The Laughter of Carthage: Pyat Quartet

by Michael Moorcock

  I was too embarrassed to tell her that my money was hard to ‘liquidate’. I promised her a decision as quickly as possible. I was certain I could manage the troupe. She had explained how the important trick was to keep the attention of theatre owners long enough to convince them of the value of the act. But money would be needed for improvements, to pay travel expenses for a while, and so on. It would mean that I should have to risk a visit to my bank. It was only on this point I hesitated.

  When I returned to Goldberg’s a youngish man was waiting for me in the alcove beside the desk. He was tall, fashionably dressed and courteous, carrying himself with a straight-shouldered stance suggesting a military or sporting background. I was sure he was from the Justice Department and was on the point of asking how he had traced me when he introduced himself as Harry Galiano and vigorously shook my hand. With relief I realized he was an emissary from Annibale Santucci’s cousin. My message had been received, ‘If you ain’t too busy, the boss could see you tonight.’ He spoke with grave politeness. I asked for a moment to go to my room. There I used some of Mrs Mawgan’s remaining ‘wings’ to ensure I had a few more hours of wakefulness. When I rejoined him he smiled suddenly, with the same cheerful insouciance as Santucci. He was quite as proud, when he escorted me round the corner into Broadway, of the large blue Packard parked there. ‘Be my guest,’ he said. With a flourish he opened the passenger door.

  For some time we drove in silence through the diffused, multicoloured night of downtown San Francisco. The fog was growing thicker. Harry was content to concentrate on steering his big machine through the confused traffic of Market, past the cable car terminus, and to the wharf, visible as a series of yellow lights barely piercing the fog. We were guided up the ramp by at least half a dozen shadowy men in blue overalls and then, with a moan, the ferry staggered in the water, lurched sluggishly from the dockside, settling down to a steady speed as she ploughed out into the unseen waters of the Bay. It was only then, as we stood smoking beside the shackled Packard, that Harry became talkative. He and Vince, he said, were ‘buddies from way back’, first in the hotel trade, as chefs, later as restaurant owners. These days his boss ran a select country-club out past Berkeley. That was where we were going. I would like the club. It was very European. Very high class.

  We drove off the ferry on the Oakland side. The dark water fell behind us; the steep town dwindled to isolated homes, then we were on a highway, running wide and straight between hilly woods. At last, turning into a shrub-bordered driveway, we approached a large building, three storeys high resembling a marble hacienda. It bore the illuminated legend Gold Nugget Road House. Clearly a fashionable restaurant, the place had at least twenty cars parked outside. Nothing could be seen through the thickly curtained windows from which music and laughter warmed the chill of the night. Harry parked the Packard at the rear, led me to a side door and knocked lightly. We were admitted by another Italian, lugubrious and thin in tight-fitting evening clothes, who said the boss was upstairs and expecting us. Two flights of concrete steps took us to the top of the building and through a fire door. Suddenly we had entered a passage expensively decorated in the latest somewhat jazzy fashion. I was reminded of Italy and her Futurists. We passed through several rooms, all in the same style. Everything was grey, blue or pink, including the glass tables and wall mirrors. Then, on the other side of a soft archway, a squat, swarthy man in middle years, also wearing a tuxedo, came forward to take my hand. ‘Mr Peters? I’m Vince Potter. What can I give you to drink? It’s all McCoy.’ Expansively, he opened the flap of a huge cocktail cabinet resembling one of the more elaborate cinema organs. ‘You do partake?’

  When I told him I did, he seemed to hesitate. Then he shrugged and poured me the McCoy. It tasted like scotch.

  He was solicitous in a humorous, slightly bantering way. ‘So what happened to you? I get a wire from little Annibale in Rome to say to look out for you. Then nothing. We thought you was dead, you know? From where was it? Minnesota? St Paul? Now you need a job or what? You got experience? What experience?’

