Jerusalem Poker (The Jerusalem Quartet Book 2)
Page 16
After he had begun his Zionist activities in Jerusalem, Munk returned to St Catherine’s to visit Rabbi Lotmann. He could see the Japanese wasn’t well and Lotmann finally admitted he was suffering from some severe unknown ailment that caused him to pass excessive water. Medical treatment in Palestine was inadequate and his condition had worsened in recent weeks. Munk urged his teacher to return to Japan to receive proper care. Reluctantly Lotmann agreed it was the best course.
On the last day of May the two men stood on a pier in Haifa. There were tears in Munk’s eyes but Lotmann’s face was impassive.
I’ll be back soon, he whispered.
Of course.
No later than the beginning of the year.
Good.
Tiny Rabbi Lotmann reached into the cart that held his luggage and removed the quiver made of red lacquer and the familiar long thin canvas case.
I’ve never been without these, said Kikuchi. I’m not sure exactly how old they are, they’ve been in my family a very long time. But now that my true home is here, I’d like them to stay here. You’ll keep them until I return?
Certainly.
Lotmann smiled and took a tiny gold pocket watch out of his vest. He placed it in Munk’s hand.
I found this some years ago in an antique shop in Basle. What appealed to me was the extraordinary miniaturization. Can you imagine how small the parts must be to fit inside this case? But look, they’re even smaller than you think. There’s more going on inside this watch than anyone could ever suspect. Like the universe?
Kikuchi laughed and pressed the button that opened the lid. Munk found himself staring at a blank enamel face. Lotmann pressed the button again and the blank face clicked back to reveal another watch, the face normal in appearance but with the minute hand moving at the speed of a second hand, the second hand a blur. Kikuchi pressed the button once more to reveal a third face, also normal in appearance but with both hands seemingly stationary.
They’re moving, said Lotmann, but very slowly. Depending on the temperature and tides and your mood, it takes the second hand two or three hours to make a full traversal.
He snorted and laughed.
You’ll also keep this for me, Munk? I’ve always been fond of it and it would make me happy to know it’s here waiting for me. For my return.
The ship’s whistle blew. Kikuchi went on board and stood by the railing. As the ropes fell and the ship drew away from the pier, Munk thrust the samurai bow in the air in salute. For a long time he stood there watching the ship become smaller, the tiny gold watch clicking all but inaudibly next to his ear, rendering time slow and fast and nonexistent.
An antique shop in Basle.
One of the masterpieces of miniature clockwork constructed long ago by the father of Johann Luigi Szondi?
That summer Lotmann wrote that he had been diagnosed as a diabetic and confined to his home in Kamakura. There he lived for the next quarter of a century, translating the Talmud into Japanese and eagerly awaiting Munk’s monthly reports on Zionist progress in Palestine.
But the gentle Kikuchi twins seemed destined for violent ends. In 1938 Munk learned that General Kikuchi had been grotesquely murdered on the night his army occupied Nanking. And then late in 1945 the general’s widow wrote that Rabbi Lotmann had died in an American fire-bomb raid toward the end of the war, a mysterious passing that consumed him and all his translations in a sudden ball of fire while leaving his house and the garden where he was working untouched.
To Munk, Lotmann’s death was inevitably reminiscent of the chariot of fire that had carried the rabbi’s favorite prophet, Elijah, to heaven in a whirlwind.
The wind was whistling through the alleys of the Old City early one March morning in 1925 when the Patriarch of the Syrian Greek Church in Aleppo rose from the poker table. The other three visitors to the game, a wealthy Sumatran slaver and two Belgian embezzlers of food relief funds from Flanders, had dropped out shortly before dawn. The session had begun at noon the previous day and everyone was exhausted. Both Cairo and Munk were slumped in their chairs with their eyes half closed.
Most curious, murmured the Patriarch, a large man with a massive gray beard and watery eyes. Joe had risen respectfully with the Patriarch and now stood with his head cocked, sipping from his glass and listening attentively.
