The Laughter of Carthage: Pyat Quartet

by Michael Moorcock

  It was unlikely his tolerance would be shared by the others. I know I was sweating, almost pleading with him not to pursue this line of association. My hands implored him. I had never seen this half-dead creature before and could scarcely believe the accident which led him to associate me with one of the people I most feared and despised in the world. I tried to shake my head. ‘Which Brodmann? Red beard? Alexandrovsk?’

  Chelanak began to laugh. ‘No! No! I saw you at the meeting! Day before yesterday. Near Rue St Denis. I thought you were Brodmann, then.’

  ‘I wasn’t at a meeting, comrade. Please don’t go on with this!’ Was Brodmann, after all, to be the death of me?

  ‘Brodmann claims now he helped kill Hrihorieff, did you know? You didn’t kill Hrihorieff, did you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I apologise. We get Chekists in here quite frequently. You must have a doppelganger, comrade. Unpleasant, eh? A doppelganger who’s a Chekist!’

  The chief danger seemed over, but I remained nervous. I had only come to this place in the hope of getting news of Kolya, who had had some anarchist associates in the old days. More and more exiles were crowding through the door, speaking every Russian dialect, as well as French, Polish, German. They carried their rolled newspapers casually, as they had once borne swords and rifles. I began pushing through them on my way out. Chelanak plucked at my coat. ‘But you are Brodmann’s friend, surely? Still a Barotbist, maybe? At least tell me what you’re here for!’

  ‘Prince Petroff,’ I said.

  ‘Why the hell are you looking for a Prince here?’ He was beside me again. ‘We’re a bit nervous of spies, Brodmann’s friend.’

  ‘I’m no friend of Brodmann. The only Brodmann I knew was caught and shot by the Whites in Odessa last year. As for Petroff, he’s done as much for the cause as anyone - and suffered as much. Is there now a class qualification for the Movement? If so you had better make plans to expel Kropotkin!’ I hated all the eyes now on me. I willed myself to speak levelly. ‘You’re a fool, Chelanak.’ I pushed at him, striking his dead arm which began to sway like a pendulum. ‘I can’t understand why you’re picking on me. I’ve done you no harm. We were part of the same group not so long ago.’

  He took hold of his wounded arm with his good hand and stopped us swaying. He looked at the ground. ‘I apologise, comrade. We’ve no Petroff here, unless he’s changed his name and his caste. I’m not sure what got me going. Just something in you.’

  Both of us were panting slightly. We stood outside the café now, staring towards the cemetery through the iron railings on the other side of the road.

  ‘You look a bit like Brodmann to me,’ he said, compounding the insult. ‘But I can see you’re not him. You haven’t the clothes or the complexion of a Chekist. It’s obvious in the daylight. I apologise again. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d hoped to find Prince Petroff, that’s all.’

  ‘Only exhausted and defeated anarchists come here. We share a common bond of bitterness and self-pity.’ He smiled, straightening his cap. ‘Maybe that’s why I mistook you for a Chekist. You don’t look crushed enough. Go in peace, comrade. But be careful. Your face is wrong for this kind of place.’ His mouth softened. ‘Your eyes have too much future in them. These cafés are citadels of a lost past. We don’t have the energy to take another step forward.’

  I do not remember saying goodbye to him. I ran up the Rue Froidevaux, past the theatre. I was running not from Chelanak but from Brodmann. I was sure the anarchist was right. Brodmann was a natural candidate for the Cheka. He would delight in destroying me. At that moment I could have run all the way back to Rome. I had to be a fool so passively to have accepted Santucci’s lift. I had thought it would be easy to get to London from here. It would have been better to have remained in Constantinople. It was imperative, I thought, at least to get out of Paris, possibly to the South or to Belgium. From there we could choose Holland or Germany. I would sell all my clothes. Every treasure I had retained. I found myself in the Luxembourg Gardens with their thin, unfriendly trees. The place was far too exposed for me. I dashed into the Rue St Michel and its crowds, was almost hit by a tram and at last reached our alley. It had become a sanctuary. I was seriously out of breath by the time I got to the top of the stairs. Within, it was as gloomy as ever. Esmé, sitting up in our grey bed, read an old La Vie Parisienne and merely nodded as I entered. I went immediately to our little store of cocaine to pull myself together. She still had last night’s papers in her hair. She was turning into a slattern and it was my fault. Could Brodmann, I wondered, have come specifically to Paris to seek me out? The Bolsheviks had assassins in every major city. Their job was simply to wipe out those who had escaped them in Russia.

