by Rod Rees
History of the JAD: Rabbi Schmuel Gelbfisz, JAD Journals and Books
As hotels went, the Hotel Copasetic was right down there with the worst of them. Vanka, in his time wandering around the Demi-Monde, had stayed in some real fleapits but never, ever, anything to compare with the Copasetic. The room he was occupying was despicably shabby, the food the restaurant served poisonous and the staff incorrigibly rude and inefficient. The only decent conversation he’d had since he’d come to the JAD had been with the tailor Josephine Baker had sent to equip him with a suitably JADdy wardrobe.
Boredom had provoked him to read everything there was to read in the hotel, to the extent that he was now fully conversant with every one of the ingredients of Abercrombie’s Amazing Macassar Oil and could recite – word-perfectly – Mrs Beeton’s flatulence-inducing recipe for brioche pain perdu. Indeed, his desperation for mental stimulation had been such that he had even tried to engage the receptionist in conversation, an exercise he abandoned when he had realised his efforts were being misconstrued and the woman had begun winking at him with real purpose.
Having been holed up in the place for forty days and forty nights, Vanka knew he was on the brink of going stir crazy but the note he had received from Josephine Baker delivered courtesy of the tailor had been very firm on the matter: under no circumstances was he to leave the hotel until he received word from the Code Noir that the coast was clear. So he’d sat in his room and waited … and waited … and waited. He’d had nothing to do except eat and sleep … although he had tried to do as little of the latter as was humanly possible. Vanka hated sleeping. When he slept he was visited by the Dream, and though when he woke he couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was about, he was left so wrung out and upset that he knew it hadn’t been a pleasant experience. Every night he was visited by the Dream and every morning he woke tired, confused and very troubled.
The upshot was that Vanka came down to breakfast that morning exhausted. Not that the prospect of breakfast did anything to raise his spirits: as the broken-down old waiter ladled a great mound of very obnoxious-looking matzo brei onto his plate, Vanka found himself fantasising about bacon and sausages. He pushed the plate to one side and contented himself with munching absent-mindedly on a stale bagel, wondering as he chewed when – if – he’d ever get out of the JAD. He wished Fate would come to his rescue.
It did.
‘Excuse me, younk man.’
Vanka looked up to see an old man – seventy years old, if he was a day – standing at the side of his table, with a hand outstretched in his direction. He was a tall man, dressed in a well-worn black suit with a kippah atop his bald head, and this, together with his thick accent, proclaimed him to be a nuJu. ‘Gut morgen. I am Rabbi Schmuel Gelbfisz,’ the man announced, ‘unt I am delighted to meet mit you, Mr …’
‘Jim Tyler.’ Vanka took the proffered hand and shook it carefully. It was like grasping a sheath of brittle twigs. ‘How can I help you, Rabbi Gelbfisz?’
The man waved the bony hand. ‘You zee, Mr Jim Tyler, zhat ve are zhe only two guests occupying zhe whole of zhis enormous unt somewhat dilapidated dining room.’
Vanka nodded, and then raised a ‘so what?’ eyebrow.
‘Vell … it zeems to me zhat it is zhe height of absurdity zhat I should zit over zhere’ – again the hand was waved, though this time in the direction of the empty tables lining the far wall of the dining room – ‘unt zhat you should zit over here. Feh! Is it not ridiculous zhat ve should continue to ignore one anozzer? Fate has placed us in each ozzher’s company unt I am loath to spurn zhe overtures of such a vilful deity. Perhaps, zherefore, you vould permit me to join you?’
‘Well, actually—’ Vanka began, but before he could formulate a polite demurral, the man was making himself comfortable in the chair across the table from his.
‘Gut. I am alvays delighted to make new acquaintances, especially zhose, like you, who are newcomers to zhe JAD.’ The man gave a beaming smile: old he might be, but he was an arresting individual who must, Vanka decided, have been a dog for the ladies when he was young.
Vanka bowed to the inevitable and prompted the conversation forward. ‘You say I’m a newcomer to the JAD, Rabbi Gelbfisz: am I that easy to spot?’
‘Jah, of course. You sport zhe typical expression of a first-time visitor to zhe JAD, zhat cocktail of bemusement unt incredulity I call zhe “JAD look” vhich is similar to zhat vorn by a man who has just taken a cucumber up zhe keister.’
Despite himself – the last thing he wanted to do was to encourage this strange man – Vanka laughed, finding himself intrigued by the old rabbi with the pixie eyes. ‘Do all newcomers have this “JAD look”?’
