The two charming gentlemen won me over at once. They led me into a world I had never thought to experience, a fresh dream of Southern elegance and power, so potent it almost compensated me for my temporary loss of Esmé. Charlie Roffy told me they were both from Memphis. Their money was in cotton which was presently booming. They foresaw however an ultimate decline in the cotton trade. Memphis needed new money. That meant Memphis had to have industry. The river had always done well for the cotton trade; perhaps it would continue to do well for some other enterprises, but he and his partner were thinking in terms of speed. Since the War, he was convinced the future lay in aviation. Dick Gilpin agreed enthusiastically. Both men feared that unless investment were swiftly found for an indigenous Southern aviation industry, the North would, as he put it, once again beat them to the draw where commercial plane services were concerned. A completely Southern aircraft industry was needed, with its own brand of machines, its own aerodromes, its own power structure. Hundreds of flyers returning from Europe were Southerners. In that respect, at any rate, the expertise was available. He knew a number of politicians close to the Harding administration who were of like mind and could help push through government funds. ‘What we have to come up with first, Max, is a better plane, together with some solid designs for the ‘drome. Then we can discuss the various services we’ll provide. What’s most important is that the machines be built in Tennessee. Only solid manufacturing will make us secure. We have to stop thinking of ourselves as farmers. We must put our profits into factory plants while we still have profits. Money isn’t stocks and shares, it’s bricks and mortar. We hope you’ll be able to help us realise that dream, sir.’
I was pleased with his directness. I already had some experience running factories abroad, I said, and, of course, I had the most advanced designs available for aircraft, both of the lighter-than- and heavier-than-air varieties.
‘We need to convince government departments of that, you understand,’ said Dick Gilpin. ‘Look good as well as do good, if you follow me. We have plenty of competitors in this town, as you can guess.’
Hoping it was not untoward, I took the liberty of showing them some of my press cuttings. They were my affidavits, after all. I also produced my diploma from the St Petersburg Academy, various letters, and all the documents I had carefully brought out of Russia. Of course, they were in foreign languages, apart from the ship’s newspaper report, but the two men seemed satisfied. Only the Russian papers disturbed them. In my anxiety to impress I had made a stupid mistake. ‘What language would this be, son?’ asked Charlie Roffy, stroking his pepper and salt moustache.
It was Rembrandt who saved me. ‘That’s Greek. A whole lot of those European universities still write their diplomas in it, sir, as you know.’
Dick Gilpin was relieved. ‘So long as it ain’t Russian! I’d hate to discover you were a Bolshevist, boy!’
I could not avoid a serious response, ‘I am dedicated to the destruction of Bolshevism in any form.’
They in turn were comforted and approving. Dick Gilpin raised a hand, nodding rapidly, his chin on his chest, his lips thrust out. ‘You’ve been in Europe and seen what they can do to a country. Forgive our bad taste, sir.’
Jimmy Rembrandt said he would have the diplomas translated and a general list of my ‘credits’ typed up by tomorrow. Meanwhile, some of my plans were already before the Secretary of the Interior and at the Patent Office. This, too, enthused our hosts, though they were puzzled as to why I had sent patents to the Department of the Interior. I said I had believed it the best place for them. My inventions ranged, after all, from planes to ploughs.
‘We’ve plenty of good friends in that department.’ Dick Gilpin lit a cigar. ‘If we can be of use to you please let us know.’
We agreed to meet in a day or so. Then we might discuss future plans in greater detail. The older men regretted they had business commitments and could not spend the entire evening with us. They insisted on paying the whole bill before saying goodbye. They left us with our coffee. Captain Rembrandt was delighted. ‘You’ve made a hit,’ he said. ‘Those two codgers are amongst the cunningest old foxes in Washington. They know everybody and can get almost anything they want. They’ll be checking on you now, Max. But don’t worry, they won’t look in the foreign papers.’ I was a little surprised by this apparent cynicism, yet he spoke of Roffy and Gilpin most admiringly. He said it was not cynicism. ‘It’s realism. Max. This here’s a political city. They have to be as sure of you as they can be.’
‘I’m still not clear what it is they want.’
‘Expertise,’ said Lucius Mortimer. ‘Authenticity. They need at least one genuine scientist, a real authority to develop and project their plans, if they are to get government backing. They mean to have the first licences to operate commercial flights out of Memphis. Gilpin didn’t mention it, but his son was a pilot. The boy never made it back from France. He’d talk of a time when passenger planes would replace trains. That’s why Gilpin wants to get in early. Look at the fortunes made in railroads. And Ford with his automobiles. The next real killing must be in the air.’
I said it was rare to encounter such vision. But I could not determine why they should want a new plane.
