Edward Whittemore - Jerusalem Poker

More like a pharaoh wafting his divine wand aloft.

Frightened and confused, the Libyan slipped back under the table. The colonel gave him a sharp rap on the head with his riding crop.

What is it? whispered the Libyan.

This is extraordinary. Take a look at what he's just put on his head.

The Libyan crawled up and peeked over the edge of the table again. The black man had placed a gold cobra headpiece on top of his wig, the mark of a pharaoh.

Evelyn Baring, whispered the colonel, of course. I should have recognized the name. He's better remembered today as the Earl of Cromer.

Who's that?

You don't know? A modern pharaoh, the consul general in Egypt. He ran the country for twenty-five years around the turn of the century. No one was more powerful in this part of the world.

English?

Of course.

An English lord? I didn't know they had any that color.

Oh yes. His is an old line that far predates the Anglo-Saxons.

The who?

The people you're accustomed to thinking of as English, fair-skinned. His line goes back much further to the time when the Phoenicians were sailing to England to buy tin. Along the way they stopped off in North Africa to replenish their water jars and apparently an ancestor of his joined one of these trading ventures.

Is that why he has a white monkey on his back? Because his ancestors were originally from Africa?

It might be. In any case, once in England that ancestor went into tin and became a titled magnate, and thus we find the origins of the black strain in English aristocracy. And he has many other famous ancestors. Merlin, for one, was also in the line.

Who was Merlin?

A wizard and general handyman at magic. King Arthur couldn't have gotten along without him.

Who was King Arthur?

My dear fellow, you're already sounding like a goatherd. Your knowledge of history is appalling.

The Libyan slipped lower down the colonel's boot.

History? How can I think about history when I've just lost everything, even the future.

Ah, futures, I almost forgot. I'm very fond of futures and there seem to be some interesting ones on the table at this very moment.

The colonel raised himself from under the table, glanced at his cards and tapped his riding crop three times to indicate he was tripling the bet.

An hour later the two Russians staggered out the door in each other's arms, weeping noisily. Having squandered not only their funds meant to foster atheism in Jerusalem but sold all their Bolshevik secrets as well, there was nothing left for them to do but return directly to Moscow, sign confessions that they were undercover Trotskyite agents in the pay of Rockefeller and Krupp and Ukrainian nationalism, and be strangled in an OGPU dungeon which had recently been set aside for criminals guilty of that specific offense.

In the alley outside, the black judge in the cobra headpiece had just finished urinating against the wall. He was straightening his robe when the Russians lurched into the alley, tripped, and went crashing down on the cobblestones at his feet, crying on top of one another.

Time, gents?

Ruined, the two Russians blurted out together.

Indeed, I did notice the colonel seemed implacably opposed to you tonight. But then, the Austro-Hungarian army was always concerned about securing its eastern front.

At four-fifteen the spastic Egyptian landowner grabbed the Indian chief's arm with shaking hands.

Can you understand English?

The Indian stopped gnawing on the ear of corn stuck in his mouth and thumped his chest with it.

English bad but since me great chief, understand words from heart. Firewater good, have drink.

Thank you but I'm too dizzy. That black man with the monkey on his back, why did he play so hard against me? Why does he dislike me? He won my cotton crop for the next ten years. I'm finished, it's all over now. Why?

Cotton. Black man think only cotton. You have cotton, he take.

Over, moaned the Egyptian. Somehow he even knew about my falcon and took that.

You old man now, too old for mirrors and hooded falcons. Better retire and watch setting sun over pyramids. How.

What?

Heart. From heart. Sipping Bear knows.

At five-thirty the British brigadier sank forward onto the table, his head in his arms. The colonel nudged him.

What seems to be the trouble, sir?

It's disastrous, I just can't believe it. Do you realize I actually gambled away my regiments on that last hand? That shabby Indian in the loincloth, swilling firewater and wearing an old army blanket, is now in command of the Bombay Lancers.

The colonel thoughtfully stroked his false blond beard.

Disastrous, yes, I see what you mean. Of course I've always known the chief had a reputation for cunning, but even I wouldn't have imagined he'd go so far as to take over an entire English brigade in India.

But what can I do?

Nothing, unless perhaps you can find an Irishman who'll talk the chief into giving you back your regiments. That seems to be the only hope. You'll have to go begging to an Irishman.

An Irishman?

Yes. For some strange reason the chief has always had a weakness for the Irish.

Why, for heaven's sake?

I can't imagine. Maybe it's because he thinks they like firewater as much as he does. After all, his name is Sipping Bear.

At six-twenty the French ikon thief and pederast leapt from the table and began beating his head against the wall. The black judge pulled him away and led him outside.

Steady, boy.

But shit my God, did you see what that seedy savage has done to me while gnawing on his ears of corn?

He's won every ikon I've ever stolen and every one I ever will steal. For the next ten years I have to turn them all over to him and tell him where they came from. Boys too. And in addition to everything else I have to spend time in purgatory.

Where's that?

Someplace here in the Old City. An elderly ecclesiastic known as the baking priest runs it. I'm to come in here tomorrow afternoon and the Irishman who's generally in the game is going to take me there. And every day for as long as the baking priest wants, I'll have to slave in front of a hot oven baking bread in the shape of a cross and saying Hail Marys. This baking priest is going to be my parole officer.

Time in purgatory, mused the black judge, time spent slaving in front of a hot oven. And all because of stolen ikons. It's true the Indian chief seemed to single you out tonight as a special target. Do you think it's possible, despite his primitive brain, that he resented the fact that you traffic in stolen Christian artifacts?

Shit my God, why? He's a savage, I just don't understand it. I wish I'd never come to Jerusalem and gotten mixed up in this poker game.

Yes, said the black judge. There are those who've said that before, and I suspect there'll be others who say it again.

Back in the poker room Chief Sipping Bear was doing a final jig around the table. The black judge came in, picked up the tube to the hookah and sat down beside the colonel of dragoons, who was contentedly crunching garlic cloves. He took a puff on the tube. Only the three of them were still left in the room.

Joker Holy City East, chanted the chief. Day coming night ending, time now make water and rest head, snooze happy dreams in happy hunting ground, happy sleep for Chief Sipping Dancing Chanting Bear, Chief O'Truly O'Sullivan Beare.

With a whoop he went spinning out the door. The black judge removed his cobra headpiece and straightened his white wig.

Going my way, colonel?

The colonel nodded and tucked his riding crop under his arm. Together they strolled down the alley away from Haj Harun's shop. Dawn had come to the city.

A long night, said Munk.

They often are, answered Cairo.