Edward Whittemore - Jerusalem Poker

That gave the white man trouble? giggled the Frenchman.

There's no hope anywhere, murmured the Egyptian.

Stunted, mumbled the brigadier. The need for empire was never clearer.

If that's his idea of a blanket I'd hate to see his taste in rugs, said the Libyan.

Oppressed red man, muttered the Russian darkly.

The colonel groaned and shook his head as if in despair. The black judge sighed and gazed up at the ceiling through his dark glasses as if invoking the immediate intervention of some higher power.

Nevertheless, despite his seedy appearance, the Indian seemed determined to act as fierce and menacing as he could. He scowled and began a slow shuffling dance around the table, lifting his knees high and brandishing his bow, reciting a war chant in some barbaric tongue. It was the quiver that caught the brigadier's attention.

I've seen those, he whispered in astonishment.

You have? said the Libyan.

Yes, in the Orient. It's Japanese. The samurai used them.

Valuable? asked the Frenchman.

I should say so. That one could be at least six or seven hundred years old.

The samurai? muttered one of the Russians. Their time will come.

Do the Japanese live in America? asked the dazed Egyptian.

That's right, said the brigadier. What's he doing with that?

Nonsense, interrupted the colonel, suddenly recovering his composure. Everyone knows the American Indians originally came from Asia, and Chief Sipping Bear's forebears have always been proud warriors in the best samurai tradition. The heritage is altogether natural.

Those slippers, wheezed the Libyan, look like the ones my servants wear.

But before there could be any more comments the chief all at once silenced them with a ferocious whoop. His war dance around the table had come to an end. He shook his bow in the air, whooped again and glared down at them.

Me Sipping Bear, great chief of west. How.

The colonel rapped his riding crop on the table for order. He rose and clicked his heels.

How indeed. Welcome chief. We're playing seven-card stud, high-low, joker wild. Let's see the color of your wampum.

The Indian took a leather pouch out of his quiver and removed a gold nugget the size of a pigeon's egg.

He took out three more nuggets equally large and placed his tomahawk on the table in the middle of them. The Frenchman, although drunk, couldn't help but notice the savage had accidentally made the sign of the cross on the table with his gold nuggets and tomahawk.

Here Cibola pebbles, grunted the Indian, thumping his chest, which made him cough. All Cibola made out of this, pick up in streets to use as wampum.

Fine, chief, no problems with that. Tell me, how do you happen to be over in this part of the world?

Come to see Holy City East. Tomorrow journey west again home to wigwam in setting sun. But first play joker wild, Holy City East.

Fair enough. Make yourself comfortable.

The chief spied the bottle of poteen Joe had left behind and grabbed it, taking a long swallow.

Ummm, firewater good, Sipping Bear like firewater. Tonight play poker, win fortune. Tomorrow do sun dance at dawn, go home. Now give cards.

He grunted and reached into his quiver again, this time coming out with an ear of corn.

New World food, he said, baring his teeth and gnawing away at the ear of corn as he glanced suspiciously around the table. He picked up his tomahawk.

No cards for great chief? No cards go on warpath. No play with Indian?

Easy there, sport, said the brigadier. No one here minds playing with an Indian.

That's right, added the colonel. This is a friendly game.

Until now, thundered the black judge, speaking for the first time since he had entered the room, his stern voice so authoritative everyone turned to stare at him. And it was also the first time that anyone had really noticed the furry little white creature curled up on his shoulder, its head and tail tucked away out of sight.

My deal, announced the black judge. Yes it's my turn now and I think it's only appropriate that you meet the spirit who watches over me, my guardian spirit who appears to be slumbering by my ear but isn't, because he never sleeps. Bongo, say hello to these greedy crooks.

Upon hearing his name the little albino monkey instantly leapt to his feet with his bright aquamarine genitals thrust forward, wildly flailing away at himself with both fists, alternating them and not missing a stroke.

This jungle beast, said the black judge ominously, likes to eat cucumbers. And although he's small he can eat a surprising number. The ante for the next hand is a cool three hundred pounds sterling, or its equivalent. I'll see the glint of your money now.

The black judge raised his hand and gave the table a solid rap.

Time, gents. The court is in session. Chief Sipping Bear? Try to keep that bottle from dancing around in front of your face. Colonel? I'm not impressed by Bosnia so blow those garlic fumes in another direction.

As for the rest of you, I suggest you keep a firm grip on your luck. You'll need it.

Mouths fell open, the black judge laughed. And the little albino monkey pounded vigorously away at his lurid parts as the cards began to spin once more in the swirling haze of alcohol fumes and hashish clouds that had come to envelop the tables, causing heads to float and minds to wander in the dark Jerusalem night, the sundial in the front room all at once catching some illusionary ray of light that set its chimes tolling an invisible hour.

Just after three in the morning the dazed Libyan rug merchant slipped out of his chair and slid limply down under the table, in passing clutching the trouser leg of his neighbor, the former colonel of Austro-Hungarian dragoons.

Excuse me a moment, said the colonel to no one in particular, bending over to see what was going on.

He found the Libyan collapsed in a heap, one arm loosely thrown around the colonel's boot.

Here here, whispered the colonel. This is no way to act.

Ruined, wailed the Libyan. Haven't you seen the chits I've been giving him?

Giving whom?

The black man.

No, I've been concentrating on my own game. How much did you lose?

Everything. First the Bukharas went, my precious Bukharas that I've only owned a week. Then all my rugs back in Tripoli, then the shop the rugs are in. Then my villa in town and my other one by the sea.

Then my wives and my children and my servants.

In that order?

Yes.

Your greyhound?

He took that too. Then he took my steamship ticket home so I'd be trapped here at his mercy. Finally there was that last fatal wager.

What was it?

Goats. I indentured myself to serve as a goatherd for the next year. Tomorrow evening I'll be standing on a barren hillside eating yogurt and talking to goats.

The colonel tried to move his foot. The man's slobbering mouth was dulling the polish on his boots.

In other words he wiped you out? Hm, yes. Well that formal white wig and the black robe did seem to indicate he was a judge. Perhaps he held a trial and found you guilty of shameless dishonesty in acquiring those Bukharas from your dying cousin.

He's a judge?

I suspect so. Take another look.

The Libyan crept to his knees and peered over the edge of the table at the black man.

See how severely his lips are pressed together? whispered the colonel. The heavy brooding nose? The stern unwavering eyes?

I can't see his eyes behind those dark glasses he's wearing.

No, but you can certainly imagine them. Cold blue and unrelenting. Merciless even.

Blue eyes? In a face that color?

Yes, blue. I'd bet my life on it. And look at the arrogant way he waves his hand in the air when he deals.