The Laughter of Carthage: Pyat Quartet

by Michael Moorcock

  In the twilight palms, tall outlines now against the deepening blue of the sky and the rich wash of the sunset, he began to speak rapidly of his motion picture ambitions. He intended to be sole financer of a movie drama to star Mrs Cornelius. ‘She’s agreed to change her name to Dorothy Kord. Names are supposed to be important and easy to remember and all that rot. Mrs Cornelius wasn’t too happy about doing it. Well, to keep it short, what I’d like from you is the story - that’s White Knight and Red Queen - for which of course you’ll get a generous fee. Why don’t you try fleshing it out to full-length. About an hour.’ He made a shy smile. ‘I’m no Griffith.’

  ‘When would you need the script?’

  ‘About a month for the first draft.’

  From his manner I knew he had not yet come to his chief subject. I said lamely, ‘It would be interesting to work on such a big movie.’

  He offered me a large cigar. Against my normal custom, I accepted. We stood on the edge of the quay under the trees, smoking and looking into the rather dirty water.

  ‘Good,’ he said at length. Then, as usual, out came the real topic in a confused babble of which the salient concluding phrases were: ‘Pallenberg. I want her to marry me. I intend to ask her tomorrow, while you’re in New York. Do you think I have any kind of a chance?’ His huge eyes looked pleadingly down; he had the face of a lonely cow. I took some time before replying.

  ‘She’s very independent. She evidently cares for you a great deal more than anyone I’ve ever seen her with.’ Of course there was no point in mentioning Mrs Cornelius’s affairs with half the Bolshevik hierarchy. He would have fainted at the very notion. ‘She shouldn’t be rushed. Maybe you can wait until I get back from New York? I’ll have a female second opinion, then.’

  Though seriously disappointed, he bowed to my judgment. ‘Okey-dokey. I guess I also wanted to ask if maybe you could, as an old friend, get her general feelings on the matter. What do you say?’ Without giving me time to reply he continued gravely: ‘See, I know she’s got It - whatever it takes to be a great actress. I don’t want her going through any more screen-test hoops. I’m going to cut across all that. She’ll get her movie career, no matter what.’ He looked out to where a tethered seaplane, some Schneider contender, bumped against the wooden cladding of her moorings. ‘See,’ he murmured, ‘it’s incidental I happen to think she’s the most adorable little honey who ever lived and breathed.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can, old man.’

  He was grateful. He frowned, trying to pull himself together. ‘How do you think we should handle publicity for the car? Should we let the papers know we’ve made a successful first run? The press already has rumours. A couple of journalists were in my office today. From the L.A. Times, I think. One of them knew you. What was he called? Irish name?’

  ‘Callahan?’

  ‘That sounds right.’

  ‘The other wasn’t Brodmann, by any chance?’

  ‘I guess I don’t remember. I thought he was Irish, too.’

  I turned away from him. I was becoming over-suspicious. I was also obscurely depressed. I took control of myself. ‘Well, I’ll leave all that with your publicity department. They’re the experts. I can brief them further when I get back.’

  He shook my hand, then lumbered inland to find a taxi. I took the trolley back to Venice.

  Hever was a pleasant, kind-hearted soul. He would do Mrs Cornelius no harm. Yet I had been upset when he declared his intentions. I was disgusted with myself for my obvious jealousy. Perhaps I feared she would be separated from me for good. I determined to put a decent face on it, give them both my honest help and (assuming Mrs Cornelius accepted him) my blessing. Moreover when I saw her tomorrow morning I would do exactly what Hever had asked. She was coming with me to the airfield, to drive my car back to my new home on Cahuenga Boulevard. I tried to recover what had been a perfect mood, anticipating the flight itself, then my reunion with Esmé. I could not deny that part of me still lusted for Mrs Cornelius. Perhaps I hoped she would one day fulfil my dream. These were not sensible thoughts. Returning to my little San Juan house I telephoned the detective agency I had commissioned to investigate suspected enemies. The woman who answered said I should call back in the morning. I had been a fool to leave it so late. There would be no time tomorrow. I consoled myself. There were a great many Irishmen called Callahan in the world, after all, and I had given innumerable interviews.

