The Laughter of Carthage: Pyat Quartet

by Michael Moorcock

  I helped her back to our cabin. This time she controlled her stomach until we were both undressed and then, as I reached to pull the blankets over her, she was sick on my only nightshirt. By the time I had washed it out in the ship’s toilet (the cabin had no running water or individual heating) she had gone to sleep. I stood supporting myself with a hand on the bunk looking at her in the yellow light from a hurricane lamp Jack Bragg had managed to find for us. The throbbing of the ship became indistinguishable from the throbbing of my own loins. Once you become used to lust being satisfied it is much harder to control. I longed for her to want me, to open her arms to me. I leaned down to stroke her hair. She murmured gratefully and smiled. ‘Thass loverly . . .’I touched her neck. ’Oo,’ she said, ‘you wicked fing,’ and she wriggled in the bed. I sat down on the edge. I kissed her ear. Her eyes opened and her smile changed to an expression of shocked surprise. ‘Ivan! Yer littel bleeder. I fort you woz . . .’ It was evident she had forgotten the name of her Frenchman.

  ‘François.’ I began to stand up.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Aloft once more I fell into a troubled sleep, dreaming of Brodmann disguising himself as Hernikof and summoning vengeful Cossacks to torture and kill me. Waking from this I deliberately recalled the strong thighs, the red, eager lips of my Leda, her magnificent Slavic breasts, her hair, the sweep of her spine, the curve of her backside. Sex has always helped me to soothe away my fears. I became increasingly willing to risk a night or two in the Baroness’s company. The consequences, after all, would not be considerable, even if she did turn against me. And would it be any more than I deserved? I was guilty of dreadful greed in my desire to possess Mrs Cornelius as well as Leda Nicolayevna. How could I forget the bargain I had made with my one friend in all the world; the person who had saved my life more than once: my Guardian Angel? Sometimes, even now, when Mrs Cornelius and I have known carnal love, I recall that incident with shame. I am not a monster. But I suppose it is in all of us to behave like a monster occasionally. Looking back, I blame Hernikof. When those about you are cynical and assume your motives to be as cynical as theirs, sometimes you behave as they do. We are all social creatures, unconsciously moved by the desires and expectations of our fellows. I am no different to anyone else. I have never claimed to be.

  Now I understand my behaviour a little better. Unquestionably I was still within the nightmare. It takes more than a week or two at sea to dissipate the reaction to years of familiar terror. Terror truly becomes an old friend. One misses him. The sudden absence of threat can be almost as traumatic as the loss of security. For the same reasons, small wars frequently follow hard on the conclusion of larger wars. Any habit, no matter how self-destructive, is hard to lose, particularly when it is never fully acknowledged. Perhaps, too, something happens to the body-chemistry when so much adrenalin is frequently summoned. We have all seen the small dog rescued from the fangs of the larger beast; frequently he will turn and fasten his teeth in the wrist of his benefactor. My love for Mrs Cornelius was far more spiritual than it was physical, though of course she was extraordinarily sensual. I was equally special to her, I know. She did not at that time wish to risk the destruction of our relationship by introducing common lust into it. She told me this many, many years later. I understand that perfectly now, of course. On the Rio Cruz. however, I found myself frequently baffled.

  Next morning I got up as usual and went on deck. The air was considerably warmer and the light spray refreshed me. Two or three seamen were at work polishing our brass and scrubbing our decks almost as if they prepared for a special event. The sun shone through patchy, fast-moving cloud. I fancied I could smell the coasts of Asia, though I knew it would be some time before we sighted Batoum. The wounded English officer nodded to me as he limped past, leaning on his walking stick, his face pale with pain, his Indian batman a pace or two behind him, showing poorly-disguised concern for his master. The woman with the cards, my own personal Moira, played on, her black shawl rising and falling on her shoulders like the wings of a lazy scavenger. And the Jew Hernikof was there, offering a feeble grin, as if our contact of last night had made us boon friends. There was something about his features which still reminded me of the pathetic Brodmann. I did not want trouble. I nodded to him distantly and tried to walk on. But he followed. He was eager. ‘I hope you weren’t offended by anything I said last night. I can’t remember too clearly. I suppose I’m not completely recovered. I’m normally not much of a drinker, anyway.’

  ‘It’s of no importance.’ To escape, I began to climb the metal ladder to the forecastle. He clucked like a sick chicken and his feet moved involuntarily as if scratching gravel. Evidently he was frustrated at not being able to follow me.

  ‘I think I might have lost my usual sense of decorum. The experiences were painful, you know.’ His voice was hoarse, even desperate, as he craned his neck.

  ‘We have all had them.’ I reached the forecastle and peered down at him. There was nowhere else to go. At my back was the sea, parting in white foam before the bow.

  ‘Oh, of course.’ Again the hesitant grimace of a smile. ‘They will never end, I suppose, for the likes of us.’

  I was offended by his presumptive claim to be Russian. As I turned away I heard him say: ‘Der Krieg ist endlos. Das Beste, was wir erhoffen können, sind gelegenliche Augenblicke der Ruhe inmitten des Kampfes.’

