Jerusalem Poker (The Jerusalem Quartet Book 2)

by Edward Whittemore

  Hold on there, said Joe, I just thought of something. Haven’t you always told me that it was during the Persian era when you began to lose your influence in Jerusalem?

  That’s right.

  Well did it have something to do with the princess and your heroic exploits on her behalf? Were you just completely worn out or something like that? Staggering exploits after all.

  Haj Harun sighed.

  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. I was totally preoccupied with visions of sex, which severely limited my vocabulary. When I opened my mouth the only words that came out were things like cunt and lick and fuck and suck. They hadn’t been bad words when the princess and I were whispering them to each other, but afterward, with the general public, their connotations seemed to change. They no longer seemed acceptable. To be frank, I could only use about a dozen words in all.

  Limited, yes. I see.

  And after a hundred years of that no one took me seriously anymore. Especially my speeches in the marketplace. Before then it had been my oratory that swayed people and made me influential in Jerusalem, but during that hundred years when I was using only a dozen words, people got in the habit of laughing at me.

  I see.

  So by the time I could speak normally again my credibility was gone. Not that I blame my fellow citizens, it was my own fault. After all, if you said good morning to a person and they always answered by shouting cunt, and then you said good afternoon to them and they always shouted lick, and you said good evening to them and they always shouted fuck, and you wished them a nice weekend and they always shouted suck, how would you view them after a while?

  Not too optimistically.

  And after it had gone on for a hundred years?

  Pessimistically.

  Of course, said Haj Harun with a sigh, and that’s what happened to me. But if I could go back I’d do it all again, I wouldn’t change a thing. I’d love the princess just as I did then, even though I knew it would cause my ruin.

  True?

  Haj Harun smiled shyly. He nodded.

  Oh yes, Prester John, absolutely. We’re holy men now, you and I, and our concerns are spiritual ones. But even a single night with the princess is worth a century of incoherency.

  Ah, now that’s a fine sentiment.

  And it’s worth the twenty-three centuries of abuse and ridicule and humiliation.

  Fine, very fine.

  Yes, Prester John. If we were young again, I tell you, the ladies would know it. They’d hear our knock on the door and see the gleam in our eye and know our intent.

  We’d be lusty, you say? Not taking no for an answer? Doing a proper passionate job in Jerusalem?

  Giving the dear sweet souls God’s gift, murmured Haj Harun. Unabashedly giving them love.

  Unabashedly, I say. Why not.

  But unfortunately we’re no longer young, Prester John, and we have our mission before us.

  Before us, yes, along with a rainy March day in 1925. Well I do feel like I’m going the other way sometimes, but do you know how old I am according to the calendar?

  Younger than I am, certainly.

  True. Soon to celebrate my twenty-fifth birthday to be exact.

  But of course that’s apparent age, which doesn’t mean anything here.

  I do know it. That information was passed on to me during my first foodless days in the Holy City. By the baking priest who gave me this uniform and awarded me the Victoria Cross and set me up in residence at the Home for Crimean War Heroes. Take the uniform and the medal for bravery, he said, apparent age is no problem in Jerusalem. So said the former MacMael n mBo, baking priest and my first benefactor here.

  Haj Harun leaned over and picked up a flat worn stone. He peered into it.

  The baking priest, you say?

  That’s who he is, the very article. And when I ceased to be a Poor Clare nun upon my arrival here and joined the ranks of the Jerusalem unemployed, outcasts on the summit, he was the one who put me on my feet.

  I know him, announced Haj Harun, still peering into the flat worn stone.

  You do?

  He always bakes his loaves of bread in the same four shapes, I believe.

  That’s him all right.

  One in the shape of his homeland and one for his God, a third in the shape of the land where he gave up fruitless strife, and a fourth in the shape of Jerusalem where he found peace.

  All true, that’s him. Ireland, the Cross, the Crimea and Jerusalem.

  And that’s all he does. He bakes and bakes his four shapes in the Old City and is content.

  Very true. But how do you happen to know him?

