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,
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.
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.
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.