  ‘I’m fundamentally a scientist and engineer.’ I explained a little of my career, how I had run up against both the Ku Klux Klan and the Justice Department through no fault of my own. I needed employment under a fresh identity for a while ‘I can work on planes, boats, cars. Anything mechanical.’ I thought it best to play down my lecturing career, seeing no point in offending an immigrant who had almost certainly been raised as a Catholic. Besides, it had no relevance to my current situation.

  When I finished talking he was frowning but seemed impressed. ‘Let me get this right,’ he said. ‘You can start an engine, for instance. Okay? Without keys?’

  ‘Of course. That would be easy.’ I could not quite follow his reasoning.

  He shrugged and poured me another McCoy. ‘Always a good talent. But what was your main racket? In the old country, I mean. With Annibale, you must have been selling and buying, you know. That’s what he does mainly.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘So you were in Paris. What was your line there?’

  ‘Aeroplanes, chiefly.’ I did not want to raise the matter of the airship company scandal.

  At this, to my surprise, he began to grin. ‘Jesus Christ! How the hell do you get rid of a hot Curtiss? No, don’t tell me. Over there, sure, it’s all governments and revolutions and what not. Like in Mexico and down in South America generally. Okay, I should tell you, the rum-running business is small bananas in comparison, though I will admit it gets competitive. We’ve got a pretty large territory to protect.’ He displayed mild, friendly puzzlement. ‘What can I say to you? A job? You could always have a job. But I don’t want to insult you. We got boats and cars need fixing, sure, but there’s plenty of mechanics. Start as a driver. You’re welcome. But you don’t want that. Another year, we could offer better for someone like yourself. I’m expanding, going into legitimate business. Now, short of starting a war with Panama, I can’t see how else I can help you out.’

  I reassured him before he became even more apologetic. I could easily find work. What I really needed was a new identity, a passport, preferably as an American citizen. He brightened at this. He was a warm hearted man and felt obliged to be useful to his cousin’s friend. He could not put me into a job worthy of my skills, because it would offend other employees, but he dearly wanted to show his concern in a practical way. ‘That’s no big deal. You got a name you want? Or do you care? A few photos and we’ll give you a whole new history.’

  I told him I was currently using the pseudonym Michael Fitzpatrick. He seemed surprised by my choice of an Irish name. After some consideration, he said: ‘You don’t think maybe that’s stacking the odds just a little against yourself?’ I took his meaning. I, of all people, should know the suspicion with which Tammany was viewed. ‘What about Manny Pashkowitz?’ he said. I used to know a Manny Pashkowitz who passed on recently. That would be useful in itself, since he copped a John Doe tag in the morgue.’

  ‘I would prefer something a little less Jewish.’

  ‘I understand.’ He hummed to himself, staring off into space. ‘Then how does Pallenberg sound? Matt Pallenberg, a Swede. Nobody hates the Swedes, except maybe Finns and Danes. But who cares what they think? A nice name. He lost an argument with a Customs cutter near the Santa Barbara islands a couple of months back. I know for sure he never had no ID on him when he checked out. He’d be about the same age. Born in Stockholm, I think. Came over with his folks twenty years ago. A piece of cake. What could be neater?’

  ‘I’m very grateful, Mr Potter.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. A pleasure. Stay in touch. We’re sure to have openings soon for an educated person like yourself. Some day we’ll do business, I’m certain. Now, is there anything else?’

  I asked if he would mind my having mail sent to me care of his restaurant in North Beach. He said it would delight him. With the joviality of the embarrassed host to the untimely guest, Vince Potecci slapped me
on the back, insisting I take one of his Havana Corona Coronas before he returned me into the keeping of Harry Galiano who chatted nostalgically on growing up in Toledo as he drove rapidly to catch the last ferry back to San Francisco. It was only as we arrived outside Goldberg’s I realised he had been referring to Toledo, Ohio. Harry promised to come the next evening and collect my photographs. He assured me, it would be three days at most before I was completely fixed up. I asked him how he would get back to Oakland with the ferries shut down for the night. He laughed. He looked after the North Beach businesses, he said. It was five minutes to home. His parting words were significant. ‘Take care. Best to keep yourself to yourself until I get back to you. In this town you have to be careful. Never believe anyone’s who they say they are until you’ve checked them out.’ I think he knew Brodmann was looking for me. It was possible he had even heard something about Callahan, the Federal agent. Without wishing to alarm me, he was trying to warn me to be wary of them.