  I’ve known him a very long time, ever since he arrived. His role is a traditional one here.

  Ah. And when did he arrive?

  In the first century. Soon after Christ died.

  Ah.

  Yes. Baking his bread in the Old City, a cheerful man then as now. Given to little dances in front of his oven as he shovels in his dough and shovels out his bread, sandals clapping on the stones as he does his little dances.

  That’s him.

  Bits of wisdom flying between the loaves, and laughter and merriment and rhymes as well, tales to hum to and a gay glint always in his eye.

  By God, for sure.

  A cheerful man, our baking priest, we’ve always relied on him. Of course we have. We couldn’t possibly get along without him.

  Haj Harun looked up from the stone mirror. He smiled.

  Yes. Jerusalem must have its merry baking priest with his leaven and his laughter, his leaven and his dances in front of his oven. He gives us something we in the Holy City must have, something simple yet special that we will never be able to do without. And we’re thankful for that.

  I’m ready, whispered Joe. That something is?

  Haj Harun nodded gently.

  Bread, Prester John. Even here men can’t live by spirit alone.

  8. Joker Wild

  Change the view, that’s the article.

  If you’re down on the coast, bugger it up to the mountains. If you’re up in the mountains, bugger it down to the

  coast. Do you follow me?

  STILL THE OLD CITY, still everybody’s Holy City. In the back room of Haj Harun’s shop the high round table was heaped with currencies and jewels and precious metals, the Great Jerusalem Poker Game now in its ninth year and notorious throughout the Middle East as the place where fortunes could be quickly made or quickly undone, the game still run by its three founders and only permanent members, an enigmatic African, a clever Hungarian, a wily Irishman.

  From the far side of the table Munk Szondi snapped his fingers, signaling to the Druse warrior on mess duty to refill his bowl of garlic bulbs. The warrior took the bowl to the corner where the garlic bunches hung and lopped off a load with his sword, returning the overflowing bowl to the table.

  Munk picked up a handful of bulbs, crunched his way through them and yawned. It had been a long evening of seven-card high-low, and business was slow. In front of him lay a meager supply of chits representing Jericho orange futures, Syrian olive-oil futures and not much else. Munk sighed, rippling his cards with garlic fumes, and gazed dully around the table.

  To his left, a lean leathery British brigadier on long leave from the Bombay Lancers.

  Next to him a limp cringing Libyan rug merchant who had stopped off to pray at the Dome of the Rock after shamelessly and successfully beating his dying cousin with a stick, somewhere to the east, in order to acquire the cousin’s valuable collection of Bukharas.

  Continuing clockwise, a French dealer in stolen Byzantine ikons, a shifty-eyed pederast who regularly visited Jerusalem on his trips of desecration up and down the Levantine coast.

  An elderly Egyptian landowner, cotton-fat, spastic when excited, said to be impotent if his favorite hunting falcon, hooded, was
n’t perched on the mirror that ran the length of his bed.

  Two enormous Russians with shaved heads, ostentatiously dressed as kulaks and picking their teeth with knives, pretending to be mining technicians interested in sulphur deposits on the shores of the Dead Sea, obviously Bolshevik agents sent to foment atheism in the Holy Land.

  A commonplace group, in short, with the players dropping in and out of the game.

  Off somewhere to Munk’s right was Cairo Martyr hunched beside his hookah, not doing very well either, in front of him a small stack of Maria Theresa crowns which the African fingered from time to time, listlessly polishing the impressive breasts of the former Austrian empress with his smooth thumb.

  And also off somewhere to his left, as usual, O’Sullivan Beare, quiet tonight for a change and apparently more interested in his antique cognac bottle than his cards, the bottle actually containing his fiery home-brewed poteen. The Irishman absentmindedly traced with his finger the distinctive cross that appeared on all his bottles, in front of him an insignificant pile of Turkish dinars, backed up by a totally useless reserve of Polish zlotys.

  Munk yawned again and gazed down at the cards he held. The betting had come around to him.

  Fold, he said, reaching under the table to scratch himself. Joe also folded, as did Cairo.

