The British brigadier looked appalled.
Well yes, whispered Joe. There are those who swear that’s the truth of the matter but I won’t argue it one way or another, not being familiar with the intriguing that went on up there before the war. But the fact stands he got his loot out in plenty of time, to Brazil where it would be safe, then just sat back and cruelly calmly watched the dottery old Habsburg Empire go down and fall flat and decompose like so much carrion. And do you think he gave a thought to the dukes and duchesses who’d made him what he was? Not a bit of it. Down you go, he said, with a wicked smile on his face as the old Empire collapsed. Sorry about that, old girl, but you’re just carrion now. Do you see what I’m getting at? He had what he’d come for so away he went with his bundle. A regular imperial jackal, that’s what. And of course he’d been dealing on all sides, we know that now.
Munitions? whispered the Frenchman in awe.
Cruelly calmly watching the Empire crumble, murmured the Egyptian wistfully, his spastic hand jerkily trying to rearrange the currencies he had won into two separate piles, those that fell within the British Empire and those that didn’t.
Play fair at cards, does he? asked the brigadier briskly.
That he does, said Joe, and it’s the only time he does play fair. Has a curious habit too of liking to play with the joker wild. Says he likes the idea of having that extra card in the game. Probably because it means he has a chance of getting five aces.
Fair play, said the brigadier, that’s the important thing. It’s no concern of ours how he happened to make his money.
How important has he become in Brazil since the war? asked one of the Russians.
Important? You couldn’t call it that. What it amounts to is he owns half the bloody place outright and runs the rest with an iron fist. But no one knows it because he uses women to front for him, to run all his financial transactions. He calls them the Sarahs, just one name for all of them, and pretends they’re his aunts and grandaunts and female cousins, although of course no one would ever dare to be related to a fiend like him. And he always wears disguises, that’s another thing. Has his enemies naturally. A blond wig is what I remember, that and a gaudy military uniform. You know, as if he were some bloody Prussian aristocrat or something.
Shit my God, said the Frenchman, who cares about a wig or two?
Runs Brazil with an iron fist, mused one of the Russians.
The Habsburgs paid extraordinary prices for good carpets, murmured the Libyan. Especially Bukharas. They loved Bukharas.
The biggest country in South America, whispered the second Russian. Someday it could be as rich as America, and he runs it with an iron fist.
I don’t like any of it, said Joe. That monocle and that Junker sneer on his face, looking down his nose at you. Treats ordinary people like peasants, that’s what.
Joe grumbled and made a face. He reached into the sack and pulled out a potato without looking at it, devouring it noisily in three huge bites. The other players were watching him dumbly, either daydreaming or hypnotized by his gyrating mouth.
All at once the Frenchman exploded. His fists came crashing down on the table.
Shit my God, what are we doing just sitting here? He may have gotten tired of waiting and left. Quick. Call him in before it’s too late.
Everyone nodded eagerly. Joe shrugged.
Suit yourself then. The jackal from central Europe now joins the game, he said, initialing the engraved calling card and handing it back to the Druse warrior on alley duty.
The man who marched haughtily into the room wore a full-dress military uniform, recognizable to the British brigadier as that of a colonel of dragoons in the prewar Austro-Hungarian Imperial Army. Also recognizable to the brigadier was the newcomer’s highest decoration, the Order of the Golden Fleece. A ceremonial sword clanked at his side and an ivory and leather riding crop was tucked smartly under his left arm.
He was wearing a blond wig as Joe had mentioned, Germanic in appearance and obviously false, and a closely clipped blond beard, also false. He wore not one monocle but two, both tinted different colors, so his true features were completely hidden. In the middle of the room he snapped to attention and clicked his heels.
My compliments to the Irish peasantry, he said to Joe in thickly accented English. Gentlemen, he added, making a curt bow to the rest of the table.