  In my bedroom I settled down to think. I could again begin to make plans for the future. I found Mrs Cornelius’s suggestion by far the best, of course, but remained uneasy about cashing a check. Shortly, it was true, I should soon be leaving San Francisco behind me and with it my old Peterson persona. Nonetheless, it was scarcely sensible to give my pursuers an idea of which coast I was on, let alone which city. Without the ‘float’ Beauties from Blighty would almost certainly collapse, leaving Mrs Cornelius and her friends destitute. With a few hundred dollars, there was a strong chance of going from strength to strength and, moreover, making my living in a reasonable way. The chief attraction was that I would earn my old friend’s gratitude (after all, how many times had she saved me from death, let alone discomfort?) and be close to one of my two enduring loves. That alone, surely, was worth the risk?

  The following evening Mrs Cornelius invited me to her rooming house to ‘talk things over’. Having given my photographs to Harry Galiano, I felt somewhat more relaxed as I entered a building which made Goldberg’s seem like the Ritz. It was disgusting that so fine a woman as she, who had been the intimate of princes and world leaders, should be reduced to this roach-infested hovel! No wonder she needed financial reinforcement! It was morally wrong. A woman of her sensitivity and breeding, talent and beauty, should not have to concern herself with keeping the bedding as far away from the floor as possible in order to reduce the number of verminous creatures running over her body at night. ‘Oh,’ she said courageously, ‘I’ve known a lot worse, Ive. Still, I must say, ther wages might not be much bigger over ‘ere, but the bleedin’ insects certinly are!’ And she laughed, offering me some gin she had bought for the occasion. She asked if I had given any further thought to becoming ‘chief share’older an’ manager of our littel troupe’. I refused to burden her with my own problems. I merely said I was waiting to hear from my accountant. ‘Better make up yer mind soon, Ivan,’ she said, ‘or I’ll ‘ave ter look up ther nearest nunnery an’ take ther vow!’

  I was horrified at the notion of her becoming enslaved by the Church. I asked if there were alternatives. ‘It’s gettin’ darn ter ‘awkin’ me ‘a’penny,’ she said ambiguously, ‘or bein’ picked up on wot I gather they corl in these parts a “vag rap”. Ter vamp or ter vag. thass ther question. Ive!’

  There was desperation, I was sure, beneath her light-hearted words. I was the only one who could save her. She said as much to me that night as she kissed me on the cheek and waved me good night.

  A little drunk, doing everything I could to disguise the fact, I made my way up steep, unfamiliar streets in the small hours of the morning. Somehow I found myself on Stockton, in the no man’s land between Little Italy and Chinatown, foolishly wondering whether to go North or South when, had I considered the problem sensibly for a moment, I should have gone East. At last I got my bearings, thankfully recognising a late-night drugstore on Dupont. This part of the city was virtually deserted. It was three o’clock. A light drizzle had begun to fill the air and the street lights shivered and grew dim. I wore no topcoat or hat, so turned up my jacket collar and pressed on until I could round the corner into Kearny Street. My head was down. I did not look up until I was less than a block from Goldberg’s. As I raised my eyes I recognised a figure, in heavy leather coat and wide-brimmed hat, who moved abruptly from the yellow circle of gaslight and walked with unnatural speed towards Broadway. It was as if I had disturbed a thief. Then, as the figure pressed on, labouring through the rain until it was out of sight, I knew I had seen Brodmann! He had been watching the hotel and had not expected me to surprise him from the rear!

