Edward Whittemore - Jerusalem Poker

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.

The British brigadier looked appalled.

Well yes, whispered Joe. There are those who swear that's the truth of the matter but I won't argue it one way or another, not being familiar with the intriguing that went on up there before the war. But the fact stands he got his loot out in plenty of time, to Brazil where it would be safe, then just sat back and cruelly calmly watched the dottery Old Habsburg Empire go down and fall flat and decompose like so much carrion. And do you think he gave a thought to the dukes and duchesses who'd made him what he was?

Not a bit of it. Down you go, he said, with a wicked smile on his face as the old Empire collapsed. Sorry about that, old girl, but you're just carrion now. Do you see what I'm getting at? He had what he'd come for so away he went with his bundle. A regular imperial jackal, that's what. And of course he'd been dealing on all sides, we know that now.

Munitions? whispered the Frenchman in awe.

Cruelly calmly watching the Empire crumble, murmured the Egyptian wistfully, his spastic hand jerkily trying to rearrange the currencies he had won into two separate piles, those that fell within the British Empire and those that didn't.

Play fair at cards, does he? asked the brigadier briskly.

That he does, said Joe, and it's the only time he does play fair. He has a curious habit too of liking to play with the joker wild. Says he likes the idea of having an extra card in the game. Probably because it means he has a chance of getting five aces.

Fair play, said the brigadier, that's the important thing. It's no concern of ours how he happened to make his money.

How important has he become in Brazil since the war? asked one of the Russians.

Important? You couldn't call it that. What it amounts to is he owns half the bloody place outright and runs the rest with an iron fist. But no one knows it because he uses women to front for him, to run all his financial transactions. He calls them the Sarahs, just one name for all of them, and pretends they're his aunts and grandaunts and female cousins, although of course no one would ever dare to be related to a fiend like him. And he always wears disguises, that's another thing. Has his enemies naturally. A blond wig is what I remember, that and a gaudy military uniform. You know, as if he were some bloody Prussian aristocrat or something.

Shit my God, said the Frenchman, who cares about a wig or two?

Runs Brazil with an iron fist, mused one of the Russians.

The Habsburgs paid extraordinary prices for good carpets, murmured the Libyan. Especially Bukharas.

They loved Bukharas.

The biggest country in South America, whispered the second Russian. Someday it could be as rich as America, and he runs it with an iron fist.

I don't like any of it, said Joe. That monocle and that Junker sneer on his face, looking down his nose at you. Treats ordinary people like peasants, that's what.

Joe grumbled and made a face. He reached into the sack and pulled out a potato without looking at it, devouring it noisily in three huge bites. The other players were watching him dumbly, either daydreaming or hypnotized by his gyrating mouth.

All at once the Frenchman exploded. His fists came crashing down on the table.

Shit my God, what are we doing just sitting here? He may have gotten tired of waiting and left. Quick.

Call him in before it's too late.

Everyone nodded eagerly. Joe shrugged.

Suit yourself then. The jackal from central Europe now joins the game, he said, initialing the engraved calling card and handing it back to the Druse warrior on alley duty.

The man who marched haughtily into the room wore a full-dress military uniform, recognizable to the British brigadier as that of a colonel of dragoons in the prewar Austro-Hungarian Imperial Army. Also recognizable to the brigadier was the newcomer's highest decoration, the Order of the Golden Fleece. A ceremonial sword clanked at his side and an ivory and leather riding crop was tucked smartly under his left arm.

He was wearing a blond wig as Joe had mentioned, Germanic in appearance and obviously false, and a closely clipped blond beard, also false. He wore not one monocle but two, both tinted different colors, so his true features were completely hidden. In the middle of the room he snapped to attention and clicked his heels.

My compliments to the Irish peasantry, he said to Joe in thickly accented English. Gentlemen, he added, making a curt bow to the rest of the table.

The Libyan was already on his feet with an oily smile, making a place for the colonel beside himself. The man adjusted his blond wig and accepted the chair with a look of complete disdain for the Libyan. The British brigadier, meanwhile, was studying the numerous decorations on the colonel's chest. He cleared his throat with authority.

A most impressive display of medals, colonel. But you must excuse my ignorance when it comes to obsolete decorations from empires that no longer exist. What is that small black ribbon, for example?

Meritorious behavior in the Balkans, said the colonel. With special reference to Bosnia, the crisis of 1908.

Ah yes. And the purple and black ribbons?

The Balkans again, still Bosnia. For the crisis of 1911.

And the orange and purple and black ribbon?

Once more Bosnia. This time for the crisis of 1912.

Very interesting, colonel. You seem to have had a specialized career.

The colonel's heels clicked under the table.

Minor local affairs, sir. Of no possible interest outside of the Habsburg Empire, now defunct.

Yes, I daresay the Balkans with their tiresome crises did seem a bore to most of us at the time. But then when your archduke was assassinated in Bosnia a few years later, we all had quite a different show on our hands, didn't we? Or at least a good many of us did.

The colonel's heels again clicked under the table.

So it would seem, sir. But I have to say Bosnia was unstable from the beginning. The very concept of a Bosnia is ridiculous and untenable. As I should know, my decorations testify to that. And now to matters more of the present.

The colonel removed a thick packet from his tunic and placed it on the table. He turned to Joe who was sullenly munching another potato.

You will recall from my visit a few years ago, young man, that I do not favor large sums of money on the person. But see here, I'm addressing you. Take that disgusting lump of vegetable matter away from your mouth this instant or I shall leave immediately.

Joe put his potato down on the table as the other players glared at him. Slovenly Irish peasant, muttered the colonel under his breath. Joe rubbed his beard around his mouth, knocking off bits of potato that fell into his lap.

Now to begin again, said the colonel. What I have here are deeds to gold mines on the South American continent, mostly in Brazil. Acceptable as wagers? Yes?

Joe was about to say something when voices erupted around the table.

Shit my God, shouted the Frenchman, of course.

An exquisite pleasure, shrieked the Egyptian.

But shouldn't we play with the joker wild? screamed the Libyan. Just to enliven our little game of high-low?