The Libyan was already on his feet with an oily smile, making a place for the colonel beside himself. The man adjusted his blond wig and accepted the chair with a look of complete disdain for the Libyan. The British brigadier, meanwhile, was studying the numerous decorations on the colonel’s chest. He cleared his throat with authority.
A most impressive display of medals, colonel. But you must excuse my ignorance when it comes to obsolete decorations from empires that no longer exist. What is that small black ribbon, for example?
Meritorious behavior in the Balkans, said the colonel. With special reference to Bosnia, the crisis of 1908.
Ah yes. And the purple and black ribbon?
The Balkans again, still Bosnia. For the crisis of 1911.
And the orange and purple and black ribbon?
Once more Bosnia. This time for the crisis of 1912.
Very interesting, colonel. You seem to have had a specialized career.
The colonel’s heels clicked under the table.
Minor local affairs, sir. Of no possible interest outside of the Habsburg Empire, now defunct.
Yes, I daresay the Balkans with their tiresome crises did seem a bore to most of us at the time. But then when your archduke was assassinated in Bosnia a few years later, we all had quite a different show on our hands, didn’t we? Or at least a good many of us did.
The colonel’s heels again clicked under the table.
So it would seem, sir. But I have to say Bosnia was unstable from the beginning. The very concept of a Bosnia is ridiculous and untenable. As I should know, my decorations testify to that. And now to matters more of the present.
The colonel removed a thick packet from his tunic and placed it on the table. He turned to Joe who was sullenly munching another potato.
You will recall from my visit a few years ago, young man, that I do not favor large sums of money on the person. But see here, I’m addressing you. Take that disgusting lump of vegetable matter away from your mouth this instant or I shall leave immediately.
Joe put his potato down on the table as the other players glared at him. Slovenly Irish peasant, muttered the colonel under his breath. Joe rubbed his beard around his mouth, knocking off bits of potato that fell into his lap.
Now to begin again, said the colonel. What I have here are deeds to gold mines on the South American continent, mostly in Brazil. Acceptable as wagers? Yes?
Joe was about to say something when voices erupted around the table.
Shit my God, shouted the Frenchman, of course.
An exquisite pleasure, shrieked the Egyptian.
But shouldn’t we play with the joker wild? screamed the Libyan. Just to enliven our little game of high-low?
High-low Brazilian gold mines, thundered the two Russians, jumping up from the table in their excitement and nearly knocking each other down.
Good show, said the brigadier. On with the game while there’s still time.
Reluctantly Joe pushed aside his potato. He wiped his hands on his shirt and began to deal. The colonel lost heavily on a single ace, king-high, to the Egyptian and the first Russian. On the next hand he lost just as heavily with another single ace, jack-high, to the Frenchman and the Libyan. The third time it was the British brigadier’s turn to share the winnings with the second Russian.
No one was really sure whether the colonel was trying to go high or low with his single aces. But they were all suddenly winning so much, except for Joe, they didn’t care. Nor did they care that the colonel had discovered the bowl of garlic bulbs left behind by Munk Szondi and was now sneaking handfuls of them to munch. Nothing mattered
with that kind of wealth on the table.
The game was moving quickly now, cards and gold mines flying around the table. Joe had just turned in his last Polish zloty, in exchange for one hundred perfectly worthless Polish groszy, when the Druse warrior on alley duty reappeared with another calling card.
Your batman again, mumbled the British brigadier.
Joe peered at the card and read the name out loud.
Evelyn Baring? Is that a him or a her? Anybody know?
Isn’t it all the same where it counts? giggled the Egyptian, spastically prodding Joe in the ribs.
Shit my God, let it in whatever it is, screamed the Frenchman gaily, his fingers stroking a long thick deed in his pocket.
I seem to recall having heard that name somewhere, mumbled the British brigadier.
More, roared the Russians, who had broken out a bottle of vodka and were rapidly emptying it.
We have to have unanimous agreement, said Joe glumly, rules of the game. You only play with those you want to play with. What’s the view from Libya?