The rabbi helped himself to a spoonful of Vanka’s abandoned breakfast. ‘Jah, every von of zhem … especially zhose zadniks from NoirVille mit a penchant for communing mit vegetables.’
Vanka smiled. ‘I’m not surprised. The JAD isn’t anything like I imagined. It’s very different where I come from.’
‘A brokh. I often zay how remarkable it is zhat zhe JAD unt zhe rest ov zhe Demi-Monde could have deviated zo far, zo quickly.’ The rabbi sat silent for a moment as he munched suspiciously on the matzo brei. ‘Zhe JAD is an anthropologist’s vet dream, is it not? How vonderful to be able to study zhe manner in vhich a population, shunned unt isolated as ve nuJus have been, can develop in such strange unt different vays. It is proof zhat evolution is alive unt vell.’ He took a sip of his coffee, eyeing Vanka as he did so. ‘Perhaps zhat is vot you are, Mr Tyler, an anthropologist?’
With a panache honed by practice, Vanka trotted out his cover story. ‘No, I’m a writer. I’ve been commissioned to do a book about the music that has grown up in the JAD since its inception. I’m especially interested in the JAD’s own brand of dance music, the stuff called reBop.’
Rabbi Gelbfisz chuckled as he poured a life-threatening amount of sugar into his coffee. ‘Azoy? Your investigations must be at a very early stage, Mr Tyler. ReBop is a style of music zhat has not been popular mit nuJus for several years now. Zhe younk JADniks have come to embrace vot zhey call klezmerJad.’
‘You seem to know an awful lot about it.’
A snort of derision. ‘I have not alvays been old, Mr Tyler. Vonce, long before I vos ejected from my homeland by zhose anti-nuJu bastards who masquerade as UnFunnies, I vos’ – he gave Vanka a wink – ‘in zhe idiom of zhe day, slack, slim unt sent. I played trumpet … jah, trumpet, in a vigged-out combo called, unt here, Mr Tyler, you must remember I vos very younk, zhe Zink Zonk Zombies.’ Rabbi Gelbfisz smirked at the recollection. ‘Jah, it is true, vonce zhis old alter cocker vos pretty good at blowing on a horn … unt at having his horn blown.’ He gave a mischievous little giggle before continuing. ‘Zhey vere interesting times, zhough vhen I think about vot I used to vear – zoot suits in pastel colours, mit drape jackets unt peg-leg trousers, vide-brimmed fedoras – I am acutely embarrassed. I must have looked a real schloomp.’
Rabbi Gelbfisz’s gaze seemed to harden for a moment. ‘Zo, who do you write for, Mr Tyler? Your accent is strange. Your Anglo is too gut for you to be a native speaker.’
Careful, thought Vanka, this guy’s a lot sharper than he would like you to believe.
‘Oh, I’m an Anglo, through and through,’ Vanka lied. ‘I was born in the Rookeries. And as for who I write for: I’m freelance, I just hunt down stories and then sell them to the highest bidder.’
‘I myself come from Rodina. I escaped from Varsaw during zhe Troubles.’
‘You were very sensible.’
‘Jah. I have vatched zhe genocidal efforts of zhe UnFunnies regarding my home district mit much interest. Vhen zhat momzer Heydrich decided to racially unt religiously homogenise zhe ForthRight, I knew it vos time to take a runavay powder.’
‘It must have been terrible.’
‘Azoy. It vos, Mr Tyler, it vos. Unt zhe biggest regret I have is zhat zhough I anticipated zhe betrayal of zhe nuJus by Heydrich, I failed
to convince zhe rest of my family to accompany me into exile. Even my cousin Louie – unt believe me, Louie ain’t no schlemiel – told me that I could include him out. But zhe good thing vos zhat zhey got lucky unt headed for zhe Great Beyond vhen zhe Lady IMmanual parted zhe Boundary Layer. Jah, vot zhat girl did in Varsaw vos marvellous … a real miracle. She saved three million of my people unt zhat ain’t bobkes; it’s three million people who are alive today because of vot zhat girl did. Us nuJus owe her big time.’
It took Vanka a moment to disentangle what the rabbi was saying, and when he did, he wasn’t happy being reminded about what Ella had been … and what she had become.
‘Which is vhy, Vanka Maykov, ve nuJus had to think long unt hard before ve let you come here to zhe JAD.’
