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.
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?
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.