  The servile Libyan rug merchant and the French ikon thief went on to win. But the British brigadier and the spastic Egyptian landowner had been more than holding their own all evening and the two noisy Bolsheviks seemed on the verge of a breakthrough. Luck was running to the strangers at the table.

  Hello there Munk, called Joe from across the table. Would you be having the time on this dreadfully dreary evening?

  Munk took out his three-layer pocket watch and began flipping through the faces. Eventually he came to one that satisfied him and glared at it. A heavy garlic belch erupted from deep inside him.

  Hello there Munk, called Cairo from his side of the table. How’s it read?

  Slow, answered the Hungarian.

  Right, said the African.

  Figures, muttered Joe.

  All three men nodded vaguely at each other and went back to their diversions, garlic cloves and poteen and the breasts of the former Austrian empress. While the cards were being shuffled, Joe recited some lines in Gaelic.

  Know that one, Munk? Cairo? It’s a pome I used to be telling myself back when I was doing my jig around the Black and Tans. Roughly speaking; it says a man should never sit still when he has a dose of the slows. Change the view, that’s the article. If you’re down on the coast, bugger it up to the mountains. If you’re up in the mountains, bugger it down to the coast. Do you follow me? You have to get yourself to where you were or might have been, then there’s a chance of something happening. And that, gents, is the meaning of the pome in all its brevity.

  Both Munk and Cairo nodded sleepily, although it was only eleven o’clock. Munk yawned and pushed back his chair, gathering up his few remaining chits of orange and olive-oil futures. As he did so the chimes attached to the sundial in the front room began to strike, tolling twelve times in all.

  An early midnight and bedtime for me, said Munk. I trust no one cares if a loser leaves the table?

  No one did. Munk drifted out the door as the new hand was being dealt. The Libyan went high and won, the Frenchman went low and won. Cairo folded on the next hand and pocketed the only two breasts of Maria Theresa still in his possession.

  That it, sport? mumbled the British brigadier. Not your night either?

  Cairo shrugged and swayed out the door in his stately robes, trailing the sweetish smoke from his final puff on the hookah. The chimes in the front room creaked and inexplicably tolled midnight for the second time, although it was only eleven-fifteen. The Russians took a hand, then the Egyptian and the brigadier. The French pederast and the limp Libyan shared another pot, the rug thief going low and the ikon thief high.

  Joe had only three Polish zlotys left when the Druse warrior on duty in the alley entered the room and stood at attention behind Joe’s chair.

  I believe your batman wants you, mumbled the British brigadier.

  Joe looked up and the Druse warrior handed him a calling card engraved in gold. Joe looked at it and his eyes widened. He sat up very straight, whistling softly.

  What is it? someone asked.

  Jaysus.

  A new player? asked one of the Russians.

  Jaysus Joseph and Mary.

  Three new players? asked the other Russian.

  Rather late, mumbled the brigadier, but of course there’s still room if they have money to lose.

  Joe whistled very softly and tapped the calling card. He leaned back and licked his lips hungrily.

  Now it’s just too bad, he murmured, that Munk and Cairo packed it in and left when they did. I’d just like to see their faces now.

  Well? asked someone.

  Well you can’t blame me for being shocked, said Joe. I mean who’d ever have believed that item would dare show up here again after the bundle he dropped in ’24? Not me, I couldn’t have imagined such a thing was possible. Sat right where you’re sitting, Mr Brigadier, and just as coolly as you please gambled away three villas in Budapest and two in Vienna with all their treasures included, paintings and statues you could hardly count, regular palaces they were, and if that wasn’t enough he threw in a Czech hunting estate and a piece of Bohemian forest and a whole Croatian lake jammed with fish, all over two aces can you imagine. Two aces? That’s right, mad arrogant he is. You’d have thought he was the former owner of the old Austro-Hungarian Empire, which isn’t far from the truth as it happens. And another thing he was big on betting that night was musical instruments.

  What? mumbled the brigadier.