  I understood him perfectly but chose to tell him coldly and in Russian, ‘I do not speak Yiddish.’

  He protested. ‘It is German. I gathered you’re a linguist.’ He blinked, too short-sighted to see me properly yet trying to read my expression.

  I became furious, ‘Is this a test, M. Hernikof? Do you think I am not what I say I am? Do you suspect I’m an agent provocateur? A Boche? A Red?’

  He pretended innocence. ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Then please do not pursue me about this ship shouting at me in foreign languages.’

  As he turned away his lips were trembling. Had I not guessed his intentions I might have felt pity for him. But he meant me no good. Also it was not in my interest to be seen hobnobbing with someone of his persuasion. Later it occurred to me that because of my dark hair and brown eyes he believed me a co-religionist; not the first time such a mistake had been made. The same looks were once likened to those of the Tsarevitch himself! Were the Tsar and his family Jewish? Friends have told me all my life I should not take such misunderstandings to heart. But it is a cruel thing, and sometimes dangerous, to be the victim of that particular error. On occasions it almost cost me my life. I was able to escape only by means of sharp wits, excellent credentials and a little good fortune.

  After breakfast I joined Leda as usual. She was sitting outside the dining-saloon beneath the shadow of a lifeboat which swung gently in its davits. The sun was beginning to shine quite strongly and she held up her face as if a pale ray or two could warm her. She smiled at me. She pushed back her heavy hair so that the sun might touch as much of her flesh as possible. ‘Good morning. Maxim Arturovitch.’ We were always formal on such occasions. I lifted my hat and asked if I might bring a deckchair to sit next to her. I think she could see I was disturbed. ‘Did you sleep badly?’ Her strong hand moved a fraction towards me. She straightened herself a little. ‘Only for want of you,’ I whispered. Kitty came running up. She wore a maroon coat with matching hat and gloves. ‘Will you play with me today, Maxim Arturovitch? I’m beginning to think you don’t love me any more!’ I was frequently struck, as now, by her remarkable resemblance to her mother. For a moment I was filled with enormous lust.

  Leda laughed. ‘You’re a bad girl, Kitty. A flirt! What will become of you?’ Yet I was forced to be her donkey, galloping round the deck two or three times with her warm little thighs pressed into my waist before I feigned exhaustion. When I returned to my chair I found Hernikof balanced against the bulkhead. He was chatting to the Baroness who, well-mannered as always, seemed perfectly happy to give him the time of day. I seated myself
without a word and pretended total concentration upon a paper aeroplane for the little girl, delighting in the sensation of her lovely, delicate flesh leaning against my own. I was so enraptured that I hardly noticed Hernikof leave.

  ‘That poor man,’ said Leda. ‘You have heard his story I suppose.’

  ‘I’ve heard a thousand like it. That poor man is, at best, an opportunist. I’ve been trying to shake him off since last night.’

  ‘He’s lonely.’ She had that streak of philosemitism so familiar in romantic German women of the same generation and since I had no wish to upset her I remained silent. It was not impossible, I thought, that her own husband’s origins had a touch or two of the Levant in them. ‘He’s a bore.’ I finished the aeroplane and handed it to Kitty. The child immediately launched it into the wind. It disappeared on the other side of the bridge and she ran off in pursuit. Leda was laughing. ‘You’re certainly out of sorts today. Have I offended you?’

  I was actually half-mad with a mixture of lust and rage. ‘Not at all!’ I reassured her enthusiastically. I drew in several salty breaths. ‘If I seem in poor spirits it is because I’ve been separated from you for too long.’

  Her face was glowing; she was at once amused and flattered. She controlled her own breathing. ‘Well, I want you to try to be polite to M. Hernikof. Everyone on this ship snubs him. He’s been very ill. And he lost his entire family, you know.’

  I held my tongue.

  ‘He was acquainted with my late husband. They occasionally had business in common. He was then very powerful. A financier. He still has considerable interests abroad. Perhaps he could be helpful, when your mission is over, in backing some of your inventions.’ She arranged her plaid rug over her knees, her hand lingering in her lap.

  I could not believe she did not know what Jewish money meant: it corrupted; the best of mankind’s motives were twisted by it and always utilised to the benefit of Zion. How could she have witnessed the descent of Russia into Chaos and barbarism and still not understand the chief cause? Like many women she was moved too much by a personal liking for individuals. Probably the Hernikof who charmed her was in himself no villain. But he represented the forces which most threatened our Christian civilisation. I saw no point in mindlessly attacking such a man. I never approved of concentration camps and pogroms; yet there were sound reasons for these things. And there were reasons for being suspicious of any smiling Jew who held out his bag of silver to you. Where did he acquire that silver? Ask Judas. Would the truth come cheerfully and spontaneously to his lips? Would it to any man’s who had done what he had done?