  For once I was glad Esmé gave her entire attention to her magazine and did not see, thank God, my anxiety. How was I to tell her we must flee? She could only grow worse and it would be impossible to travel at any kind of speed with her an invalid and Brodmann in pursuit. He must surely be aware of my presence in Paris and since I had left my address everywhere in the hope Kolya would eventually be given it, Brodmann or one of his Chekist agents might discover it at any moment. I prayed they would spare Esmé. My first decision was to take my Georgian pistols to the expensive shops on the Quai Voltaire where tourists bought their old Louis XV chairs and Napoleonic medals, their carved saints looted from churches destroyed during the Siege. It was a short walk for me, along the Seine. I was bound to get enough for our rail fares out of France. However, I moved slowly. I felt I was renouncing the last vestiges of my heritage, selling my birthright, betraying a friend. But I had no choice. Refugees all over Paris were making exactly the same decision.

  I believe I was singularly blessed in those days by a somewhat flamboyant and depraved Guardian Angel, the same who had started me into the bohemian Petersburg world and introduced me to Kolya. He now appeared, shrieking and waving his long, limp arms, on the Pont Neuf where it joined Quai de Conti. It was as if he had sprung from one of the grotesque buttresses of Notre Dame itself, dressed in a bright yellow cloak, green cravat, blue velvet jacket and white Oxford Bags. From habit, my first impulse was to avoid him; then I shrugged as he leapt across the roadway, cloak and trousers billowing like the silk of a deflated balloon, and seized me. He hugged me to his monstrous chest and breathed peppermint vodka into my face. He still had his exaggerated good looks, his theatrical speech and gesture. It was also obvious that his lust for me (first felt on the train when I was a boy travelling from Kiev to St Petersburg and the Polytechnic) was utterly undiminished. It was the ballet-dancer Sergei Andreyovitch Tsipliakov. ‘Your own Seryozha, my darling Dimka!’ He kissed me passionately on both cheeks and then again on my forehead. ‘Oh. Dimka! You are not dead! I am not dead! Isn’t it wonderful? How long have you been in Paris? You don’t look well.’ He held me firmly in his huge hands and inspected me. ‘I told you Paris was the place to be and you remembered! Wasn’t I a good judge? I came here in ‘16 with some of the other Foline members. To entertain the troops. And I’ve been here ever since. Lucky, too, don’t you think?’

  I seemed to remember he had once been absolutely firm that I should stay in Petersburg. I wanted to know how he had managed to reach Paris when it had been almost impossible for Russian civilians to travel. ‘My dear, Foline is a genius. Heartless, selfish, thoughtless, but a genius. He talked someone into believing our performances would improve the morale of the troops fighting in Flanders. And they let us go. About half of us, anyway. They wouldn’t have me, dear, in the army. And I didn’t pout about it. A tremendous piece of good fortune. We’re loved by everyone in Paris. I’ve had offers from Diaghilev and from that plagiarist Fokine. Not only did he steal Foline’s name, he’s stolen almost all our repertoire. But it doesn’t matter. There are hundreds of marvellous composers here, as you know. Where are you off to, Dimka dear?’

  Having gathered that Seryozha was doing well, I had begun to consider my ideas. Perhaps I could bo
rrow the money I needed, or at least sell him some shares in my Airship Company. I told him I was merely out for a stroll, whereupon he insisted we must go to a nearby café, L’Epéron. ‘I was on my way to it anyway. It’s marvellous there. Everyone’s so handsome and beautiful. Do you feel like an omelette? They have wonderful omelettes.’