‘Roffy believes the man who controls plane manufacturing also ultimately controls the air roads, Max.’ Mortimer warmed a fresh cigar. ‘J. P. Morgan didn’t just own the rolling stock. He bought the factories which made the locomotives. Roffy’s a man dedicated to pulling the South out of her industrial decline. You’ve spoke often of Birth of a Nation, so you know what I mean. While she remains mainly a crop economy, Dixie’ll never have the power to challenge the big Northern financial interests. Roffy gets a lot of resistance from the more old-fashioned people in Memphis, but he knows exactly what he’s about. His great-uncle was a steamboat owner in the days when Mississippi water could hardly be seen for river traffic all the way down to New Orleans. But Memphis has relied on the river and cotton too long. Gilpin sees it ending. Not in ten years, maybe. But twenty. In the meantime, you could say, they’re buying themselves insurance.’
‘You said he was cunning.’ I was cautious, not completely satisfied everything was as it should be. ‘I don’t want Gilpin to involve me in another swindle.’
‘This isn’t a swindle, old man, it’s a symphony,’ said Lucius Mortimer.
‘He means it’s an idealistic venture as much as a financial one. It will bring something good to everyone associated with it.’ Jimmy Rembrandt had noticed my puzzlement. I was never wholly able to master American slang, though my proficiency would, of course, increase, and when they spoke together they remained hard to follow.
Later that night we drove out of the city towards Arlington. Jimmy and Lucius said we should celebrate. Our rented car was one of the better types of Ford, though unremarkable compared to what I was used to. Steering by moonlight we eventually turned off the main road and tolled slowly up a wooded track, into the driveway of a large house. It resembled an old Southern mansion, with a stone verandah and marble pillars, though most of it was of red brick, with white shutters. Here, my two friends said, we would be able to get a decent drink.
The house turned out to be a kind of discreet club, evidently suited to the needs of the wealthy. Save for the foyer, there were no public rooms. We were ushered, by a conservatively dressed middle-aged lady, to a suite of chambers furnished in red velvet and dark pine. ‘It’s on the expenses,’ Jimmy told me mysteriously. ‘You can order whatever you like.’
Once again that evening I found myself embarrassed, having no clear idea of his meaning. The room was beautifully decorated in a style reminiscent of French Empire. There were two or three small anterooms leading off the main one, together with a marble bathroom and toilet. The windows were closed to the world outside so the whole atmosphere was hushed and still. I remained hesitant and baffled. It evidently suited my friends to keep the secret for a while, for I was sure they could tell my state of mind.
‘I think we should have some champagne.’ Lucius loosened his tie. ‘Even if it’s a little premature. What would you say to some peachy female company, Max? Only the best. We’re privileged to be here, you know. Normally you have to be at least sixty and a Senator or an Admiral to get through those doors.’
It dawned on me at last that the house was actually an exclusive bordello. I had heard that they existed in America; places where men of affairs could come without fear of interference or scandal. The discretion and sophistication of modern Americans continued to astonish me. There were subtleties to the culture which could never be guessed at unless one was exposed to them.
I spent my first night in the American capital sniffing excellent ‘snow’ and sharing a bottle of mediocre sparkling wine with a luscious flapper. She was a strawberry blonde in a green satin shift who called me ‘handsome’ and said I was ‘simply cute’. The girls of New York had been nothing more than ordinary harlots one found in any big city. These Washington whores were the playthings of generals and congressmen. They were on a higher level completely. An oysnam fun der velt! I have never enjoyed myself so thoroughly at a brothel. Next morning Jimmy Rembrandt asked me if I had been satisfied with the girls. Sind die Russen und Polen Freunde? I had tasted the rewards awaiting success in America. This helped relieve me of my burden of melancholy. I could scarcely bear to think of Esmé or the difficulties poor Kolya must be encountering in Paris where he must still desperately be working to clear my name. But no good could be served by brooding. The better the distraction the more effective I could be when the time came for our reuniting.
There is a price to be paid for this method of survival.
Ich habe es dreifach bezahlt.
* * * *
FIFTEEN
THERE IS A WIND from Tatary which blows the spoors of decadence across the world. In palaces ferociously isolated from reality languid Sultans conjure wicked and fantastic abstractions affecting the concrete destinies of millions. Trained houris, forever nibbling and sucking at their masters’ private parts, confirm them in their illusion of absolute authority. Many who inhale this Oriental wind are immediately drugged; its perfumed currents permeate the world’s richest merchant cities, making men believe they have only to speak of fortunes to become immediately wealthy, only to invent fanciful plots to be themselves at once possessed of political power. Hundreds of others can be convinced by these fantasies; thus providing spurious confirmation of authenticity. In Washington I began to walk on air.