Rugs, answered the Libyan with a gurgle.
Vote recorded. Colonel?
I couldn’t care less.
Well all right then. Evelyn is admitted by popular consent.
Joe put his initials on the calling card and the Druse warrior withdrew. A tall, dignified black man entered the room wearing dark glasses. He was dressed in a long black robe and a formal white wig, not unlike those worn by English judges presiding at the bench. On his shoulder a little animal was curled up asleep, its fur pure white, its head and tail tucked away out of sight.
The black judge placed a large pile of English banknotes on the table and sat down beside the Frenchman, his expression contemptuous and even insolent. But no one took any particular notice of him. They were all too busy reading the deeds to the gold mines they had just won.
Or pretending to read them. By now the Europeans at the table were drunk. The Libyan and the Egyptian had fired up Cairo Martyr’s hookah and were lazily passing the tube back and forth, their eyes glassy. The Russian comrades patted each other on the head and hummed the Third Internationale.
Joe lost his hundred groszy and got up from the table. He rubbed his eyes and took a last potato from the sack on the floor. The brigadier was grinning at him crookedly.
That it for you too, sport? Don’t tell me the famous high-low Harrigan of Jerusalem poker has lost for a change?
Afraid he has. Looks like one more poor Irish bogman is down and out in front of the mighty British lion.
Want your hundred groszy back? asked the brigadier. You could always give them to a beggar if he didn’t know what they were.
Joe shook his head. He looked exhausted and dejected.
No thanks, I’ll just shuffle along home now. Play as long as you like, the man at the door will lock up.
As he left the chimes attached to the sundial in the front room inexplicably struck midnight for the third time that evening.
During the next half-hour the haughty black judge wearing the white wig joined the reckless colonel wearing the blond wig in betting more and more heavily and losing hand after hand. It must have been at least an hour after midnight when the Druse warrior from the alley entered once more to announce a prospective player. The Frenchman, who was stroking the hairs in one of his nostrils with a fingertip, read the card and giggled.
Why are you doing that to your nose, sir? demanded the colonel.
It’s very sensual, murmured the Frenchman.
Well stop it this instant, ordered the colonel, or I’ll close down all the gold mines you’ve won.
The Frenchman reluctantly removed his finger from his nose. He giggled again.
This card is a joke. It must be.
What name, sir?
No name. There’s a crude drawing, done in crayon, of a bear holding a bottle. That’s all there is.
The colonel reached over and took the card. His voice was grave.
Not crayon, you fool, charcoal. And that bottle is the mark he always uses. Now stop giggling like the empty-headed idiot you are.
What do you mean, he?
I mean I recognize his mark. Most people in the New World would. But I am surprised to find him so far from home.
Home?
The western half of North America. The ancient domain ruled by Chief Sipping Bear and his ancestors since the dawn of time. No native American was ever more powerful. Among other things, he’s heir to the Seven Lost Cities of Cibola.
The lost cities of what? mumbled the British brigadier, pouring himself more whiskey.
Indeed sir, said the colonel, undoubtedly you’ve heard similar tales in India. The Seven Lost Cities of Cibola are legendary cities of gold located somewhere in the deserts of the southwestern United States. The conquistadores searched for them but were never able to find them because they were outwitted by the Chief Sipping Bears of the time. For my part, as an emigré to the new world, I would welcome such a distinguished player in the game.
And I, said the Egyptian quickly. Lost cities on the Nile have always been a source of treasure throughout history.
Historical treasure, bellowed the Russians, show the oppressed red man in.
The Libyan concurred, suspecting American Indians might well have use for a certain number of rugs if they lived in deserts like the bedouin. The British brigadier admitted he was always curious to see another breed of native. As for the black judge known as Evelyn Baring, he simply rapped the table once, loudly, to show his approval.
By unanimous proclamation, screamed the Frenchman, Chief Sipping Bear from the New World is invited to join the game.
