The Laughter of Carthage: Pyat Quartet

by Michael Moorcock

  I agreed. ‘The terrible truth, however, is that it is frequently the cowards who win the wars.’

  She found this either too profound or too disturbing. After arranging to meet at exactly the same time in her cabin the next day, we went off in opposite directions.

  I paused near the bridge to light a cigarette and watch the far-off flames as they subsided. When I looked up at the sky there was a figure suddenly on the narrow deck above me. It was pale and it plainly had no wish to be seen. A man, wrapped in a kind of shawl or short cloak, who coughed almost apologetically and nodded to me. I stared hard at him this time. Again the name came to my lips.

  ‘Brodmann?’

  If it was Brodmann, he was more frightened of me than I was of him. I laughed. ‘What do you mean, up there, playing at ghosts?’

  The man drew his shawl closer about his shoulders and disappeared out of sight. I walked swiftly round the deck, trying to reach the stairway down which he must climb if he was to return to his cabin. But he had been too quick for me. The door was shut and although this time I banged on it there was no light inside. Even when I pressed my ear to the louvred panel which, like mine, was stuffed with old newspapers, I could hear nothing.

  I went to find Mr Thompson, to ask him when he thought we should arrive in Constantinople.

  * * * *

  TWO

  NEXT AFTERNOON four coffins came aboard: four long wooden boxes, probably of ammunition. We left Novorossisk with an additional trio of elderly Russian women, a deaf old man, a wounded British captain and his Indian orderly, an Italian Red Cross nurse. We now had one of the most curiously mixed groups of passengers any ship had ever carried. We would be continuously at sea for several days, heading into warmer weather. Our last Russian port of call was to be Batoum. In my new mood I began to look forward to Constantinople, to the prospect of travelling in Europe and settling in London. I wanted so much to be free of Brodmann (or rather the threat of what he represented). I wanted to enjoy the Baroness without the sense that my idyll might be interrupted at any moment. This, I now decided, might be achieved in Constantinople during the few days I would be there.

  The delicious geometry of the Baroness blended in my imagination with the more severe geometry of the ship. Both struck me a; shuddering, powerful, uncertain beasts to be controlled with skill and delicacy. On that second day I introduced her to the pleasures of cocaine-sniffing. I heaped her with sensation upon sensation. She was greedy for everything I could offer. ‘It has been so long. I have missed so much.’ She was a huge, arrogant cat which had elected to place herself absolutely in my power. The more obedient she became in pursuit of her lust the more my affection for her increased; yet she never seemed to lose her identity. She remained the

  Baroness von Ruckstühl; almost an ally to equal Mrs Cornelius. She called me her ‘mysterious, dark stranger’. She had heard the calumny, too. She said she would not care if I was a Jew and a charlatan; but she believed in me, in my greatness, in my destiny. She thought, she said, that race was of no importance at all. Ich verspreche lhnen! She was a woman of enormous, if specific, generosity.

  I had some misgivings, of course. These were to do with my discovering the wealth of passion and sensuality I had unlocked in her; the considerable determination expressed in her feelings which, I feared, might at any moment go out of my control. It was not long, for instance, before her original intention of ‘a brief, illicit love affair’ began to transform into a desire for a longer, possibly more formal, liaison. Soon she suggested breathlessly it would be ‘wonderful if we could be together for a whole night’.

  I had already planned to spend more time with her, but I could not help fearing she would choose to interpret a mere inclination as a declaration of fidelity. I had already made it plain to her that my career took precedence over everything else. I looked directly into her great blue-green eyes and said as tenderly as I could: ‘That’s impossible.’

  She responded wistfully. ‘I suppose so.’ Yet it was obvious she was already considering another approach. As the end of our voyage drew near, she hoped for some sort of reassurance from me. I was touched by the way she turned her massive head to one side and let her shoulder fall. She was like an enormous schoolgirl. I embraced her, stroking her cheek. ‘Already there has to be considerable gossip,’ I said. ‘The more pernicious because Mrs Cornelius is still officially my wife. And you would suffer far worse from gossip than I.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about their gossip, do you?’

