Jerusalem Poker (The Jerusalem Quartet Book 2)

by Edward Whittemore

  Yes, said Munk. But she also knows she indulged him too much from the beginning.

  Habit both good and bad, murmured Joe. Can run both ways, indulging a man, depends on the man, like most things. Hey there, Munk. Not recalling a breakfast in bed beside the Bosporus, are you? Dashing young officer of dragoons being served steak and eggs and a pot of strong coffee laced with cognac? Not to mention a mountain of hot rolls straight from the oven and light as light? Ah yes, mere fluffs of ambrosia, no less, in your wicked youth. And your uniform pressed and your boots polished and a bath drawn? Never crossed your mind once, you say, in all these years?

  Munk smiled.

  I talked to her yesterday, he said.

  My God, you what? How’s that? You talked to Sophia?

  On the telephone, yes. I thought I should call her as one old friend to another. It was over twenty years ago, and only one night at that, but all the same.

  Of course all the same. Well quick man, out with it. What’d she say?

  She was in Venice. We didn’t talk about Nubar, mostly about his baby son. There was one, it seems, and Sophia had just found out about it. She was excited about that and also happy about the baby’s mother, who happens to be Armenian. So perhaps the good news has made up for the bad. She plans to take them both back to Albania with her.

  And you? What’d she say about you?

  She asked me to come pay her a visit at the castle in the spring. I said I would.

  Joe hooted. He reached over and slammed down the pack of cards in front of Munk.

  Your turn to shuffle, and did you catch that, Cairo? Catch our former dashing young officer of dragoons still in action? The lady in question’s over ninety, so what’s he going to do about it? Pay a friendly visit for old times’ sake, that’s what, console the old dear because of the memories. Now is that what ambrosia does for you or isn’t it? One taste and you can’t ever forget? Just never? Ah but that’s fine, truly fine, I love the whole idea of it. And you do a little reminiscing with her, Munk, you do that. A woman her age, she’d like that for sure.

  Munk smiled as he shuffled the cards.

  Business isn’t going well for her, he said. The syndicate’s breaking up, not that she cares much about that sort of thing anymore. It was setting it up that was a challenge to her, not making money once it was going. So yes, I’ll journey up and see her, and she can straighten me out on the situation in the Balkans, and I’ll have another chance to smell those cheroots I remember from my younger days.

  Forget the Balkans, said Joe, I never could understand what they were. But the rest of it is marvelous, just marvelous, I love it. You do that and let us know. By God, isn’t it true we can get lucky now and then and time doesn’t pass at all? Or rather it passes all right, it just doesn’t take all the good things with it. Now and then only, but it’s comforting to know it can happen at least. And speaking of your younger days, Munk, what news from the Sarahs lately in their various outposts in the New World, mostly Brazil?

  They’re getting along, back on their feet in business.

  Sure, we all knew that would happen. And the all-male Szondi baroque ensembles? Are they getting back on their feet and into their chairs after a decade or two in the discount dry goods trade?

  They seem to be.

  Well then, Munk, it seems you’re just situated here for good and ready to get on with your affairs, building a homeland and so forth, a sober matter certainly after the spew of cards we’ve had here for the last twelve years. Trading in futures from the beginning, you were, just dealing away like a madman in the market. Hey, where’re you going, Cairo?

  Cairo had gotten to his feet. He went swaying into the front room in his stately robes and came back with a stone box, which he placed on the table. He smiled and held out his hand. Munk gave him the cards and Cairo began to shuffle.

  What’s that? asked Joe.

  A box, said Cairo.

  A man can see that. Why stone?

  They made them that way so they’d last. Menelik gave it to me once. He’d found it in a royal tomb he’d excavated.

  Well what’s in it then?

  Ashes.

  From what?

  From a forty-year conversation beside the Nile. Long Sunday afternoons over wine and spiced lamb in a filthy open-air restaurant on the banks of the Nile, with placid ducks paddling in circles and squawking peacocks getting ready to mate and scurrilous evidence richly woven under the trellises of leafy vines and flowers, and waiters who got so high on their flying carpets over the years they simply didn’t move anymore, couldn’t move anymore, couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to move anymore. Long Sunday afternoons that always ended with drunken plunges into the cooling water.

