The knitting needles clicked furiously around the room. The crescendo was becoming deafening when his grandmother cleared her throat. Abruptly the clicking stopped. The old woman leaned forward and everybody watched her. She winked.
We heard you were awarded the Order of the Golden Fleece today. Congratulations.
Thank you, Grandmother.
How was the dress parade your old regiment gave you?
Very impressive.
And the luncheon? How many courses?
Twelve.
You didn’t hold back, did you?
No.
Well you’re looking a little pale all the same. You should be eating more. Is it true you had a cavalry escort coming and going?
Yes.
And the chief of staff himself read the order of exile? His Imperial Highness sending personal condolences?
Yes.
The old woman leaned back and rolled her eyes. She smacked her lips. Around the room the knitting needles softly assumed a rhythmic clicking.
A grandson of mine, she murmured, just think of it. The youngest colonel in the Imperial Army. Aren’t you proud?
Yes. Very.
As well you should be. The Russians are barbarians and not to be trusted. You treated them exactly as they deserved. Now then, down to business.
The old woman stroked her chin thoughtfully. Around the room his female relatives somberly studied their knitting. When his grandmother spoke again the needles clicked quietly.
To be frank, young Munk, your military career has ended at a most opportune time for us. The House of Szondi finds itself facing an extremely grave situation, and a woman just can’t do the things in Arab and Turkish lands that she can do in Europe. Even though you’ve spent time down there I hadn’t thought of you before because you’re so young, but when we learned of your exile it seemed more than coincidental. One of our musicians would be useless on a mission like this, but with your military experience you might be able to accomplish something even though you are young. Anyway, I’ve decided it’s going to be you.
Munk saluted.
At your service, madame.
His grandmother suddenly frowned and his mother’s face was all at once troubled. Others in the room looked variously perplexed or fearful. Again all clicking stopped. The kitchen was hushed as his grandmother spoke.
We haven’t told any of the men in the family about this, not wanting to worry you, but we’ve been aware of the situation for some time. Our information began coming in about twenty years ago. The first clues we had were fragmentary and haphazard, yet even then we filed them away. You can’t be too careful in this business. You’re not versed in the intricacies of banking and you wouldn’t understand such financial subtleties anyway, so I won’t bother to go into detail. I’ll just say there are definite ways of knowing when a consortium or some other group is buying into an enterprise. Especially if the acquisition is a major one, so large it can only be acquired piece by piece. Can you follow that?
Yes, Grandmother.
All right, that’s what happened in this case. During the last twenty-odd years when we’ve been aware of it, and obviously before that when we weren’t, the enterprise in question has been cleverly bought piece by piece. Bought right out from under our noses. And since our very foundations were long ago established there, the effect on the House of Szondi could be catastrophic.
What enterprise was bought from under your noses?
The old woman glared through her spectacles. Her face darkened.
The Ottoman Empire, she hissed.
The what?
That’s right, you heard me correctly. The evidence is there and there can no longer be any doubt about it. A little over thirty years ago, as unreal as it seems, someone secretly began to buy up the Ottoman Empire.
You mean the Russians have been intriguing with the French or the English again? They’ve formed a secret alliance with the Germans?
No that isn’t what I mean. Politics aren’t involved. This is a straight business proposition and only one man is involved. One man has bought the Ottoman Empire.
But that’s impossible, Grandmother.
Of course it is. We’ve been telling ourselves nothing else for years. Haven’t we, girls.
She looked sternly around the room and his mother and aunts and grandaunts and female cousins all nodded vigorously. Then they all began talking at once to each other, loudly and rapidly, not listening to what anyone else was saying.
That’s enough, girls, shouted his grandmother. Instantly the room was silent.
So you see, young man, the situation before us is more than staggering. It’s critical and perhaps even fatal. The House of Szondi was founded on the basis of Levantine trade and now we find one man has bought the entire Levant. Who is he and what does he want? Why did he buy it? What does he intend to do with it?
You’re sure it’s a man? asked Munk.
His grandmother snorted contemptuously.
Of course it’s a man, no woman would ever act so crudely. Perhaps some substantial and influential role behind the scenes, but not a whole empire in one ruthless grab. That’s the work of a man.
Munk clicked his heels.
Yes, Grandmother.
Please don’t interrupt again.
No, Grandmother.
Now to continue. We’ve gone back to the beginning to try to reconstruct events and the best we can do, the earliest scenes we can conjecture, are vague reports of an Egyptian emir and a Baghdad banker and a Persian potentate holding shadowy interviews in Constantinople in 1880, sitting down. Remember that, sitting down. The man seems to have been unnaturally tall, but it’s impossible for our informants to say how tall because he was always seated. I say man, rather than men, because it’s obvious to us that this emir and banker and potentate, forget the apparent nationalities and the way he paired them up with status for alliterative affect, were one and the same man, a dissembler able to disguise himself cleverly. And how did he disguise himself? Always as a Levantine, which to us means he was obviously a European being clever again. So the available facts are these. A European of untold personal wealth, a man so unusually tall he feared his height would betray his real identity, remained carefully seated while buying all the wells in Mecca and all the wells on all the haj routes to Mecca, while becoming the secret paymaster of the Turkish army and navy, while buying up all Turkish government bonds and issuing new ones, while consulting with pashas and ministers and laying aside trust funds for their grandsons, while firing and rehiring every religious leader in the Middle East so they would have to answer to him, while consummating a hundred other such deals with the goal of making himself the sole owner of the Ottoman Empire. Now only one European in the last century fits that description. Do you know who he is?