  Next morning, throwing my little suitcase in the back seat, I drove through empty sloping streets where telephone poles and cable lines were black and sharp against the pallor of the warm Los Angeles dawn, through suburban ease. I climbed up Santa Monica, between massive earthworks already grass-grown, to the Beverly Hills Hotel. There I would collect Mrs Cornelius and continue on to the Burbank Flitplats. She emerged from a main door as I drew up. More glamorous than ever before in a pink silk twin-set trimmed with bands of red, two long strands of pink pearls, a powder-blue cloche and shoes to match, she was washed, perfumed and bright-eyed. She now had credit with every fashionable store. I said she was putting the accounts to good effect. She giggled with relish and pecked my cheek. ‘They bloody love me rahnd ‘ere, Ivan! Lady Muck, eh?’ She shrieked. ‘Lady Mucker, anyway. Wot a turn up. I never fort I’d be carriage trade. Not like this. ‘Igh-times and an ‘arf, an’ no mistake!’

  As she climbed in she was bursting with good cheer. Smiling, she nudged me in the ribs. ‘I done yer a favour. Left me bleedin’ brekker on me fuckin’ plate this time! Ow’s that fer sacrifice?’

  ‘You must never feel -’

  ‘Stuff that, Ive.’ She was serious. Her chin came up. She looked straight ahead, as she often did when she controlled strong emotion. ‘My silly fault, that kipper. Besides, yer gotta look arter yer own. You an’ me, eh? Birds of a bleedin’ fewer.’ At this she softened and chuckled. Quite uncharacteristically, she reached into my lap and gave me a quick, friendly squeeze to my privates. ‘Don’t let yer littel yid friend git yer inter trouble.’ She was aware of my dismay, my misleading circumcision, and it was a joke she had made before. I was moved almost to tears by her consideration. I promised I would do my best.

  We drove through peaceful canyons on the other side of the hills. Steep cliffs rose on either side. Precariously balanced along their rims the new houses of a minor nobility could be glimpsed through fresh-planted bushes and saplings. They had followed the stars. Now some of the great princes were moving on. There was a fashion for beach houses at Santa Monica and Pacific Palisades. The roads were improving steadily, thanks to all the immigrants from other States who flooded daily in hundreds to Los Angeles. There was work for these Iowa hopefuls, but I think they were drawn chiefly by the prospect of living in the same city as Fairbanks, Chaplin and Swanson.

  Descending rapidly into the Valley we entered what had lately become an unreal half-world. Replacing farms and orchards acres of land were now marked for lots and streets not yet built. The realtors awaited their customers. (The autumn herds were coming West. If you put your ear to the ground you could hear the distant rumble of their hooves.) The sleepy fruit-growing plantations of San Fernando Valley were vanishing. Identical clapboard would rise in the shadow of the snow-topped Sierras. The old names were Spanish. The new ones here were English, echoing a dream of Anglo-Saxon villages, thatched security. All over America they were at last calling a halt to their foreign romances.

  Eventually we saw the rough grass of the airfield ahead. There was one hangar covered in old barnstormer posters; one unenthusiastic windsock, one fence, one gate with a large red sign reading DO NOT ENTER UNLESS YOU ARE FLYING. There was one DH-4 biplane with a tall, skinny pilot standing leaning against its fuselage, smoking a cigarette and polishing his goggles on his moleskin riding breeches. Roy Belgrade was a veteran of the Flying Corps who seemed too young, even now, to be an airman. He yawned as he saw me, and flicked a salute, taking great interest in Mrs Cornelius as he started forward to open the gate. He had been recommended
as the best by almost everyone I had spoken to in Hollywood. It was still considered daring to risk a day’s flying rather than spend three days on the train. I would have to land in a field in New Jersey and hope to get a bus or cab to the city.

  Roy Belgrade glanced down at the clipboard he dug from the back seat of the plane. ‘Colonel Pallenberg’s you, sir? Welcome to Coast-to-Coast Airservices. That’s me.’ He grinned. We shook hands. He bowed as he was introduced to Mrs Cornelius. At closer inspection, he looked his age. I moved past the big, heavy wings of the DH-4 to peer into the glass-covered interior of the forward passenger cabin. Some attempt had been made to give it a comfortable appearance. There was a rack with a thermos bottle, a little hamper of food, some magazines. It was almost touching, as if a child had arranged it. The seat was padded, with arm-rests and leather upholstery. ‘Everything but ma’s cookin’,’ said Roy sardonically. ‘You’ve flown before haven’t you, sir?’