How’s that, Father?
The symmetry of it. Those three men who left all lost a great deal of money, but by amounts differing as much as several thousand pounds. Yet the three of you here have come out winning almost exactly equal amounts, while I’ve ended exactly even. How strange it was. I admit it seemed to be heading that way some time ago, but I just couldn’t believe it.
Game of chance, Father. No way of foreseeing how the cards are going to account for themselves.
Divine intervention in my case, mused the Patriarch. The neutrality of providence. It was uncanny.
It may be so, Father. Me, I wouldn’t be knowing about such higher designs and all.
A veritable heavenly design, mused the Patriarch. God’s very hand at work, showing me the futility of this way of life. Telling me to put this affliction behind me.
Affliction, Father?
Gambling. Throwing away the Church’s money on cards. At a wicked table like this, using the contributions meant for the poor to pursue my own evil gratification. For years I’ve sinned in this manner but I never will again.
Oh I don’t know, Father. As far as I can see cards just come and go like that wind outside. Pure chance in the alleys of Jerusalem is all I see.
The Patriarch smiled dreamily through his watery eyes.
Perhaps it’s that way for you, my son, but no longer for me. This night, through His mercy, I have been freed from my vice forever. Divine intervention was at work here. The Almighty’s hand was upon me.
Too lofty for me, Father. But this is certainly a blustery March morning on the heights of the Holy City. Sign of a new season, I suppose.
A new season for the soul, mused the Patriarch. My soul.
Cairo scratched himself. He seemed to have been growing increasingly restless during the conversation. Curled up on his shoulder, as so often, was a furry white little creature apparently asleep, its head and tail tucked away out of sight. A loud fart suddenly cracked against Cairo’s chair when the Patriarch said my soul. Cairo looked up and grinned.
You know what I think, Father? I think some people’s souls must resemble monkeys. Yours, for example. Ridiculous.
The startled Patriarch, in his new state of grace, recovered from the insult almost immediately. He smiled benignly in answer and made the sign of the cross over Cairo’s head.
No thanks, Father. And speaking of monkeys, I own one. He helps remind me what people are up to when they’re sounding high-minded. Bongo, say hello to this pious crooked freak who calls himself a patriarch.
Upon hearing its name the ball of white fluff on Cairo’s shoulder erupted. Instantly the little albino monkey leapt to its feet, its bright aquamarine genitals thrust forward, and began masturbating itself vigorously with one fist and then the other, alternating hands every few seconds to maintain speed, not missing a single furious stroke.
The Patriarch reared back in horror. Munk laughed. Joe took the Patriarch by the arm and quickly steered him toward the door.
May God have mercy on that man, murmured the Patriarch.
Never mind, Father, said Joe, you can never tell what sort of horrid elements are going to turn up at a poker game. You’re best out of it and that’s for sure. There are people who’ve missed the path, that’s all, I mean hopeless cases. A crazed Arab with a white monkey on his back? Obviously he’s got his troubles, both of them have, or they wouldn’t be carrying on like that. Forget about it, I say, you can’t save them all. Some have to drop by the wayside and that’s the truth. Lost cases, hopeless. There are a lot of wrecks like that around here, especially here, Jerusalem seems to attract wrecks. They’re looking for the cure of course, deathly ill in th
eir heads and in need of a fast miracle in the Holy City. Depraved, that’s all, better to forget it. Back in Aleppo things will be different, better, looking up. Sure.
Joe eased the Patriarch out into the alley and came back and collapsed in a chair. The little albino monkey had curled up again on Cairo’s shoulder.
A disgraceful deception, said Munk, smiling. His merciful hand? As I recall I saw the Almighty’s hand hoisting a glass of illegal Irish spirits only a minute ago.
By God and not a bit of it, where’s your heart for grace this morning? Are you of the same opinion, Cairo?
It took three hours longer than it should have, muttered Cairo. He should have been out of here before dawn with those other scoundrels.