  Sure, said Joe, we know about that. But what are the ashes?

  The ashes of two friends who met in an Egyptian bazaar early in the nineteenth century, both young then, both just starting out on their separate paths. One a black slave, the other an English lord.

  Joe whistled softly.

  You’ve got the ashes of old Menelik and Strongbow in there?

  I have.

  Where did you get them?

  I just went and got them.

  And what are you going to do with them?

  Cairo smiled.

  Early in the spring when Munk goes to pay his call on Sophia, I’m going to take this box down to Egypt. I’ll choose a Sunday that pleases me and go back to that filthy restaurant beside the Nile where they had their forty-year conversation, or if it’s gone, to one like it. Then I’ll order wine and spiced lamb and stuff myself, and lean back and while away the afternoon listening to Menelik and Strongbow carry on the way they used to. I’ll listen to them tell the story again of the incredible White Monk of the Sahara and his nine hundred children, and the Numa Stone that scandalized Europe after Strongbow planted it in the temple at Karnak, and I’ll pound the table and order more wine and roar with laughter with them at all the old tales, all the wonderful tales. Menelik smuggling Strongbow’s study into Egypt in the bowels of a giant hollow stone scarab, and Strongbow striding off to the Hindu Kush and returning to stride off to Timbuktu, and Menelik building a spacious retreat for himself in the top of Cheops’ pyramid and finding he was afraid of heights, and retiring instead to the sarcophagus of Cheops’ mother with Strongbow’s magnifying glass in hand. And Strongbow finally finding peace on a hillside in the Yemen, in the simple tent of a Jewish shepherd’s daughter. Empires bought and empires sold and an unknown scholar who was the wisest of his century, a former slave so brilliant he spoke a language that’s been extinct for eleven hundred years, a young explorer who began his haj by shouting that he had once loved well in Persia. And all the rest of it, all the wonderful old tales they shared. And that final reunion when they both came back for one last Sunday afternoon together in their filthy haunt beside the Nile. Both in their nineties then and knowing they’d go soon, which they did, within a few months of each other just before the Great War. Just all of it. With all the wine and the food and the stories that never stopped, because they could never get enough of them.

  Cairo paused. He looked down at the table and shuffled the cards slowly.

  And then? asked Munk after a few moments.

  And then a time will come toward the end of the afternoon to jump over the railing into the river, the way they did. And I’ll go over the railing with them for a last plunge, a last swim at the end of the afternoon to clear my head or perhaps just to celebrate life. And when I come out I’ll no longer have the box. The Nile will.

  Cairo nodded solemnly.

  Once I thought I wanted to carry something quite different back to Africa. The black meteorite that’s in the Kaaba in Mecca, the Holy of Holies. I wanted to bury it in rich black African soil as payment for the slaves the Arabs took out of Africa. But this box is what I’ll carry back, and I’ll give it to the Nile. The two of them would have liked that, I know it. As for me, it’s the right thing to do.

  Cairo
finished shuffling the cards. He smiled and placed them in front of Joe. Joe looked at him, then whistled very softly.

  Now if that isn’t something. And all because the two of them taught you to dream when you were a little boy. Only that, nothing more. Well, Cairo, I’m glad for you and I’m glad for them. It’s good you know where you’re going and why, and when we have to look back it’s better this way than the other. Better to be going to the river and giving it your gift, rather than burying something.

  Joe turned toward the door.

  Here now, what’s this?

  They listened to the chimes attached to the sundial in the front room strike the hour. While they were striking Haj Harun wandered in and began roaming around in distraction.

  Twelve times, said Joe when the chimes stopped. Just right for nine in the evening. Hey wait.

  The chimes had begun to strike again. They tolled twelve more times, creaked and repeated it, creaked and repeated it.

  Four times in all, said Joe, once for everybody. By God that portable sundial hasn’t missed a trick in the years we’ve been playing cards here. It’s the business all right. Daft time out of control as usual in the eternal city. Haj Harun?

  The old man stopped pacing.

  Prester John?

  I was just thinking the three of us wanderers here ought to have one friendly little hand tonight by way of welcoming out the old year. How would you like to take your place on top of the safe and bear witness as Clerk of the Acts?