  It was true I did not much begrudge them their little crumb of scandal. It took their minds from their own troubles and within a fortnight I would be free of them. But it suited me to feign discomfort. ‘I do care,’ I told her. ‘These are times when a little bit of malice can cost you your life.’ Plainly it was up to me to keep a sense of proportion. Moreover, I was still thinking of Brodmann. He had the power to put me in front of a firing squad, should certain people believe him. Similarly, it was important to placate the Baroness. If she became vindictive she could embarrass me with the Allied authorities. Much better that the affair should be brought to a gradual, bitter-sweet conclusion, without anger or tears. Soon she and I would go our own ways. The entire voyage would be remembered as a passing interlude, a pleasant shipboard romance. The Baroness was bound to lose some of her infatuation for me when we disembarked. Nonetheless it was the first time I had enjoyed an affair with a woman denied pleasure for too many years and yet who was used to commanding authority. I was becoming fascinated by her.

  Even when she pretended to change the subject it was actually to amplify her theme. She stroked my head almost as if I were her child, or a favourite dog. ‘There are people I expect to meet in Constantinople, Simka. You and they could work to your mutual benefit.’ By which she revealed she now planned a future for us! She seemed to ignore my mission, my association with Mrs Cornelius, my own ambitions, and when I murmured something about them, she was dismissive. ‘There’s no harm in considering different options, surely?’

  ‘You think of me too much.’ I took her hand. I was gentle. Yet we duelled. ‘You must first look to your own interests. I have protected myself pretty well for several years!’

  ‘I see my interests as yours,’ she said. It was the nearest she had come to a plain statement. In an effort to turn her mind from this course, I pressed my hand hard against her breasts and bit her ear-lobe.

  Since I could not control her imagination I would have to resort to minor deception, using the ‘secret orders’ excuse which had served me excellently in the past. If I liked I could use it within a day of reaching Constantinople. I could even enjoy her company for a week after we disembarked and still leave with honour and little fear of her turning treacherous. At a pinch I would also recruit help from Mrs Cornelius. (Though currently I could not easily confide in her, since she spent most of her evenings with the English sailors. She was rarely in bed much before dawn.)

  Satisfied I had evolved a good enough plan, I relaxed again, though the spectre of Brodmann remained a flaw to my overall peace of mind. At night I would spend an hour or more looking for him (or whoever it was who so resembled him) but without success. Twice I waited outside the closed cabin door, to be rewarded with nothing more than what might have been a faint groan, or a small, dry coughing noise which lasted a few seconds. I maintained my habit of rising early, often before Mrs Cornelius returned from her revels, and enjoying my own company on deck. A day or two out of Novorossisk the weather began to improve. Sometimes blue sky could be seen between clouds whose outlines resembled sleeping polar bears.

  At length the ship appeared to be hemmed in by these massive white mountains. Perhaps she was adrift in one of those submarine caverns scientists say lie beneath our icecaps; caverns leading to undiscovered tropical continents where an explorer might find primitive nations inhabited by half-human races. The engines echoed loudly in my ears, filling the whole vast expanse. Had Russia drowned in the tears of the dying? Ha
d we alone escaped? Were we sailing even now above the silent roofs of cities whose populations were corpses: corpses whose hair streamed like seaweed, whose damned eyes begged for release? It was impossible to stop. We could not help. We were searching for our Ararat. I began to fancy this was truly the end of civilisation; ourselves the only survivors. Might it be my fate to lead these people towards a New Dawn. The best of them (especially the English) already believed in me as a prophet. Again I became fully inspired with the sense of my great destiny. Of course I did not really believe the world had ended, but the metaphor was accurate. I stood on the forward deck of the Rio Cruz in dignified fur. The black and silver Cossack pistols in my pockets continued to remind me of my heritage while I now believed as strongly as I ever had in the brilliant future which awaited me. Behind me was a beloved but thoroughly exhausted Russia; before me was Europe. She had learned the lesson of War and now must surely restore herself in a Golden Age of justice and human achievement where my engineering abilities would be immediately recognised and I would be called to play a major role in a great renaissance. The future was in the hands of the mighty Christian nations: Britain, France, Italy and America, even Germany. A future of skyscraper and undersea tunnel, of television, the matter transmitter and, greatest of all, the flying city. Let Russia with all her sins fall back into a Dark Age in which petty would-be tsars squabbled for dominance of an ever-diminishing territory. The West must become purified chrome and glass rising to the clouds, sophisticated machines and wonderful electronics, the true heritage of Byzantium: a Graeco-Christian Utopia!