  I nodded. Mrs Cornelius came to embrace me. She was nervous of planes. She had been up once, she said, but it had made her sick. ‘I do ‘ope ya know wot yer doin’, Ive.’

  This made me smile. ‘My dear friend, the PXI passed its tests with flying colours. I have a splendid house in Hollywood. My reputation’s completely restored, my name vindicated. In two days’ time my fiancée comes ashore off the Icosium. Meanwhile, I should tell you, Mr Hever wants to propose to you!’

  She was unsurprised. ‘Wot’s yore foughts on that?’

  ‘He’s kind and rich.’ I could not resist a wink. ‘And virtually blind.’

  She began to cackle. She pushed me back. ‘I’ll probably do it, jes’ ter spite yer by bein’ faithful! You wicked littel Shnorrer! Yore worse than I am. You be careful nar, Ivan.’ She inspected me as a mother might send her boy to school for the first time. ‘An’ don’t let anyone pull ther wool over yer eyes, eh?’

  ‘My instincts rarely betray me, Mrs Cornelius. Please put your mind at rest. My future is assured. As is yours. Soon you’ll be as famous as Lillian Gish.’

  She was further amused by this. ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘in Whitechapel. Okey-dokey, Ivan. Bon bloody voyage, pal.’

  I climbed into the front cockpit of the DH-4. Roy Belgrade whistled through his fingers and a lad in knickerbockers came running from behind the hangar. He was chubby and black. For one dreadful moment I thought he was accompanying us. But he merely stowed my bag between me and the pilot. I drew the safety straps across my body, settling into the soft seat with some pleasure. To one side of my legs was a locker stencilled parachute, emergency only. Curiosity made me try to open it. It seemed stuck. When I did manage to pull the door back I saw that the whole compartment was crammed with Mexican liquor. As well as the mail, Roy was taking a little private cargo to New York. I was not bothered by this. The DH-4 could only be shot down, it was virtually impossible to crash. Dershvartseh vos kumen spins the propeller, his sleeves falling back from muscled arms, his skin alive with dancing sweat. Mrs Cornelius waves vigorously, her left hand moving from hat to skirt and back again as she attempts to hold her clothes in place. For the engine has caught. The blade ahead of me cackles and snores, whirling faster and faster until all is wailing, frustrated energy. The black boy suddenly appears on the other side of my cockpit canopy. He’s laughing. Ikh hob nisht moyre! Vemen set er? Ver is doz? Ikh vash zikh. Di kinder vos farkoyft shkheynim in Berlin ... He has gone. Does he still cling, like a mocking demon, somewhere upon the fuselage? The night creatures are in the pay of Carthage. Mrs Cornelius has disappeared. But I see Brodmann briefly. Does he step from the hangar and approach my car? Or is it the shvartseh I see. Do they all conspire? Have I never known free will? What forces took me to Byzantium and Rome? Did I make my own decision to sail for New York? The plane’s note changes and we are released from the Earth. This is the great Escape of Flying. We circle the diminishing field. A pink scarf waves from my little green Peugeot. I will be back with Esmé within the week. My blood is singing. I adjust the buckles of my helmet and goggles, drawing on my gauntlets. Wir empfangen es schlecht. Er ist zu viel Störung. I crane my head backwards. Der Flugzeugführer sitz im Führersitz ... He nods his reassuring helm then pulls his stick to send us upwards, banking towards jagged rock and distant snow, the High Sierras. Brodmann, if he was ever down there, can no longer be seen. The little black creature continues to cling to the fuselage for all I know, threatening to drag us down. Carthage will not let the individual fly.