  We strolled past box after box of secondhand books lining the embankment then back up to Boulevard St-Michel, as crowded as always. Seryozha seemed to know half the people in the street. L’Epéron was one of those huge, modern places which had become so fashionable since the war. A glass enclosure filled the best part of a block and inside it was crowded with dirty, long-haired, bawdy self-styled painters, writers and musicians. I was only grateful the stage inside was presently unoccupied by the inevitable jazz band. We had to share a table with two obvious homosexuals who to my chagrin immediately assumed I was Seryozha’s catamite. But I was prepared to suffer even this if it meant escape for me and Esmé. Seryozha, for my benefit and for that of half the vast café, began to boast of his achievements on the dance stage, what the Parisian critics had said of him, how Diaghilev himself had tried to lure him away from Foline. This, too, I endured patiently, nodding and smiling; the price I paid for the omelette, which was large but mediocre. My acquaintance ordered a whole bottle of anis which he insisted we drink. I had forgotten his taste for alcohol. By the time we rose to leave I was fairly drunk and had agreed to go back with Tsipliakov to his rooms in Rue Dauphine. As we walked unsteadily over the cobbles I asked if he had seen anything of Kolya in Paris. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I was seeing him fairly frequently about six months ago. He always dines at Lipp’s in Boulevard St-Germain. Do you know it? Not to my taste. Country food, mainly. But he has a sentimental attachment to peasants, as you know.’ He stopped, took out his key, opened a huge courtyard gate and ushered me ahead of him. On the other side of the courtyard a flight of steps led to the door of his flat. It was spacious and light, but he had the taste of a kulak. Little nick-nacks were perched on every surface: china pigs, china roses, candlesticks, gold vases full of garish flowers. It was heavy with stale perfume. ‘Take those Japanese cushions,’ he said. ‘You’ll be most comfortable.’

  I hoped I would not have to stay long. I removed my coat and lowered myself into the cushions, reaching up for the glass of yellow Pernod Seryozha handed me. i take it you’re still partial to snuff?’ he said. I wonder if he ever knew I stole his cocaine box on the train. I nodded. ‘The chief necessity of my life,’ I told him.

  I watched him as he sat down at a black and gold lacquered table and began to prepare the ‘snuff. ‘I should explain,’ he said abstractedly, ‘that Kolya and I are no longer on speaking terms. I regard his life-style as miserable and his choice of companions - well, Dimka, dear, unconventional for him. He had the nerve to cut me the last time he saw me. He’s become massively respectable. Wants none of his old pals.’ The thick lips, the huge eyes, the flaring nostrils, turned to offer me a look of deep, but mysterious, significance. He brought me the cocaine in a little marble dish and I sniffed it through a long, gold tube. It was better quality than we had been getting. I would at least discover Seryozha’s supplier before I left.

  Then suddenly he had taken a leap - a balletic jump - to land beside me in the cushions. What remained of my drink spilled and I tried to find somewhere to stand it, but he wrenched it from my hand with a loud laugh and flung it behind him. ‘Ah, Dimka, dear. It’s been so frustrating! Has it been the same for you? I dream of those days on the train. You were so young and sweet. Sometimes, before I go to sleep, I can still smell you. There’s nothing like that odour. No chemist could ever reproduce it. You still have a little of it now. How old are you?’

  ‘I’m twenty-one.’ I rolled awkwardly in the cushions.

  ‘A major at last. Ho, ho!’ He touched his lips to my shoulder and looked up at me with his brown eyes; a swooning cow.

  ‘And what are you doing in Paris?’

  ‘Looking for work. For money. The Cheka is after me. Because of my activities in Odessa.’

  ‘You have no money?’ I admired the way he sprang so easily to his feet. A desk drawer was opened. Several large-denomination notes were taken out. He was down again beside me, pressing the money into my shirt. ‘That will keep you for a while. Buy a suit. You could do with a good suit.’

  I did not wish to offend him, so I said, ‘I’ll pay you back, Seryozha. This will help with the doctor’s bill, thank God!’

  ‘You’re ill? Consumption?’

  ‘Sadly, no. It’s crab lice. I got them in Montmartre, I think.’

  Again he was on his feet, unconsciously scratching at his thigh. ‘You still have them?’

  ‘I must tell you the truth. I was on my way to find out whether I’m cured or not.’

  ‘Oh, but I should not keep you!’

  I was surprised at the effectiveness of my ruse.