No, Grandmother.
Strongbow. First name, Plantagenet. An Englishman who was the twenty-ninth Duke of Dorset. Seven feet, seven inches tall. He took a triple first at Cambridge in botany and was considered the greatest swordsman and botanist of the Victorian era, but he abandoned plants to become an explorer. In 1840 he disappeared from Cairo after attending a diplomatic reception held in honor of Queen Victoria’s twenty-first birthday. And in order to outrage English decorum and sense of fair play, which he so dearly loved to do, Strongbow appeared at that diplomatic reception stark naked, save for a portable sundial strapped to his hip that hid nothing. About forty years later a publication of his appeared in Basle, which is the next time we hear of him, just prior to his appearance in Constantinople in various disguises. But the odd thing is, that publication had nothing to do with business or banking. If it had it might have warned us about what was going to happen in Constantinople.
What did the publication have to do with?
His grandmother smiled faintly. She raised her chin.
Sex. It’s a study of Levantine sex in thirty-three volumes.
The old woman paused. Around the room dozens of knitting needles erupted into
a cacophony of clicks. Munk stood at attention staring at his grandmother, who finally lowered her eyes and removed a lace handkerchief from her sleeve. With slow, delicate motions she dabbed at the beads of perspiration that had appeared around her mouth.
Tut tut, young Munk. Tut and ho. This has nothing whatsoever to do with the matter at hand but you seem to want an explanation, and considering what you’re going to do for us, I’ll give you one. Well then. Strongbow’s study was published in Basle and quite naturally the House of Szondi acquired one. I mean of course we did. Everything having to do with the Levant must be our special concern. We can’t afford to ignore even the smallest item of scholarship, and Strongbow’s study is hardly that. But since it’s been banned, and also because it’s rather an explicit work, we felt it best to keep it under lock and key and not advertise the fact that we own a copy.
Munk stared at his grandmother in awe.
You mean none of the men in the family has ever known about this?
That’s right, and you aren’t to tell them. Such matters could only be disruptive to a musician’s work. A musician must have discipline and concentration. He needs order in his life to be creative. And let me tell you the information in Strongbow’s study is about as disorderly as anything you can imagine. It utterly defies concentration and leads to a complete breakdown of discipline.
I don’t doubt that, said Munk. But do you mean to tell me that all of you here have been reading these volumes in private for years?
Strictly for professional reasons, young Munk. Strictly because we handle the business in this family and there would be no music for our men if we didn’t pursue business in a conscientious manner. If the House of Szondi is to continue to prosper, we must all be current with every aspect of the Levant. That is the Sarahs must be. It’s our inevitable responsibility. And then too I might add that at the end of a day of hard banking, we find it necessary to take our minds off work. Strongbow’s study serves that purpose.
I see. In other words, you mean selections are read aloud here after board meetings?
His grandmother tucked away her lace handkerchief. She straightened in her chair.
That’s enough now, young Munk. The agendas of our board meetings are no concern of yours, and all of this has nothing to do with our emergency session tonight. Our subject isn’t Strongbow’s study but Strongbow himself, Strongbow in Constantinople thirty-three years ago. What sinister game was he playing out there then? Just who does he think he is going around and snatching up the Ottoman Empire?
The old woman was shaking in anger, her voice low and menacing.
Yes. Sinister. More than any man in this family could ever know. We’ve always protected all of you and shielded you from the harsher facts of life. We’ve spared you the brutal experiences that go with dealing in money. But life isn’t just music, my boy, not just beautiful concerts played by baroque ensembles on summer afternoons. It has its sinister side as well and we see it here in the case of this Englishman, this former duke and explorer and sexologist who always pretended business was beneath him. Beneath him? Why these clever disguises in Constantinople thirty-three years ago when he set in motion the financial instruments to buy the Ottoman Empire? And what he did after that? That’s even more sinister.
What did he do after that?
He disappeared again, simply disappeared. I told you a banker shuns notoriety. The less that’s known about her the better, the more easily she can function and make deals. But to disappear completely as Strongbow did? Now that’s truly sinister, truly the act of an arch-banker utterly without scruples. It’s a diabolical game he’s playing. What fiendish plans does he have? Why does he buy an empire, hiding his hand all the while, and then disappear as if he had no interest in that empire? Well we don’t know but we must, and you must find out for us. Young Munk?
Munk clicked his heels and saluted.
Madame?
My yacht is waiting down at the landing for your immediate departure. Like the husband of your great-grandmother, you are embarking on a voyage to the Levant, and I want your reports to be as thorough as his were. Off you go now. Eat plenty of garlic and good luck.