  ‘I have no desire,’ I said to Leda, ‘to be rude. All I meant to say was that I’ve little in common with him and have no intention of becoming his closest friend!’

  ‘You’re as much a snob as the rest,’ she said, ‘It’s incredible.’

  I refused to answer at first. Then it occurred to me to tell her how I had been betrayed by a Jew; how I had almost lost my life. I turned to speak.

  She smiled at me. ‘Well,’ she said, ending the matter, ‘he’s a decent, kindly man. How lovely a little sunshine is after all that dreadful greyness.’ She touched my arm, careless of the stares of the two little old monkey-sisters as they passed us. She put her face close to mine. ‘I think sexual frustration is ruining your temper.’

  I made an effort to seem cheerful. I smiled. The sun caught the waves for a second and turned them to silver, ‘It’s hard to live this ridiculous charade.’

  ‘And your Mrs Cornelius? Has she complained?’ The warmth of her voice was at odds with the nature of her question.

  ‘She knows nothing.’

  ‘I doubt that. Still, young Mr Bragg takes up most of her attention.’

  A little offended, I bridled. ‘She finds him amusing company, no more.’ I had told her of the bargain between myself and Mrs Cornelius, how my companion intended to see her Frenchman as soon as we reached Constantinople. I suspected the Baroness of jealousy. She had somehow guessed, as women will, my feelings towards Mrs Cornelius and she was sounding me out, I knew. I remained on guard, even when she responded mysteriously: ‘Then you have a wonderful means of avoiding certain evidence, my dear, for you are not a total innocent. I bow to the power of your imagination.’

  This puzzled me. ‘I fail to see the connection between my imagination, which many have praised, and my innocence, which few have remarked upon since I was sixteen.’

  I could not understand why she was close to laughter, though I was relieved that she was not pursuing the matter of Mrs Cornelius. ‘Oh, I know you have seen much more of life than I.’ She made an exaggerated gesture of obeisance. ‘And you are much better educated in almost every respect. Indeed, your only disadvantage in life, as far as I can see, is that you are male.’

  That was my cue to dismiss her mysteries. Whenever a woman begins to speak cryptically of secret, female knowledge it is always best to ignore her. She is murmuring a spell which has meaning only to herself (if it has meaning at all). What a woman cannot verbalise she will classify, with superb pretence at authority, under the general heading of ‘what a woman knows’. Thus, in argument, she baffles her male opponent, gaining the advantage while he wonders what it is his poor, insensitive masculine brain cannot comprehend. Frequently my confidence has been threatened by this trick. I have only recovered by virtue of my superior intelligence and perception. Why else would so many women have loved and admired me in my lifetime? They soon learn respect for someone who refuses to be drawn into their little traps. Life is in many ways an ongoing contest (which is possibly what Hernikof meant). We must forever be alert, particularly against those who claim they have our best interests at heart. None respects female intuition more than I, but sometimes women will read far too much into a simple situation. So it was with my Baroness. Infatuated with me, she presumed therefore that all women must be desperate to lure me to their beds. I was amused by her curiosity, but remained anxious lest it turn into that crazed feminine jealousy which is, at very least, inconvenient and often very dangerous. In the afternoon we made love as usual, drenched in our mutual fluids until we stank, as she put it, ‘like cats on heat’. By now I was halfway to promising her a few days at least in Constantinople and she was growing excited in her anticipation, ‘If only it could be sooner than that.’ My hands were full of her flesh; of her breasts, her thighs and her buttocks and for a third time in succession I enjoyed the huge warmth of her magnificent cunt. She was like a Grecian goddess, and a welcome change from the young girls I usually chose. I felt I could disappear into her forever and remain safe from all the world’s vicissitudes. In a woman like my Baroness it was possible to escape and explore simultaneously. As the dinner bell sounded I was still inside her. It was with considerable reluctance that we parted, washed as best we could, and emerged, reasonably well-groomed, to face the expressionless stare of Marusya Veranovna, the excited cries of young Kitty, full of the day’s adventures.

  Leda did not seem especially concerned, yet I had begun to resent the servant’s unspoken criticism of us. And I hated the circumstances which made us end our love-making sharp at six o’clock, no matter what we were doing. Constantinople seemed a year away.

  At dinner, Mrs Cornelius said to me across the table: ‘Yore lookin’ worn art, Ivan. Did I keep yer up larst night? Sorry abart bein’ sick’.

  I waved a careless hand. She appeared not to remember the rest of the encounter and I was grateful for that. Attacking her meat-pudding with panache, she smiled around at the officers as if to include them in her apology. Captain Monier-Williams joined us. He looked proudly down at his own piece of pudding before beginning to eat. He often remarked how well his ship was feeding everyone. ‘A good bit of duff keeps your strength up a treat.’ He had heard we should be able to approach Batoum without danger. ‘And probably dock in the harbour, thank goodness. They’ve had very little trouble so far.’ He uttered a small sigh of satisfaction. ‘After Batoum, we’ll be heading back in
the right direction. I suppose you’ll both be pleased to get to Constantinople.’