Obrian. I saw his corpse, but I'm not as sensitive as you are. I do know that he was a pimp and able to push people around, by hypnotic power probably. I saw his house, and his altar."
"Altar?" Jacobs asked.
De Gier's gesturing hands re-created the trestle table. "Loaded with the unusual. Bones. Christ in a straw skirt. Fluids in bottles, weird perfumes like you smell in the street market where the blacks buy their herbs. He had been burning incense, too."
"I read his form," Jacobs said. "Louis alias Luku Obrian. Luku was his nickname, and I know what the word means. I rent a room in a house where blacks live. I've been listening to their folklore. A lukuman knows tricks. Sometimes they can foretell the future."
De Gier rolled a cigarette. "Not Obrian. If he could have foreseen what was coming, he wouldn't have carried on the way he did. He kept bothering his competition until they bothered him."
"With a Schmeisser."
"Right."
"Good weapon," Jacobs said, accepting a fresh drink from the waiter. "A neutral weapon, too. The Germans created it, but it shot the SS too. I saw that after the liberation. It all depends whose finger is on the trigger. The blacks who live in the house where I stay are frightened of wisi, for that's their word for evil and they pray to opo, which is the opposite, but the power is the same. It all depends on how you use it. You know..."
Jacobs drank.
"What?" de Gier asked.
"Bah," Jacobs said. "Genever tastes great, but only for a while, or have they put me on another brand now?"
"Wisi and opo."
"Yes. The power being neutral in essence. I knew an SS soldier in Dachau who called his Schmeisser mein Halt. Meaning that he could stop anyone by pointing its ugly snout. When we took the weapon away, he was just as scared as anybody else. I call my Schmeisser my friend."
"You do?"
"Waiter?"
The waiter came. "One more," Jacobs said. "A single this time, and more coffee for my mate."
"Where is this Schmeisser of yours?"
"At home."
"And how did you get it?"
"Took it with me from Dachau. Belonged to the soldier I mentioned. We got it away from him, and while the others bashed his head in with bricks, I took the Schmeisser and I hid it in my gear. It neutralized my fear."
"Fear," de Gier said.
"Doesn't go away." Jacobs grabbed his glass. "Whenever I wake up at night, I think it's them, at the door. Then I reach for my friend."
"And you put your friend down again."
"I do. I used it as tapu, as a means to protect. Tapu is the means, opo the power behind the means."
"Say that again?" De Gier asked.
Jacobs' emaciated features had softened. His skullcap was stuck to his thin gray hair. He crossed his legs; sunlight shone in the nickel-plated bicycle clasps. "Black terms," Jacobs said. "Invoked by having Obrian's body in the morgue. Not a good man, that fellow you have delivered to me. An angry man who hisses his rage. If I'm not careful, the dead get into me and I think their thoughts. You have to learn how to deal with the yorka, but I learn slowly."
"Another black word?"
"Pitch black. The yorka is the spook, the soul, the spirit who has lost its body but still yearns for it."
De Gier memorized the words. "Wisi," he mumbled. "Tapu. Opo. Yorka."
"They took the words with them," Jacobs said. "From the African west coast to the South American east coast, and now to here. They're strong words and sustain wandering minds. I have my own words. My people traveled too. Where haven't we been? Two thousand years in the desert, to Armenia, to Poland, to Danzig, to here, to Germany again, Amsterdam again, but always Jewish, one life after another, on and on, carrying our magic."
"I wonder if I have any," de Gier said.
"You do, but you don't need it as much as the minorities." Jacobs pointed at himself. "A magical Jew with a magical Schmeisser to shoot at the magical SS to prevent them taking me to hell." He got up.
"You're leaving?"
"I have to perform more ritual. Wet the spiritual wall with my
"Altar?" Jacobs asked.
De Gier's gesturing hands re-created the trestle table. "Loaded with the unusual. Bones. Christ in a straw skirt. Fluids in bottles, weird perfumes like you smell in the street market where the blacks buy their herbs. He had been burning incense, too."
"I read his form," Jacobs said. "Louis alias Luku Obrian. Luku was his nickname, and I know what the word means. I rent a room in a house where blacks live. I've been listening to their folklore. A lukuman knows tricks. Sometimes they can foretell the future."
De Gier rolled a cigarette. "Not Obrian. If he could have foreseen what was coming, he wouldn't have carried on the way he did. He kept bothering his competition until they bothered him."
"With a Schmeisser."
"Right."
"Good weapon," Jacobs said, accepting a fresh drink from the waiter. "A neutral weapon, too. The Germans created it, but it shot the SS too. I saw that after the liberation. It all depends whose finger is on the trigger. The blacks who live in the house where I stay are frightened of wisi, for that's their word for evil and they pray to opo, which is the opposite, but the power is the same. It all depends on how you use it. You know..."
Jacobs drank.
"What?" de Gier asked.
"Bah," Jacobs said. "Genever tastes great, but only for a while, or have they put me on another brand now?"
"Wisi and opo."
"Yes. The power being neutral in essence. I knew an SS soldier in Dachau who called his Schmeisser mein Halt. Meaning that he could stop anyone by pointing its ugly snout. When we took the weapon away, he was just as scared as anybody else. I call my Schmeisser my friend."
"You do?"
"Waiter?"
The waiter came. "One more," Jacobs said. "A single this time, and more coffee for my mate."
"Where is this Schmeisser of yours?"
"At home."
"And how did you get it?"
"Took it with me from Dachau. Belonged to the soldier I mentioned. We got it away from him, and while the others bashed his head in with bricks, I took the Schmeisser and I hid it in my gear. It neutralized my fear."
"Fear," de Gier said.
"Doesn't go away." Jacobs grabbed his glass. "Whenever I wake up at night, I think it's them, at the door. Then I reach for my friend."
"And you put your friend down again."
"I do. I used it as tapu, as a means to protect. Tapu is the means, opo the power behind the means."
"Say that again?" De Gier asked.
Jacobs' emaciated features had softened. His skullcap was stuck to his thin gray hair. He crossed his legs; sunlight shone in the nickel-plated bicycle clasps. "Black terms," Jacobs said. "Invoked by having Obrian's body in the morgue. Not a good man, that fellow you have delivered to me. An angry man who hisses his rage. If I'm not careful, the dead get into me and I think their thoughts. You have to learn how to deal with the yorka, but I learn slowly."
"Another black word?"
"Pitch black. The yorka is the spook, the soul, the spirit who has lost its body but still yearns for it."
De Gier memorized the words. "Wisi," he mumbled. "Tapu. Opo. Yorka."
"They took the words with them," Jacobs said. "From the African west coast to the South American east coast, and now to here. They're strong words and sustain wandering minds. I have my own words. My people traveled too. Where haven't we been? Two thousand years in the desert, to Armenia, to Poland, to Danzig, to here, to Germany again, Amsterdam again, but always Jewish, one life after another, on and on, carrying our magic."
"I wonder if I have any," de Gier said.
"You do, but you don't need it as much as the minorities." Jacobs pointed at himself. "A magical Jew with a magical Schmeisser to shoot at the magical SS to prevent them taking me to hell." He got up.
"You're leaving?"
"I have to perform more ritual. Wet the spiritual wall with my
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