  The old man smiled shyly.

  If that’s what you want.

  We do, we certainly do. Can’t have a proper friendly little hand without our guardian knight in his place.

  The old man nodded and slowly climbed up the ladder to the top of the tall antique Turkish safe. He sat down and straightened his faded yellow cloak, adjusted his rusty Crusader’s helmet, retied the two green ribbons under his chin. Then he turned and peered into the nonexistent mirror in the wall.

  Wanderers of the era, he announced. Travelers and countrymen and fellow Jerusalemites, I am ready.

  Fine, said Joe, just fine. Well then, gents, I might as well do the honors since I find the cards sitting in front of me. Let’s see, how does straight five-card poker strike you? Nothing wild and nothing stray, the customary three to draw. Only one hand now, so look smartly and here they come.

  Joe dealt the cards and he and Munk fell to studying their hands. Cairo, as usual, left his cards face down on the table, untouched. After a moment of deliberation, he selected the first and the third and the fifth for discard.

  Hold on, he said suddenly to Joe. You didn’t announce an ante.

  No reason to, that’s why, just a friendly game tonight. Symbolic and nothing more on New Year’s Eve. No need for any money to change hands.

  No good, said Cairo firmly. I can’t play poker that way. If you won’t ante, I will.

  You will? What is it then?

  The goats in the Moslem Quarter, said Cairo.

  The two men looked at him.

  Those used for sodomy, he added solemnly. Joe whooped and Munk broke into laughter.

  Do you tell us that, Cairo lad. Well now, why didn’t you say before you were thinking along such lines? If that’s the kind of friendly hand we’re playing then I’ll be glad to make a friendly ante of my own. Sure, let’s see. I’ll throw in the goats in the Christian Quarter. Meat. Which leaves you shy, Munk. Don’t you have something to sweeten the pot? Or can’t you contain yourself long enough to say.

  Munk was still laughing, wiping the tears from his eyes.

  The goats in the Jewish Quarter, he managed to gasp at last. Milk.

  Good, said Joe, even better than good. This is the way to start a hand off for sure. Beats playing with silly money when you’re sitting at a poker table in the eternal city. What use can money be anyway, in such a place? None’s the answer, contradiction in terms. No need for money in eternity. On the other hand there’s always a need for real goods and services, which is why Haj Harun has spent so much of his long life in the service trades. A Holy City needs them more than most places and that’s a fact, what with pilgrims and conquering armies and the just plain curious forever trooping up the mountain to have a look around and catch the sights.

  Joe glanced slyly across the table.

  You’re not supposed to do this, gents, it’s against all rules and I know it. But for once I’m going to drop my poker face at this table and come right out and say it, straight fact. You better both be careful in the next few minutes. What I mean is, watch it. Don’t be foolish, keep a steady rein on, don’t get carried away. Why, you say? Well I’ll tell you why. Because I think I’m going to win. I’ve got this feeling coming over me, a suspicion amounting to a conviction, that fate is casting a lascivious glance in my direction. So that’s all, you’re warned. How many new cards then?

  He pushed aside the discards.

  Three to you, Cairo, although you don’t know what you’re holding or what you threw away. And here are your three new beauties, Munk, and lastly three for the dealer. And are they?

  Ha, shouted Joe. Didn’t I warn you? That lascivious glance has opened into a smile and the smile has burst into a grin that’s holding nothing back. In other words I made it and you can both drop out right now. Fold up your tents and save your strength for another day. Fate’s got me in her embrace and that’s that. Good night to the both of you.

  Cairo cleared his throat.

  I haven’t looked at my cards yet, but then I never look at my cards until the betting’s over. There’s been no need to before and there’s no need to tonight. I’ll win anyway.

  Joe snorted.

  By God, is that mad arrogance or not. Do you hear that, Munk? And after I just warned him too. What do you make of it? Doesn’t he deserve to lose with that kind of attitude? Reminds me of that colonel out of central Europe a few years back, the one with the double monocles and the blond wig who liked to play with the joker wild and would throw anything away to get his hands on an ace. He was mad arrogant too.