At the admission that this old nuJu knew his real name a frisson of fear trickled down Vanka’s spine. He took a quick look around to check his escape route and, as he suspected it would be, the restaurant’s exit was now guarded by two big, burly men.
Fuck.
*
‘You know who I am?’
‘Of course. You should dig, Vanka Maykov, zhat ve nuJus know everything zhat goes down in zhe JAD … everything.’
‘Then why—?’
‘Zorg zich nit. Don’t worry about it, I ain’t gonna shop you to zhe HimPeril. I have come to meet mit zhe famous Vanka Maykov unt to see for myself if he is a mensch – a stand-up guy – or a klutz. Unt I am pleased to tell you, Vanka Maykov, zhat you are okay, zhat you’re vot ve nuJus call a gooteh neshumen – a good soul.’
‘Why is that so important?’
‘Because zhese are dangerous times, Vanka Maykov, unt zhe dark clouds gather. Zhe Beast is abroad unt vhile ve nuJus don’t vant to become involved mit sorting out zhe mess you gentiles have made of things, ve know ve must help zhe forces of light. Okay, it’s a begrudging help but vhen a people have spent a thousand years being beaten like dogs, you can understand zhat zhose dogs are reluctant to come to zhe defence ov zhe vons doing zhe beating. But needs must vhen Loki drives unt by our reckoning zoon, because of zhe interference of Doge IMmanual, zhe whole of zhe Demi-Monde vill be engulfed in war … zhe JAD included.’
‘I saw the preparations you were making to resist an invasion when I came to the hotel.’
‘Ov course, war vill come, on zhis you may be sure. How can it be ozzervise mit so many hotheads unt racists amongst both zhe Shades unt zhe nuJus?’
‘Why should it come to fighting? I thought the Shades and the nuJus had reached a modus vivendi: you got your HomeLand and the Shades got the blood trade. Wasn’t that what the MANdate said, the one signed with Shaka Zulu?’
‘Jah. But zhere are zhose in NoirVille, like zhat draykop Pobedonostsev, who loathe us mit a passion unt who vill not rest until ve have been eradicated. Unt, of course, zhere are nuJus who make zhe claim zhat all of NoirVille should be ours unt zhat all zhe Shades should be kicked out of zhe Sector. Zo you zee, Vanka Maykov, zhat compromise is difficult, especially now it zeems zhat Doge IMmanual is intent on breaking our monopoly of Aqua Benedicta. Jah, war comes. How can it be ozzervise vehn zhe Beast valks zhe Demi-Monde?’
‘And who do you regard as the Beast?’
‘Doge IMmanual, of course. Zhe vay ve nuJus see it, zhe girl who saved our people in Varsaw ain’t zhe same girl who’s just crowned herself Doge in Venice unt has hooked up mit zhat shtik drek Shaka. Like I say, our cryptos tell us zhat Doge IMmanual has zhe secrets ov Aqua Benedicta unt zhat she is going to disclose zhese to Shaka Zulu in exchange for his support in conquering zhe Demi-Monde. Vot zhis tells us zhat she ain’t zhe Messiah … she’s zhe Beast. Unt I guess even a greener like you can dig zhat ve in the JAD ain’t really enchanted about zhe prospect of Shaka’s Himpis making a surprise visit. Feh! Zhe cleaning … zhe dusting. Unt zhat is vhy ve had to think zo carefully about letting you come to zhe JAD, Vanka Maykov. Harbouring you vill piss off Doge IMmanual unt zhat ain’t a healthy thing to do.’
Vanka gave a mournful shake of his head. ‘And the worst thing about this is I don’t know why she hates me so much.’
‘Oy vay! Such bad luck to believe you are hated mitout reason. But zhere is a reason: she hates you because you are zhe man mit zhe power to defeat her.’
‘Me?’
‘Jah, you. You are more zhan you appear, Vanka Maykov … much more.’ Gelbfisz pushed a piece of paper across the breakfast table. ‘If you go to zhis club tonight, zomebody will be waiting for you. Listen to zhat somebody slowly unt zhey vill tell you how Doge IMmanual might be defeated. But understand zhis: ve nuJus don’t want Doge IMmanual harmed; ve want her disarmed. Vhen she vos vot she vos before she is vot she is, she did us nuJus a big favour. Unt now it is payback time. You dig?’
‘Yeah … disarmed, and that’s exactly what I want.’
‘Gut. But be careful, Vanka Maykov. Zhe HimPeril are looking for you, zo keep your eyes peeled.’