All the women in the room rose. Munk stepped forward and kissed his grandmother respectfully on the cheek. He kissed his mother and went around the kitchen kissing in turn his aunts and grandaunts and female cousins.
They were already beginning to inspect the ovens where a late supper was cooking, by the smell of it nearly ready, when he marched out of the kitchen and made his way down the path to the Danube, smiling as he went over a clear memory from his childhood, his mother calling to say she wouldn’t be home for dinner and they shouldn’t wait up, the press of business being so great it was keeping the Sarahs working late at the office.
One rainy afternoon in February 1924, more than two years after outsiders had first been admitted to the poker game and subsequently spread its reputation throughout the Middle East, Haj Harun came wandering into his back room where the game was in progress, carrying a ladder.
He placed the ladder against the tall antique Turkish safe, climbed up to the top and sat down. He straightened his rusty Crusader’s helmet and retied the two green ribbons under his chin, smoothed out his tattered yellow cloak and gazed thoughtfully straight ahead at nothing.
Cairo and Munk smiled up at him. Joe gave him a wave. But the action at the table abruptly stopped as the other players turned to stare at the wizened figure on top of the safe, his spindly crossed legs swinging in the air.
Is he real? whispered a bewildered Iraqi prince.
That he is, said Joe, studying his cards.
But who is he?
Joe looked up.
Well I guess he could be fate, couldn’t he? I mean that would be consistent with a game of chance. Fate keeping watch and all.
Is that what he’s doing up there? Keeping watch?
Who’s to say? Maybe he’s surveying the centuries for some forgotten event that ought to be remembered. Now whose bet is it, gents? Let’s get on with the bets.
But what does he see up there? Ask him what he sees.
And why not. Haj Harun? Hello up there, what do you see?
How’s that, Prester John?
I was just wondering what might be up there on the rainy horizon today. How’s the view?
Haj Harun turned to peer into the crumbling plaster of the corner, two feet from his face. He nodded.
I don’t like to say it, but the Medes may be coming.
Are you sure? That rabble again?
They may be.
Bad in the rain, very bad, how are the city walls holding up? Safe and strong as they should be? No gates left open? Better check around so we can breathe easy.
I will, Prester John.
Haj Harun looked back at the wall in the corner. He squinted and his helmet went awry, releasing a shower of rust in his eyes. The tears began to flow.
Why does he keep calling you Prester John? asked a Syrian jewel thief.
Because the first time I walked in here I was wearing a Victoria Cross around my neck, being then in retirement and living in the Home for Crimean War Heroes, and because of that he mistook me for the legendary lost Christian monarch of a vast kingdom somewhere in Asia.
Where in Asia?
I don’t know and he doesn’t know either. I suppose you could ask the scarab, the scarab’s likely to know but I doubt that he’s talking today. Generally he sleeps away the winter. Anyway, since I was lost he naturally assumed I’d come to Jerusalem to find myself again. Now whose bet is it, I say?
The Syrian jewel thief giggled.
You’re both mad. He’s just staring at the wall up there.
Not a bit of it, said Joe. That’s not a wall he’s looking into, it’s a mirror. The mirror of the mind, it’s called. Believe me it’s true.
The Syrian went on giggling.
Well who does he think that is? he asked, pointing across the table at Munk.
He doesn’t
think, said Joe, he knows. Just watch. Hello up there, Haj Harun, or Aaron as the Jews and Christians call you. Who’s this article down here who’s being pointed at?
The wizened old man wiped the tears from his eyes and peered down at the table.
That’s Bar Cocheba, he said.
Hey Munk, seems he spotted you right off, whispered Joe. Seems he nailed you right down in the course of history. Was he right now? What moment in history would it be for this gent called Bar Cocheba?
First half of the second century, answered Munk, studying his cards.
Role? asked Joe.
Defender of the Jewish faith, said Munk.
Future?
Death in combat. Dying in revolt against the invincible Roman legions.
Is that so? Joe called up. Are the Roman legions really invincible? What do you see up there?
Haj Harun turned back to the wall. He smiled.
Only for a time, Prester John. After a time they lose.
There. You see, Munk, you see how it is? The Romans turn out to be vincible after all. Time it takes, naturally. Time as it was or will be. Time is all.
Time is, murmured Haj Harun dreamily from his perch on top of the safe.
See anything more? Joe called out.
For Bar Cocheba, yes. I predict this game of chance will be very profitable for him. After all, there are nineteen years in a lunar cycle.
Joe looked confused.
According to the Jewish calendar, whispered Munk.
And thus, continued Haj Harun, since you began this game in the Jewish year of 5682, Bar Cocheba should do very well indeed.
Joe looked even more confused.
And why might that be?
Because that year was the first year of the three-hundredth lunar cycle, answered Haj Harun. And that certainly sounds auspicious to me, given the fact there were three of you who founded the game.
Joe whistled softly.
Facts, gents, they’re just dropping all over the place. And is that a proper lunar evaluation from the top of the safe or not? Fate on target again as usual, there’s nothing like it. But hold on now. I think I can hear a less distant moment in time preparing to announce itself.
Jerusalem Poker (The Jerusalem Quartet Book 2) Page 13