  Closing Goldberg’s street door and moving carefully across the ragged linoleum in the gloom, I considered this new factor. If Brodmann were working on his own (or with his Chekist comrades) I might have a little time; if he was in league with the Justice Department or the Klan, I would be wise to leave the city immediately. Whichever was the case, I now had relatively little to lose by obtaining the ‘float’ for Mrs Cornelius. I grinned carelessly to myself. I would give them the slip again. I was to become an actor-manager. A Sir William Shakespeare. A miniature Flo Ziegfeld. A travelling player in the footsteps of Dickens and Oscar Wilde! And the wonderful, the eternally feminine Mrs Cornelius was to be Juliet to my Romeo, Frankie to my Johnny!

  The following afternoon I went round to Stranoff’s to tell her of my decision. She need no longer feel torn between Skid Row and the Little Sisters of St Francis. A living death in the service of the Pope would never be her lot while I could still draw breath. She was overjoyed, like Lillian Gish saved at the last minute from the clutches of the evil mulatto, and she hugged me, telling me I was ‘a brick’ and ‘a godsend’. She immediately began to make plans and suggest suitable locations for our future performances. I offered her $500, saying she could invest it in whatever she believed was of paramount importance to the continuing existence of Beauties From Blighty. ‘Well,’ she said, almost skipping with delight, ‘number one’s gotta be a decent motor! Don’t worry. Ive. Ya won’t regret this, I promise.’

  Next day my new identity had arrived, more detailed and more convincing than any previous one. Still making sure Brodmann had not returned to ‘shadow’ me. I hurried to the Nob Hill branch of my California bank. There I presented a legitimate check for $750 made out to Matt Pallenberg and signed ‘Max Peterson’. At least nobody would automatically guess we were the same man. A check to cash would have made it immediately clear I was in San Francisco. I must admit I was a little clammy as the clerk, learning I had been mailed the check from Milwaukee (a further obfuscation), significantly recruited advice from hushed nether regions, bore the check to invisible arbitration, conferred in pious murmurs with various other officiates, then eventually returned, inspected my identification (even the address was in Albany), found it satisfactory and at last briskly demanded my choice of denominations as if I had handed him the check only a second or two before. I asked for $500 in large bills. This I would hand immediately to Mrs Cornelius for our Company. The rest I had in ones, fives and tens, for various emergencies, including the purchase from a source in Chinatown of high quality cocaine. The money made me substantial again and gave me the feeling of controlling my own fate. I was no longer a foreigner with suspicious Romantic blood but a Nordic descendant of Vikings (like, indeed, all the old families of Kiev), that hardy, adventurous race who, discovering America long before the Spanish Jew Columbus, had carved their runes on the sea-battered cliffs of Long Island and Nantucket, claiming the land for their wholesome, self-sufficient deities Odin, Freya and Thor; far more practical gods to rule a vital subcontinent than that repressive Jehovah of palefaced, constipated puritanism.

  I put the Ku Klux Klan behind me. Those fools had missed their chance of greatness by petty internal bickering, by turning on their best friends. They would destroy, through further stupidity and quarrelling, everything they had gained. For a while Indiana might have been the first Klan state, but another scandal ended that dream. Colo
nel Simmons, Eddy Clarke, even Major Sinclair and myself, were martyrs, destroyed by small-minded, cautious people or by treacherous friends like Mrs Mawgan. My own gifts, so cynically abused by money-grubbing politicians of the kind who destroyed idealists like Roffy and Gilpin, could still make America the world leader of technological innovation. If they wanted me in the future, they would have to crawl and beg. I was determined to renounce the false lures of their world and devote myself to play acting and private scientific speculation. I would not let them hound me. I would choose for myself when and where I left America, when to reveal my true identity. How astonished they would be! How I would laugh at them as my efficient steam-powered airship, my own refinement of the Avitor Hermes Jr which had flown from San Francisco in 1869, swam through the skies above the Golden Gate, outsped the great locomotives of the Southern Pacific. When the fiery cross next burned, a thousand feet high, on Mount Shasta, it would be the signal to all that the Invisible Empire was purified and ready to ride out once more on its holy purpose, to free America from the Orient’s envious chains! But this time I would be at the head.