Joe from the corner. My sentiments exactly and no wonder in this heat. Just merciless, that’s what.
Haj Harun jumped and looked down in surprise.
I didn’t know you were here.
Well I think I am, although it’s too hot to admit to more.
What are you doing on the floor?
Gravity pulled me down, I’m feeling grave today. Then too the stones down here are cooler than a chair. Then too heat rises, so the lower you are the better, which is also in keeping with my lowly mood. Why don’t you try it? It’s not half bad.
I can’t, said Haj Harun. I can’t sit still today. I’m much too restless. It’s a black day. Black.
I see.
Haj Harun nodded at himself in a nonexistent mirror on the wall and his helmet went awry again, releasing a shower of rust into his eyes. The tears began to flow and he went on muttering to himself as he drifted out the door.
Black, thought Joe, wiping his face with his sleeve. Black and that was half of it for sure.
It had been only a little over two years ago that he’d been fighting the Black and Tans in the hills of southern Ireland, and all because of something his father had said, his father who’d been the seventh son of a seventh son and therefore had the gift of prophecy.
It was too hot to move, too hot to be in Jerusalem.
Joe closed his eyes and went back to the windswept Aran Islands, to a cool June night in 1914.
It had been a party night, one of the few each year. As usual all the poor fishermen had gathered at Joe’s house for singing and dancing and drinking, Joe’s father being the undisputed king of the little island, both because he had the gift and because he had thirty-three sons, Joe at fourteen being the youngest and last and the only one still at home. What should have been a wondrous evening of prophecies together with tales of pookas and banshees and the little people.
Jerusalem Poker (The Jerusalem Quartet Book 2) Page 9