  Munk nodded. He smiled slightly and said nothing. When he had picked up his new cards a quizzical expression had come over his face. Now he was frowning, gently rubbing his chin, lost somewhere in thought.

  Mad arrogance, muttered Joe, that’s what. Well the bet’s to you, Cairo, yours for starters. What manner of real goods and services are you going to wager for openers?

  No openers, said Cairo. Not this time. I have no intention of wasting time tonight trying to inch the stakes up. I’ll start at the top and the two of you can play or not, as you choose. Now I think you’ll both agree that through my various illicit enterprises, I control the Moslem Quarter in this city.

  The mummy dust king is about to strike, muttered Joe.

  Well do I or don’t I?

  You do. Agreed.

  Correct. Now then, that’s my bet. Control of the Moslem Quarter. I’m putting the Moslem Quarter on the table. If either of you wins, which you won’t, it belongs to you.

  Joe whistled softly.

  That’s arrogance and then some. You mean the whole Moslem Quarter?

  That’s right. Down to the last sun-baked brick.

  People? asked Munk, shaking himself out of his trance.

  Down to the last unborn babe asleep in its mum’s belly, not knowing what it’s in for when it has to wake up.

  Fair enough, said Munk, gesturing extravagantly. If that’s the way it is I’m betting the Jewish Quarter.

  Jaysus all right, shouted O’Sullivan Beare, all right I say. If that’s what you’re up to I’ll put down the Christian Quarter. And it goes without saying the Armenian Quarter automatically goes to the reckless devil here who owns the best cards. In other words it’s finally a case of winner take all in the eternal city, is that it? Jerusalem is on the table and one of us is going to pick it up in the next few minutes? Is that what we’re doing?

  Munk smiled, he nodded. Cairo nodded and frowned.

  Well then it
’s time, said Joe. By God if the moment hasn’t sneaked right up on us, just sneaked in out of the night when no one was looking on this last day of the year. Now I hate to disappoint you both but you shouldn’t have done that, shouldn’t have gone so far by half. Here. Just look at this lineup I’m holding.

  Joe turned over his cards. Four jacks and a queen. He touched each one of them lightly with his forefinger.

  Like it? Isn’t that something? Heaven laboring once again for a beleaguered Irishman? Yes I do believe it, just look at that regal party. The crown prince has come to inherit the kingdom for sure and the queen is along to ease the transition, to let all of us know all affairs are ongoing and cordial in the royal palace now that the heir apparent is to receive the land and the jewels. Not bad I say, just as it should be, and I’m ready for the succession and the ascent. So Cairo lad, do I take you or no?

  One at a time, Cairo slowly turned over his cards.

  A king. A queen. A king and a king and a king.

  He looked up and smiled at Joe, who sighed.

  Well my God I do not take you, do not even begin to. It seems the crown prince can’t succeed to the throne after all, because it’s still occupied by the incumbent. Bloody outrage, that’s what. Regicide would have been in order but it’s too late for that now. And I’ve only myself to blame. I should have suspected just such a scheme on your part, considering how you’ve been hawking pharaohs for years by the pinch and the snort. Undone, as simple as that. The king keeps his kingdom and the crown prince will have to go begging for a realm. The king also keeps his queen and will allow no ascent on that score either. So then, Munk, it’s to you now. Time. Reverse and relate.

  Munk stared at the two of them for almost a minute. Finally he turned over his cards and spread them out on the table.

  Joe whistled very softly.

  Do you tell us that now. It seems, Cairo, there may be higher powers at work in Jerusalem. It seems our Munk has called on them to intervene and they’ve done just that. It seems even royalty is powerless in the presence of a higher cause such as Munk’s. Four aces, would you believe it. Aces, some kind of unit above the human plane. Yet even so Munk puts a queen with them for reproductive purposes, so his aces can take the form of a swan or a bull or a zephyr or God knows what in the Eastern Mediterranean manner, and impregnate the queen with the heroes of future generations. It’s just beyond our scope and ability, Cairo, and there we are with our legacies gone, our ambitions dashed, twelve years of honest labor and dishonest endeavor simply finished. It’s back to the bazaars for us. Munk takes Jerusalem and we’re forced by events to make our way elsewhere.