Well of course, said Joe, I know that and I’m sorry. But that large sneaky article with his watery eyes just refused to see the light before dawn. Staying on here like he did, still hoping his luck was going to go up or down while your local bogman was dumping contrary evidence all over the table. Well he came around in the end, but Christ it’s hard maintaining that kind of balancing act.
How much was the difference? asked Munk, rubbing his eyes and yawning.
His money you mean? Twenty hours from arrival to departure and he left two shillings ahead. But that’s what he paid for mineral water, so your man came out exactly on the line. Not a ha’penny above or below.
Marvelous, Joe.
But was it worth those three extra hours? asked Cairo, also yawning.
My God it seems to me it was. Seems to me that any bloody Church situated in a thieves’ den like Aleppo, and finding itself both Syrian and Greek in the bargain, needs all the honest help it can get, and especially at the top which is where we started. Seems to me the devious machinations going on in such an enterprise must be staggering. Syrian tricks and Greek tricks and God as a front for the two of them? Frightening, I say. Perversity itself and just crying out for reform at the top.
Cairo smiled. Munk laughed. As they slouched in their chairs, too weary to rouse themselves to leave, an eerie baying sound, soft and distant, suddenly swelled and filled the room.
What was that? asked Munk.
Of course it was the wind outside, said Joe quickly, sitting up and whistling. Hear it? Just the wind outside but with the twists and turns of the alleys throwing it off-center.
It didn’t seem to come from outside, said Munk. I swear it sounded as if it were in here.
From the corner, added Cairo.
Yes I thought so too, said Munk. The corner where the safe is.
The safe? asked Cairo.
I swear it.
Inside the safe, Munk?
It sounded that way to me.
Here here, said Joe. I do believe we’re all so exhausted we’re hearing noises in our heads. Next thing that giant stone scarab is going to start talking to us from the other corner. Could it be so? Let’s tip an ear in that direction.
Joe cupped his hand over his mouth and a rasping voice rose from the corner where the huge squat scarab watched them with a sly smile carved on its face.
Ah ha, doomed mortals. Did you really believe you could learn the scarab’s secret? Never, I say. It’s locked here in my black heart for all time, still as stone in the smiling scarab of eternity.
The voice trailed off in cackling laughter. Munk and Cairo groaned. Joe nodded thoughtfully.
Well what do you make of that? Quite plainly we’re all in need of some rest after a long tiring night at the gaming table. Now I was the one who kept you here so it’s only right I do the cleaning up while you both go home to the comfy rest you’re deserving. No that’s fine, no objections, I know my duty when I see it. Here we go, my Munk. Give us a hand there, Cairo lad. My God but the two of you are dreadfully heavy when not in motion.
Joe got them both to their feet and pushed them out into the alley. He stood there smiling and waving as they walked away, but the moment they turned the corner he slipped back inside and closed the door. He dropped into a chair and put his feet up on the table, muttering to himself.
By Christ, that was too close by far. Another minute and the great skin would have surfaced and we’d have been for it, the secret of the caverns done and finished and no return.
He sat up. The handle on the tall antique Turkish safe was turning. Hinges creaked. The door opened and Haj Harun stepped out into the room carrying a pile of neatly folded laundry, his ram’s horn under his arm.
Oh hello, Prester John. I thought you’d be home in bed by now.
Thought so too but I got carried away last night, divinely intervening with a merciful hand and so forth.
Is something the matter? You look upset.
Just with meself I am. We nearly had a disaster here.
What happened?
There were early morning rumors that the Crusaders were coming back.
What? Again? And we’re just sitting here? Quick, we must sound the alarm and go to our posts.
Hold on there, it was a rumor merely and it turned out not to be so. Isn’t that lovely?
Haj Harun sighed and his helmet went awry, releasing a shower of rust into his eyes.
It certainly is. What a relief.
Precisely my feelings.
Well tell me about it.
About what?
The rumor.