But can he outsip an O’Sullivan Beare? whispered the colonel to Evelyn Baring, who for once relaxed his severe expression and flashed a broad smile, brilliant white teeth in a face so black it was almost blue.
The door banged open and the odd figure who stood facing them was certainly neither as noble nor as savage as everyone had been led to expect by the colonel’s comments. In fact he looked rather shabby and harmless.
He was a small dark man, his face and chest haphazardly painted with drab vertical streaks of dye, and he wore a loincloth held up by a rope tied around his waist. His moccasins resembled well-worn cheap Arab slippers, the threadbare khaki blanket wrapped around his shoulders looked like some shoddy army issue from the last century, and his ill-fitting feathered headband kept slipping down over one eye, giving him the raffish look of an itinerant entertainer and low-level charlatan. Nor were the feathers eagle, rather some common pigeon variety.
Thrust through his rope belt was a crude tomahawk, a stone tied to a shaft of wood that might have been cut from a broom handle. The long bow he carried in his hand was of the finest workmanship, however, thin and powerful and exquisitely wrought, and the quiver made of red lacquer was equally beautiful. So much so that both seemed out of place.
That gave the white man trouble? giggled the Frenchman.
There’s no hope anywhere, murmured the Egyptian.
Stunted, mumbled the brigadier. The need for empire was never clearer.
If that’s his idea of a blanket I’d hate to see his taste in rugs, said the Libyan.
Oppressed red man, muttered the Russians darkly.
The colonel groaned and shook his head as if in despair. The black judge sighed and gazed up at the ceiling through his dark glasses as if invoking the immediate intervention of some higher power.
Nevertheless, despite his seedy appearance, the Indian seemed determined to act as fierce and menacing as he could. He scowled and began a slow shuffling dance around the table, lifting his knees high and brandishing his bow, reciting a war chant in some barbaric tongue. It was the quiver that caught the brigadier’s attention.
I’ve seen those, he whispered in astonishment.
You have? said the Libyan.
Yes, in the Orient. It’s Japanese. The samurai used them.
Valuable? asked the Frenchman.
&nbs
p; I should say so. That one could be at least six or seven hundred years old.
The samurai? muttered one of the Russians. Their time will come.
Do the Japanese live in America? asked the dazed Egyptian.
That’s right, said the brigadier. What’s he doing with that?
Nonsense, interrupted the colonel, suddenly recovering his composure. Everyone knows the American Indians originally came from Asia, and Chief Sipping Bear’s forebears have always been proud warriors in the best samurai tradition. The heritage is altogether natural.
Those slippers, wheezed the Libyan, look like the ones my servants wear.
But before there could be any more comments the chief all at once silenced them with a ferocious whoop. His war dance around the table had come to an end. He shook his bow in the air, whooped again and glared down at them.
Me Sipping Bear, great chief of west. How.
The colonel rapped his riding crop on the table for order. He rose and clicked his heels.
How indeed. Welcome, chief. We’re playing seven-card stud, high-low, joker wild. Let’s see the color of your wampum.
The Indian took a leather pouch out of his quiver and removed a gold nugget the size of a pigeon’s egg. He took out three more nuggets equally large and placed his tomahawk on the table in the middle of them. The Frenchman, although drunk, couldn’t help but notice the savage had accidentally made the sign of the cross on the table with his gold nuggets and tomahawk.
Here Cibola pebbles, grunted the Indian, thumping his chest, which made him cough. All Cibola made out of this, pick up in streets to use as wampum.
Fine, chief, no problems with that. Tell me, how do you happen to be over in this part of the world?
Come to see Holy City East. Tomorrow journey west again home to wigwam in setting sun. But first play joker wild, Holy City East.
Fair enough. Make yourself comfortable.
The chief spied the bottle of poteen Joe had left behind and grabbed it, taking a long swallow.
Jerusalem Poker (The Jerusalem Quartet Book 2) Page 19