Edward Whittemore - Jerusalem Poker

High-low Brazilian gold mines, thundered the two Russians, jumping up from the table in their excitement and nearly knocking each other down.

Good show, said the brigadier. On with the game while there's still time.

Reluctantly Joe pushed aside his potato. He wiped his hands on his shirt and began to deal. The colonel lost heavily on a single ace, king-high, to the Egyptian and the first Russian. On the next hand he lost just as heavily with another single ace, jack-high, to the Frenchman and the Libyan. The third time it was the British brigadier's turn to share the winnings with the second Russian.

No one was really sure whether the colonel was trying to go high or low with his single aces. But they were all suddenly winning so much, except for Joe, they didn't care. Nor did they care that the colonel had discovered the bowl of garlic bulbs left behind by Munk Szondi and was now sneaking handfuls of them to munch. Nothing mattered with that land of wealth on the table.

The game was moving quickly now, cards and gold mines flying around the table. Joe had just turned in his last Polish zloty, in exchange for one hundred perfectly worthless Polish groszy, when the Druse warrior on alley duty reappeared with another calling card.

Your batman again, mumbled the British brigadier.

Joe peered at the card and read the name out loud.

Evelyn Baring? Is that a him or a her? Anybody know?

Isn't it all the same where it counts? giggled the Egyptian, spastically prodding Joe in his ribs.

Shit my God, let it in whatever it is, screamed the Frenchman gaily, his fingers stroking a long thick deed in his pocket.

I seem to recall having heard that name somewhere, mumbled the British brigadier.

More, roared the Russians, who had broken out a bottle of vodka and were rapidly emptying it.

We have to have unanimous agreement, said Joe glumly, rules of the game. You only play with those you want to play with. What's the view from Libya?

Rugs, answered the Libyan with a gurgle.

Vote recorded. Colonel?

I couldn't care less.

Well all right then. Evelyn is admitted by popular consent.

Joe put his initials on the calling card and the Druse warrior withdrew. A tall, dignified black man entered the room wearing dark glasses. He was dressed in a long black robe and a formal white wig, not unlike those worn by English judges presiding at the bench. On his shoulder a little animal was curled up asleep, its fur pure white, its head and tail tucked away out of sight.

The black judge placed a large pile of English banknotes on the table and sat down beside the Frenchman, his expression contemptuous and even insolent. But no one took any particular notice of him.

They were all too busy reading the deeds to the gold mines they had just won.

Or pretending to read them. By now the Europeans at the table were drunk. The Libyan and the Egyptian had fired up Cairo Martyr's hookah and were lazily passing the tube back and forth, their eyes glassy. The Russian comrades patted each other on the head and hummed the Third Internationale.

Joe lost his hundred groszy and got up from the table. He rubbed his eyes and took a last potato from the sack on the floor. The brigadier was grinning at him crookedly.

That it for you too, sport? Don't tell me the famous high-low Harrigan of Jerusalem poker has lost for a change?

Afraid he has. Looks like one more poor Irish bogman is down and out in front of the mighty British lion.

Want your hundred groszy back? asked the brigadier. You could always give them to a beggar if he didn't know what they were.

Joe shook his head. He looked exhausted and dejected.

No thanks, I'll just shuffle along home now. Play as long as you like, the man at the door will lock up.

As he left the chimes attached to the sundial in the front room inexplicably struck midnight for the third time that evening.

During the next half-hour the haughty black judge wearing the white wig joined the reckless colonel wearing the blond wig in betting more and more heavily and losing hand after hand. It must have been at least an hour after midnight when the Druse warrior from the alley entered once more to announce a prospective player. The Frenchman, who was stroking the hairs in one of his nostrils with a fingertip, read the card and giggled.

Why are you doing that to your nose, sir? demanded the colonel.

It's very sensual, murmured the Frenchman.

Well stop it this instant, ordered the colonel, or I'll close down all the gold mines you've won.

The Frenchman reluctantly removed his finger from his nose. He giggled again.

This card is a joke. It must be.

What name, sir?

No name. There's a crude drawing, done in crayon, of a bear holding a bottle. That's all there is.

The colonel reached over and took the card. His voice was grave.

Not crayon, you fool, charcoal. And that bottle is the mark he always uses. Now stop giggling like the empty-headed idiot you are.

What do you mean, he?

I mean I recognize his mark. Most people in the New World would. But I am surprised to find him so far from home.

Home?

The western half of North America. The ancient domain ruled by Chief Sipping Bear and his ancestors since the dawn of time. No native American was ever more powerful. Among other things, he's heir to the Seven Lost Cities of Cibola.

The lost cities of what? mumbled the British brigadier, pouring himself more whiskey.

Indeed sir, said the colonel, undoubtedly you've heard similar tales in India. The Seven Lost Cities of Cibola are legendary cities of gold located somewhere in the deserts of the southwestern United States.

The conquistadores searched for them but were never able to find them because they were outwitted by the Chief Sipping Bears of the time. For my part, as an emigre to the new world, I would welcome such a distinguished player in the game.

And I, said the Egyptian quickly. Lost cities on the Nile have always been a source of treasure throughout history.

Historical treasure, bellowed the Russians, show the oppressed red man in.

The Libyan concurred, suspecting American Indians might well have use for a certain number of rugs if they lived in deserts like the bedouin. The British brigadier admitted he was always curious to see another breed of native. As for the black judge known as Evelyn Baring, he simply rapped the table once, to show his approval.

By unanimous proclamation, screamed the Frenchman, Chief Sipping Bear from the New World is invited to join the game.

But can he outsip an O'Sullivan Beare? whispered the colonel to Evelyn Baring, who for once relaxed his severe expression and flashed a broad smile, brilliant white teeth in a face so black it was almost blue.

The door banged open and the odd figure who stood facing them was certainly neither as noble nor as savage as everyone had been led to expect by the colonel's comments. In fact he looked rather shabby and harmless.

He was a small dark man, his face and chest haphazardly painted with drab vertical streaks of dye, and he wore a loincloth held up by a rope tied around his waist. His moccasins resembled well-worn cheap Arab slippers, the threadbare khaki blanket wrapped around his shoulders looked like some shoddy army issue from the last century, and his ill-fitting feathered headband kept slipping down over one eye, giving him the raffish look of an itinerant entertainer and low-level charlatan. Nor were the feathers eagle, rather some common pigeon variety.

Thrust through his rope belt was a crude tomahawk, a stone tied to a shaft of wood that might have been cut from a broom handle. The long bow he carried in his hand was of the finest workmanship, however, thin and powerful and exquisitely wrought, and the quiver made of red lacquer was equally beautiful. So much so that both seemed out of place.