Jimmy Rembrandt and Lucius Mortimer were themselves some feet above the ground, so made no attempt to hold me down. Even Charlie Roffy and Dick Gilpin encouraged me to talk first in thousands, then in millions, then in billions. Bills were either ‘on expenses’ or ‘on the house’. My money, they would tell me frequently, was no good. It was in Washington, a place so unreal as to seem hardly a city at all, I learned that the ‘grand’ had become a unit of currency; one always referred to so many ‘grands’ and ‘half grands’. The grand is beyond money. It is used in the purchase of dreams and to impress others with the glory of those dreams. So common was this currency it seemed almost vulgar to think in terms of ordinary dollars and cents. As an official of the Mississippi & Tennessee Cotton Consortium I was given my own bank account, but did not have any immediate use for it: almost everything was done on someone else’s credit.
Washington is more mirage than city. Her dignified monuments are so carefully preserved, her cosmetic appearance so deeply important to her that little else seems to matter. The politicians and the public they are supposed to represent set enormous store by appearances. Sometimes Washington seemed less substantial than Griffith’s Babylon. Here I learned the true meaning of political hypocrisy for while federal agents hounded the makers of homebrewed wine, jailed the farmer unable to pay his taxes, laid siege to houses of ill fame, America’s senators, congressmen, generals and industrialists, her financiers and entrepreneurs, drank themselves stupid on the best quality whisky and fucked a different girl twice a day. To one another they signed over innumerable grands while in public they praised thrift and hard work, common sense, a fair day’s pay. They filled the palaces of government with sonorous rhetoric, giving the vaguest euphemism the ring of reasoned truth. In the evenings they boasted of friendships with madams and bootleggers and sold their votes to the highest bidder. Meanwhile Warren Harding, soon to be murdered for his dawning realisation of their corruption, smiled blindly with innocent pride at the purity and nobility of his country’s institutions.
Washington is white marble and grandiose architecture whose chief function is to impress and overawe those innocents whose money went to build it. It is as much a denial of democracy as it is a testament. For all the richness of her building materials, her weight of granite and alabaster, she is insubstantial. One sometimes felt she would take to her heels, vanishing at any moment.
I was, temporarily at any rate, successfully seduced. The chorus’s rounded calves kicked up in a line from tiny, tossing skirts; bobbed hair bounced above the bright, perfect smiles; the music of saxophones, syncopated, raucous, set the place; and flivvers sped from Montreal and runners cruised off Maine. Americans had learned from Europe there was money in contradiction; a killing could be made in a climate of ambiguity; where there was abstraction, there, too, was credit. Talk was cheap and paid huge dividends. The wind from Tatary had reached the New World. In Germany the mark inflated to the point of disintegration and Washington was dismissive: it was the price a country paid for its own folly. We were watching Rudolph Valentino’s enlarged lips curl around a cigarette; singing Second-Hand Rose in tones of whining sentimentality, pretending to a sorrow and despair most of us had not earned. Nothing had been earned. Hardly aware of the fact herself, America had become a Great Power, yet refused the consequent responsibility. Her exports went abroad and her capital stayed at home, so it was Europe who paid for America’s pleasures while at the same time she was dismissed as feeble and worn out. It would be almost ten years before America’s bill came in. And twenty years or more before it was paid.
Within their enormous temples, erected in imitation of the Greeks but to Egyptian scale, those politicians played at Romans but practised the habits of Carthage. Their city is a central core of privilege surrounded by outer rings of diminishing wealth, the rings broadening the further they are from the centre, until one reaches the great mass of negroes inhabiting broken down nineteenth-century houses, shacks and shanties situated so far from the lawns and monuments they become in a strange way entirely invisible. The negroes were like an army without a purpose, laying siege to a city they had neither the courage nor the means to attack. They could not be employed, bought off or turned away. They remained entrenched, lost in drink and drugs, whining their dreadful blues, sometimes sending a few cripples or women and children into the centre to beg. Most of them, I learned, had left good employment in the South with the idea they might be better off here. Having discovered their mistake, they were too cowardly to return to the work they were happiest doing, which is manual and mechanical, such as picking cotton or building cars. Like baffled Huns, abandoned by the main horde, they lived off the charity extended by those too good-hearted or too nervous to drive them away. These lazy creatures have always mystified me as a race. They are amiable enough when not inflamed by lust or the rabble-rousing words of some cynical white using them to his own ends. If any further sign were needed of Washington’s growing narcissism and blindness to reality it was in this refusal to do anything about the growing negro problem. (Eventually they were to become the advance troops of Carthaginian conquest; the cannon fodder of their Oriental commanders. The few genuine patricians left, scions of older Southern families, warned of this consequence but the mood of the times was against them and like me they were mocked, driven into obscurity, their heritage plundered, their visions denigrated and destroyed.)
The Laughter of Carthage: Pyat Quartet Page 38