  I shall come back to the City of the Golden Dream. I can still smell California with her ocean, her gorgeous crops, her precious metals and floral boulevards. I can smell the promise of Utopia, almost realised. Esmé will think she is dreaming. Wo sind wir jetzt? Es tut mir heir Weh. Ich weiss nicht was los ist. Es tutsehr Weh! Wir haben drei Jahre gewartet. We shall return to the citadel. Its substance changes so frequently it can neither be attacked nor destroyed. Barbarians believe they have conquered it but it is they who dwell in illusion. Der flitshtot vet kumen. Even if I am in mortal danger, the city will find a means of saving me. I never became a Musselman. My mother was swallowed by their red lava. How can I trust Brodmann? He has followed me too long. No one has the right to steal my future! The little black body loses its grip and is flung away, tumbling towards the foothills which now rise from the plain. Nit shuld! Nit shuld! They always claim that everyone shares guilt for those great crimes. But I say: We are all innocent! If one is true, then so is the other. Ikh blaybn lebn ... I shall survive. Carthage shall no longer threaten me with her whips nor shall she push my face into her mud. I am too old and proud to let her grin and point and mock unchallenged.

  Outside the night street is deserted; the black rain shines and hisses, mingling with grease from a dozen cheap cafés, with everything a dog or a man can pour from bowels or stomach; and the upstairs lights go off suddenly above the pub. There are sirens, of course, and distant war-cries; the occasional rising note of a curse, a condemnation, a self-advertisement. I think there is something wrong with me. I have eaten nothing, yet the pain starts in my stomach. I turn down my oil lamp (power strikes grow so frequent) and look through the curtain again. Head down, arms limp, shoulders slumped, some happy drunkard tries to piss into the doorway of the Greek take-out. He seems almost as old as me. He wears a stained tweed jacket, grubby grey flannels, a shirt without a collar. He is addressing himself in a furious undertone, accusing himself of some fartsaytik crime. How can I condemn any of these? At least I know the enemy and understand what is destroying me. They could not keep me for long. I was always too slippery for them. Tomorrow is early closing. I shall put this gelekhter and this glitshik fantazye behind me and go south instead of north, into the salubrious parks of their other Kensington. I was truly a luftmayster, a lord of the air, long ago when it was heroic. All they want now is long hair and guitars. Well, I disdain their zoot-suits. And I am the one who has to close my window against the stink of their vomit when they have all gone home. Ikh bin a Luftmayster, N’div auf der Flitstat. Firtmikh tsu ahin, ikh bet aykh. Firt mikh tsu ahin . . .

  The DH4 gains height to fly through the wide spaces between the taller peaks. I can see the snow blowing like an eternal tide across their flanks. I am fleeing out of paradise; but it is not true you can never return. We shall cross the plains and the Rockies, Esmé and I; the deserts and the Sierras; and come into our valley again. Here they have no Schutzhaft, ni Buchenwald, no Gulag for me, only for the Japanese. The future can be created swiftly here; there are people who devote themselves entirely to engineering problems involved in realising vast dreams. My cities shall begin here. Hollywood shall be my flagship. The old cities of Europe and America are noble and must be honoured, perhaps preserved. The cities of Asia Minor, Africa and the Far East: these, too, have some interest. But if Constantinople cannot rule as Emperor City, then a New Byzantium must be built to resist Carthage. I can make this a fact and do not seek even to be balebos. Eybik eyberhar? Vos is dos?

  They are monumental, these ships. Cities self-su
fficient in every respect. They move with tranquil dignity through the upper air. How easily they resist the deceptive gravity of Carthage! Here are the far-flying colossal children of Mauretania; the logical resolution of our Western history. They are pure and they blaze like silver in the sun. They are seen in the horizon’s haze, flickering, suddenly golden, then their massive engines thrust forward, upward, and they are gone.

  Wailing their earthbound despair, the conquered and the conquering, victims both, look up for an instant. If it were permitted them to think at all, they would think they had glimpsed heaven. Es war nicht meine Schuld. They move sluggishly, like chilled reptiles, desperate for the sun. Their wasted limbs are ensnared in filthy wreckage. They are opfal, say the Lords of Carthage. They gave their loyalty to the past, so they must die. Wie viele? Ich klayb pakistanish shmate. Ikh veys nit. They turn back to their sluggish battles, these slaves of the Sultan, these musselmanisch, these lagerflugen. Ikh varshtey nit.

  In the clear upper air, a mile above, the world’s great nations sail. They are invisible, optimistic and vital. These cities are the ultimate expression of human imagination. If they are attacked they could launch from their towers a million silver knights, like militant angels. Let Carthage do what she wishes with her muddy conquests. We are free.