  Two thousand years ago we had lost the path. Now we had again been granted the chance to find it and follow it. The Turk was on his knees; the Jew scuttled for cover. Carthage was once more reduced and this time must never be allowed sufficient pause to regain her strength. I knew I could not be alone in this dream. All over the Christian world men and women were taking fresh breath, preparing themselves for the task. Bu ne demektir? People snigger at me now when I tell them what might have been. They do not realise how many of us there were; how easily (had it not been for the machinations of petty, greedy minds) we might have made the dream reality. Anyone who knows me will tell you I have scarcely an ounce of suspicion in my nature; paranoia is foreign to me; yet only an idiot would deny the power of Zion. Theirs was a dark vision, opposed to mine and those like me. Mr Thompson was one such fellow soul. I sought him out. It was important to keep a reasonable distance between myself and the Baroness. I confided to Mr Thompson that I found it hard to imagine how I should survive in the non-Russian world. Again he assured me men like myself were needed everywhere, particularly in Britain. I was, he said, ‘a wonder’, an ‘infant prodigy’. My talents would not be wasted. Sucking his pipe for hours on end he quietly contemplated my ideas, admitting that many were above his head. He was convinced, however, it was to be an engineer’s future. ‘I envy you, Mister Pyatnitski. Trotski’s a fool to drive people like you away. I’m surprised you haven’t thought of the USA. That’s where I’d go, if I was young. They appreciate our sort in America.’

  But the United States at that time had never captured my imagination, although the pictures of redskins, frontiersmen and buffalo (gleaned from my reading Karl May and Fenimore Cooper) were romantic enough. I believed there were no true cities in America and precious little civilisation. It took time, in my view, to develop a true city. I shook my head. ‘It’s not my ambition to build farm-machinery or locomotives, or work out means of mass-producing cheap clocks. Let the miners keep their gold; I’ll not part them from it in exchange for a few penny toys!’

  Mr Thompson shrugged. ‘You might find you’re glad to be free of European squabbles. Yankees like to keep themselves to themselves. I know how they feel. The British are too fond of taking care of other people.’

  ‘I’m a Russian and a Slav. Mr Thompson. I couldn’t leave Europe in the lurch. Also I am a Christian. My loyalties are clear. But for the Bolsheviks and the Jews I should not be an exile at all. Everyone knows that Jews already control New York. I have nothing in common with the self-serving bourgeoisie aboard this ship. Let them go to America if they wish. They are all deserters.’

  We were leaning against the funnel for warmth while this particular conversation took place, contemplating the black, featureless ocean. Our various lights, red, green and white, were reflected in the water and we might have been riding on dark clouds, through infinite space. Mr Thompson relit his pipe. ‘You Russians seem a hopeless bunch of creatures, I must admit. I’ve seen the refugees in Constantinople, already. A man with your qualifications is welcome anywhere. But what do you think will become of the rest? The women and children? Will they be allowed back when the war is over?’

  I could not answer. In those days no one believed what hideousness was yet to come. Many went back, during the so-called New Economic Policy period. Most were dead before 1930. I will not pretend that as the years passed I looked for hope of welcome, or at least recognition, in my homeland. I would not be alive today if I too had clutched at the straws offered by the Reds in the middle-twenties.

  When Mr Thompson returned to his duties I was melancholy again. Against my usual habit, I sought the company of Mrs Cornelius. As usual she was enjoying herself in the dining-saloon with some of the officers. Jack Bragg was there, singing the choruses of Knock ‘Em In The Old Kent Road and Two Lovely Black Eyes. I think he flushed when he saw me, confirming my suspicion of his amorous feelings towards my companion. He could not know how sympathetic I felt. Mrs Cornelius wore her yellow and black dress (she called it her ‘tango frock’) and was performing the traditional English dance known as the Knees Up. I took a glass of rum and sang along with the others, imitating every one of Mrs Cornelius’s inflections and gestures. It was how my rather formal English, inherited from Pearson’s Magazine and various novelists, began to gain that neat touch of colloquialism which would often confound native Britons and enable me to move gracefully in all walks of life.