  ‘I’d love to see you again,’ I said, clambering to my feet and staggering from cushions to floor. I was scarcely able to stand upright, though the cocaine had partially cleared my head. Probably I could thank the cocaine for the alacrity with which I had invented my unpleasant affliction.

  ‘You shall, Dimka, darling. Tomorrow. Let’s pray to all the saints this awful ordeal is at an end for you.’

  I think I saw him give the cushions a sidelong inspection as he showed me to the door. He blew a kiss. ‘Until tomorrow, Dimka, my dear.’

  I was not sure whether I would be able to tolerate another encounter with the huge dancer, but he was my only real link with Kolya and a source of money, which in turn meant I could return to our pension with bon-bons for Esmé and some flowers to cheer her up. She almost wept when she saw my presents. ‘Are we rich again, Maxim?’

  ‘We are on the road to riches, my little dove. I think I know where to find Kolya.’

  She was not much impressed by this. To her my Kolya was a myth, a symbol of hope rather than a reality. She tended to become depressed when his name was mentioned. She needed something more concrete, ‘I promise you, Esmé, that we shall soon be free of all this.’ I sat on the bed and squeezed her hands while she chewed her chocolates. ‘Kolya will be able to help me get my Airship Company going.’ It was all I could tell her. Presently, I should have been grateful for somewhere else to live, where Brodmann and his Chekists would not be able to find us. Even Esmé noticed the caution with which I locked up that afternoon. I went out again at 6 pm. I told her to be careful, to answer only my knock.

  It was raining by the time I got to Lipp’s. In contrast to the street the restaurant’s ornamental brasswork and plate glass was cheerful. It was an old-fashioned family restaurant on two floors, catering to a wide clientele, many of them Jewish. Somewhat nervously I pushed through the revolving door and presented myself to the head-waiter. The place was already crowded. He asked if I had made a reservation and when I admitted that I had not, he shook his head. I could tell he might have allowed someone else in but he did not much like my looks. Depressed, I walked out into St Germain. I remained in a succession of shop doorways for an hour or two, watching Lipp’s entrance in the hope of seeing Kolya. Eventually I went home. My clothes were becoming too shabby but if I were to wear either of my uniforms I should become a sitting target for the Chekist assassins. I decided I must have a new suit.

  Next morning, just before noon, I went to visit Seryozha again. By now I had a clearer idea of how to resist his advances. When he opened the door he was still bleary, but he brightened when he saw me. He wore a multi-coloured silk kimono which he did not bother to tie at the waist. Doubtless he hoped the occasional glimpse of naked thigh or genitals would increase my desire for him. I was already familiar with both. I remembered them vividly from the train, when he had the top bunk and I the lower. I had no means, however, of guarding against him when he kissed my lips (his own stank of stale alcohol) and squeezed my waist before padding over to the bureau to find his cocaine, offering it as another might
offer coffee. Naturally, I accepted. Now, gradually, he remembered our last encounter. ‘How was your visit to the doctor, Dimka? Are you completely cleared up now?’

  ‘Almost. The best treatment is some kind of lotion, but he says it’s expensive. The other treatment’s slower.’

  ‘You’ve been sleeping around too much, Dimka. I always knew you had the makings of a little whore.’ Reaching back into his desk, he opened a drawer. He took out some more money. ‘Will this pay for the lotion?’

  I controlled my rage at the insult, but the rage itself helped me accept the money without conscience. Let the pervert think what he liked! I would never sleep with him. There is such a thing as love between men. I do not deny I have experienced it. But whereas any reasonably good-looking woman is worth making love to, if only for an hour or so, a man has to be outstanding in every way and there has only, really, been one such man in my life, just as there have only been two true loves amongst women. I spent a little time with Seryozha, learning about the Foline and its plans for touring, his quarrels with the management (‘They say I drink too much. I say who would not drink too much with those leaden-footed ballerinas to heave about the stage!’) He asked where I was living. There was nothing to be gained from lying. I told him Rue de la Huchette. ‘But that’s a squalid place! Those awful little restaurants. You have to take your own bread and your own knife and fork into them! Oh, my dear Dimka, that’s dreadful!’