  That’s right, violins and cellos and so forth. You could have equipped a dozen string quartets with the instruments he lost here. Now I wouldn’t venture a miserable zloty on two aces in a game like this, but there was just no holding him back. He goes off the deep end, you see, when he spies an ace. By God and he must have collapsed between the ears to be coming back here looking for more of the same.

  Joe shook his head in disbelief. Everyone at the table was watching him. He opened a tin of imported Irish butter and snapped his fingers. The Druse warrior on mess duty dragged a heavy lumpy sack out of a corner and over to the table. Joe rummaged through the sack of cold boiled potatoes, looking for one to his liking.

  Who is this mad rich man? someone asked.

  Joe split a potato down the middle, tested the pulp with his finger and smeared it with butter. He took a bite, decided on more butter and chewed thoughtfully. When he leaned forward at last his voice was conspiratorial, little more than a whisper.

  Who is he, you say? Well I don’t want to alarm anyone, God knows we see all manner of rogues and cutthroats sitting down at this table. But this great skin is simply something else, and if the cards weren’t running against me tonight I’d bet everything I own against the fool. Know what I mean? This item sees an ace and just loses control. Always bets on aces and won’t bet on anything else. Discards three kings, he does, in hopes of getting an ace in return, it’s that kind of madness. Of course it’s criminal to throw money away like that, but he’s so bloody rich he doesn’t care. Just showers money down on the table like next year’s olive crop. I tell you, if this were only my night.

  No one moved. There was utter silence in the room. Joe noisily blew his nose and examined his handkerchief. He ripped off another hunk of cold potato and chewed.

  What a chance, he muttered, his mouth full of potato. A man who’ll put money like that on two lonely aces? I told my friend the baking priest about it and he straightaway hustled me off to mass. That’s dangerous, he said, your soul’s in mortal danger. Anyone who throws money away like that can only be in league with the devil. Tempting poor souls to leap into the abyss by dumping filthy money all over them, that’s what he’s doing, now off to a special mass with you to clean things
up. So said the baking priest, word for word.

  Joe nodded vehemently. The eyes of the other six players never left him. He scooped out the rest of the butter in the tin, loaded it on his stump of potato and closed his eyes to chew.

  Delicious, he murmured. Beats all.

  But who is he? someone whispered.

  Sorry?

  My God, the man outside, Who is he?

  Ah, that one. The worst villain ever to come out of central Europe, that’s who. Not that he was a central European to begin with, there’s too much perversity in his black heart for anything as simple as that. No, his people came from farther east, around the Volga they say. Or perhaps as far out as Transcaucasia who knows.

  The two Russians narrowed their eyes imperceptibly.

  Anyway, he first surfaces in Budapest before the war, and then on to Vienna, where with stealing his way with lies and more lies he somehow manages to get in with the royal family. How? Faith-healing at first, that kind of thing. Then advising on financial investments. And he uses his powers while he’s scheming in the shadows don’t you see, hinting here and coaxing there, probably a potion or two secretly administered in what looks like a nice harmless cup of tea to ease things along, until finally the royal dukes and duchesses won’t make a move without him. I mean if you’ve ever heard anything about vampires and werewolves lurking in the mists of central Europe, forget it. This fiendish monster was in a class by himself. So he got his teeth in all right and that’s when they say he got in touch with Trotsky. Broadening his horizons so to speak, an eye out for every eventuality. Well that’s the general picture.

  The two Russians seemed to have stopped breathing. Sweat ran down their shaved heads. Joe rummaged in his potato sack and came up with another potato to his liking.

  Plots, he whispered. Laying diabolical plans for the future, he was, and what did the future just happen to bring? The Great War, that’s what. Now is it true he arranged that war so the Austro-Hungarian Empire would do a tumble and he could pick up what he wanted from the pathetic ruins? Is that why he’d been talking to Trotsky? We’ll have a war, Leon old chap, and you take what you want over there and I’ll do the same over here? And just to get things started right, Leon old fruit, why don’t I see that our archduke over here just happens to get shot dead as dead? By a patriot of course, ha ha.