  Mrs Cornelius winked at me, as she usually did, and persuaded me to sing one of the songs she had taught me. I willingly displayed my mastery with a rendering of Wot A Marf, Wot a Marf, Wot a Norf An’ Sarf. This has always remained one of my favourites. It was greeted with huge applause. Those Russians who had remained at the far end of the saloon, nearest the doors, were completely baffled. Mrs Cornelius gestured kindly for them to join us, but they displayed either embarrassment or downright surliness and disapproval. I too called they should ‘let their hair down’ and then, to my sudden horror, saw Brodmann, who had been huddled in a shawl and hidden by a fat dowager, rise from his seat. I could barely contain myself. It was a tribute to my iron will that I did not cry out. I forced myself to continue smiling and held my hand to the figure who hesitantly approached us. The smile turned to what was probably an inane grin of relief as I realised this creature was not, after all, my enemy. In response to me, he began to beam all over his red, greasy face, stumbling forward, singing some popular ditty familiar to me from my early days in Odessa. I would never normally have shown such welcome to a Jew, but now it was too late. ‘I am so glad,’ he said, when he had finished the first verse. ‘I have been ill, you know. Afraid they would turn me off the ship. Measles or something, but I am completely recovered. I have seen you once or twice, have I not? At night when I was getting some air?’ Before I could extricate myself, Mrs Cornelius put one plump, pink arm around his shoulders and the other around mine and was soon kicking up her legs in a kind of can-can. I had no choice but to make the best of it. By the time Mrs Cornelius broke away to dance with Jack Bragg I was left with the drunken, sickly Jew whose name, he said, was Hernikof. In his expensive, gaudy suit, with his gold watch-chain and huge diamond rings, he looked grotesque. He sweated a great deal, mopped his head and neck and insisted over and over again that he was ‘perfectly recovered’. He began to tell me how terrible it had been for him in Odessa; how his family had died in a pogrom, how his mother had been crucified b
y White Cossacks: all the familiar exaggerations of his race. When a short time later he leered at me and asked me if I, too, were going on to Berlin ‘with the attractive Baroness’ it was all I could do to hold back my temper. Yet, of course, I remained relieved that the ghost had been laid. At last I managed to return to the table where Mrs Cornelius sat panting. I squeezed in between her and Bragg, refilled my glass and made a great show of concentrating on the words of O, What A Happy Land Is England. It was bad enough having to travel in close proximity to the likes of Hernikof, but it was far more hateful when they assumed an intimacy and similarity of ambition and character. True, I had left Odessa considerably richer than I had arrived, and with military promotion into the bargain, but these fat brokers, wailing for sympathy, had had nothing of the real experiences, had seen nothing of the true horror. They had neither been imprisoned by anarchists or Bolsheviks nor had they known what it was to give up any hope of living. They had not seen men and women kneeling in the snow beside the railway tracks waiting to be shot in the head. They had not been forced to keep company with corpses and crows, with louse-ridden Cossacks who might kill you casually from mere boredom. They had heard of a few arrests, the occasional execution, seen some Jews being pursued through the streets, but their indignation was chiefly aroused by lost bills-of-lading, requisitioned houses, stock purchased with useless money.

  That night I felt as if I had been driven back into my former mental condition; ‘within the nightmare’ as Russians say: that perpetual dreamlike state of frequently unadmitted terror I had known for over two years. My life and sanity had been attacked, my whole existence thrown upside-down by the cruel madness of Revolution and Civil War; my brain and body had throbbed, night and day, with fear. The terror becomes manifest. The dry mouth opens. Any words will come out of it. Anything which might save it. When the danger passes it is impossible to remember exactly what that frightened mouth has said. Neither does it matter, because you are still alive. Yet people look at you in contempt and call you a liar! They are lies, of course. I am not a fool. I will not deny it. My survival depends on self-knowledge. But are they like the lies Hernikof doubtless gave the British simply to gain sympathy and a passport to the rich pickings of Berlin? Such slimy untruths would not work on me. While not proud of everything I have done, I scarcely feel guilty; because I survived. What did it matter if the Jews tried to ingratiate themselves with me? What if those jumped-up kulaks snubbed me? The condemnation of the privileged is meaningless. Besides, I was admired by the British. I was loved by a woman of noble blood. I was watched over by another who was both mother and sister to me. The Jew was somehow shaken off and I found myself swaying between Mrs Cornelius and Lt Bragg, singing one of the sad Cossack songs I had learned when a prisoner of the Reds. Jack Bragg was plainly moved. He would have remained to hear the rest of the verses but he had to go on duty. I was halfway through and had reached the part where the second pony has died, giving up its life for the heroine, when Mrs Cornelius fell with a gargling noise backwards into my lap and looking up at me through her large, candid eyes said slowly, ‘I fink ya’d better put me ter bed, Ive.’