Oh yes. Well it seems the sightings were real enough. The Crusaders had set out all right, over their heads in clanking armor and monstrous horses and lumbering siege machines, swords banging and clubs swinging and studded maces and heavy lances all clanging together, the full regalia it was.
Tears had come to Haj Harun’s eyes.
Please, he whispered. I know what they look like.
Hey I’m sorry, of course you do. Well what happened was that these noble Christian knights got as far as Constantinople and decided to take a break there and maybe give that good Christian city a good Christian sack, and the sack turned out to be so much fun and the killing and burning so satisfactory, dividing all that Christian loot so enjoyable, such a good game all around up there, that they just called it a day and never left to push on down to Jerusalem.
That was the Fourth Crusade, said Haj Harun, wiping the tears out of his eyes, smiling now and fully recovered.
Exactly. It was.
And the Fifth through the Ninth Crusades will amount to very little.
I’m glad to hear that. It means you and I will have some time to ease up around here and get some rest. Well I see you’re carrying your reliable ram’s horn. Some blast that was, the number you gave us a few minutes back.
I was at the end of the tunnel approaching the ladder.
I see. Were you just treating yourself to a toot or was there deadly intent behind the signal?
I thought I saw someone lurking behind a rock.
Ah.
But it was only my imagination.
Only that, you say?
Yes, it was a shadow cast by my torch.
They do that, I know it. And how was it down there? Anything special to report?
No. I was just doing my laundry down on the Persian level.
Why that era precisely?
Their mountain water is very fresh and sparkling.
I see.
And then I was waiting for it to dry. I like to hang my laundry out overnight.
Do you now. And why might that be?
It gets much whiter.
So it does. But why?
The moon.
Of course, I forgot.
Laundry gets much whiter in moonlight, you see.
I do now although I didn’t before. Fresh facts have a way of just popping up.
Look here, Prester John. Have you ever seen dishcloths as white as these?
Surely never. Remarkably white they are.
Thank you. Would you like to go for a walk?
Fine, very fine. I do sense the need for fresh air, to clear the mind after a smoky night at the table. A walk, yes, that’s the job wanted.
That’s it, thought Joe, the evidence is continuing to mount in the cause of lunacy. Just no holding it back as time goes on and comes around. Striking, it is. Impressive, it is. More so every day I live.
7. Haj Harun
It wasn’t my physical condition that
caused me trouble during the Persian
occupation. It was the fact that as a
result of those sexual experiences, I
was incoherent for the next hundred years.
HAJ HARUN AND O’SULLIVAN Beare were strolling through the Moslem Quarter in a generally easterly direction.
Just ahead, said Haj Harun, is a famous Crusader church. Do you know it?
St Ann’s, you mean. I do.
And have you visited the grotto?
Birthplace of the mother of our Blessed Virgin. I have.
Haj Harun nodded pensively.
Then perhaps you can tell me why so many important events in the Gospels took place in grottoes. Why was that so? Why did everything happen in caves? Was it more comforting?
Caves, muttered Joe. It started out as an underground religion, like most I suppose. But listen, why is it you talk so little when Cairo and Munk are around? Don’t you like them?
Oh yes I do, said Haj Harun shyly. In fact I like them very much. They’re kind and gentle and I admire their determination. They’re good men.
And so? Why don’t you feel you can talk around them?
Haj Harun turned to Joe and opened his mouth. Most of his teeth were gone, only a few stumps remained.
Rocks, he whispered. For two thousand years people have thrown rocks at me and run after me yelling insults because they said I was a fool. Well maybe I am.
Joe put his arm around the old man’s shoulders.
Here now, what’s this all of a sudden? You’re not a fool, we know that. The city depends on you, it’s survived because of you. You’re the one who patrols the walls and guards the gates and sounds the alarm when the enemy’s coming. If you weren’t here who would rebuild the city after it’s destroyed? How would the mountain keep growing higher? Who would take care of the caverns?