Rabbi Gelbfisz drained his cup of coffee, then checked his watch.
‘Gants goot. Unfortunately, Vanka Maykov, now I have to go attend zhe Sin-All-Gone; today I am reading from Epistle Sixty-Six of zhe Book of Profits, zhe vun dealing mit zhe coming of zhe Messiah. It has been most interesting talking mit you, unt perhaps we vill meet again. Fate vill decide.’ He held out his hand and the pair of them shook. ‘And as you are feigning an interest in jad music, Vanka Maykov, I should leave you in zhe style of my youth.’ He smiled again, the twinkle back in his eyes. ‘Zo, Vanka Maykov, I plant you now unt dig you later.’
27
Venice
The Demi-Monde: 41st Day of Summer, 1005
The teachings of HimPerialism are enshrined in the HIM Book, the most sacred book in the NoirVillian religious corpus, which contains, according to HimPerial theologians, the inerrant and infallible Word of ABBA. The text of the HIM Book was translated by the great mage and scholar Cab Calloway in 505 AC from original Pre-Folk manuscripts which were unfortunately destroyed during the Great War of 512.
An Idiot’s Guide to ManHood: Selim the Grim, HimPerial Instructional Leaflets
Billy fucking loathed being cooped up in the Palace. He liked it when he and his buddies went out on the town, raising hell. Okay, so Ella had told him he had to stay confined within the Palace ‘for his own safety’, but he hadn’t and that was why he had been summoned to an audience with his sister.
He hated these sessions. Not only was Ella totally fucking crackers – her believing that she was the reincarnation of this Lilith item and had been born in Atlantis proved that – but she had also begun to look at him in an odd way, like she was sizing him up for a coffin or something.
Really fucking freaky.
And today, when he had been called to her chambers, she seemed intent on not just looking at him sideways but talking to him sideways.
‘I have received word from the captain of the Signori di Notte detachment assigned to protect you that your carousing has become excessive. Last night, it seems, you were involved in a brawl over a woman.’
Billy fidgeted just like he had done when he’d been four years old and Dad – the drunk bastard – had caught him torturing that cat. He hated being told off. Fuck it, he wasn’t a kid any more. And the truth was, he liked kicking up a little dust with his new cru, knowing that it didn’t matter what they did or who they hurt. Everything in the Demi-Monde was just make-believe and everyone living in it – ‘cept him and Sis – was only a fucking Dupe.
Fuck ’em.
‘I cannot allow you to endanger yourself, Billy.’
‘Ah, c’mon Sis, what are yo’, my mother? Yo’ treatin’ me like some house nigga or such. I gotta get busy otherwise I’m gonna blow a fuse.’
‘I’m not your mother, Billy, just someone who cares about you. You must understand that you have an important role to play in my achieving mastery of the Demi-Monde – and the worlds beyond – more important than you could possibly realise.’
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
‘So it’s import
ant that no harm comes to you; that you are kept safe. I want you to promise that there will be no more of these stupid escapades.’
Yadda, yadda, yadda.
‘Sis …’ Billy began and then stopped, not quite sure how to proceed. He didn’t like how cold her eyes had become and anyway it was fucking difficult to know what to say to your sister when she was lying on a couch looking too slinky by half. He had to look away.
He took a deep breath before replying. Selim had told him to stay frosty, that he wouldn’t have to put up with this shit for much longer.
‘Okay, Sis, I’ll stay home from now on.’
Like fuck.
During the couple of weeks Billy had been in Venice he’d fallen in with a group of other young nobles who had a passion for wine, women and debauchery that was almost as fierce as his, and it was to these he turned that night. And such was the skill of this gang of upper-class hooligans that despite the guards Ella had set to watch him, they still managed to smuggle him out of the Palace. Fuck what he’d promised her: without a little occasional R & R in no time flat he’d be as nuts as she was.
They had a great night, so much so that it wasn’t until the early hours – after five hours of heavy drinking – that the four of them – Billy, Bajamonte, Marco and Badoero – quit the brothel and staggered back in the direction of the Palace singing and shouting and on the lookout for more devilment as they went. They found it as they were crossing the Piazza San Marco.
‘Hey, will yo’ stalk this guy,’ screamed Billy as he pointed to a well-dressed, middle-aged man who was walking towards them with a young woman on his arm. Billy manoeuvred himself in front of the man, blocking his progress. ‘Yo, man, where d’ya think you’re going?’
