The Laughter of Carthage: Pyat Quartet
Page 75
By the morning of the third day there was no news of Ethem’s return. The hush of hopelessness which had fallen over the town was gradually changing to the ordinary sounds of domestic life, though the faces of the population remained utterly expressionless, reminding me of masks in some old Attic tragedy. Carefully, I tested each part of the machine. Then I assembled it on the bench and had Hassan pour in a little fuel. The engine turned sweetly; the propeller whirled as smooth as steel through oil. I had the wings strapped on to me, as well as the frame which would take engine and blade. I ensured I would be able to direct myself wherever I wished to go. I had made some important modifications. What had happened to me in Babi Yar would not happen in Turkey. When I was satisfied, I ordered a party of local men to carry my equipment carefully to the nearby wool exchange overlooking the fountain and the Greek church, this being the tallest and most substantial building still in one piece.
I could not believe my good fortune! As we reached the wide, flat roof which looked out over the rest of the town towards the featureless Anatolian plain, I barely stopped myself from revealing my glee to Hassan and the other bandits. The boy and the men helped strap the engine onto my shoulders. The propeller of this machine was mounted higher than on my previous design so I could be confident I should suffer no concussion this time. The wings of this model were a little larger; but essentially it was the same plane I had tested in Kiev. It was, of course, fifty years ahead of its time. Today the powered hang-glider is only a slight modification of my original specifications (but predictably I receive no credit, the conspiracy of silence is complete). I thought how privileged this little group of bandits and Turkish townspeople were. They were witnessing the first flight of its kind outside Russia. I steadied myself beneath the weight of the machine. This weight would effectively decrease, of course, once I was airborne, but it was fairly difficult to stand up on the ground. Now I was prepared to take to the skies and show my enemies what foolish, ignorant men they truly were!
I had not allowed, of course, for the profound cunning of the Turkish mind. When I had taken up my position, ready to run the length of the roof before I launched myself into the air, I told Hassan to spin the propeller. There came nothing but a coughing sound from the engine overhead. I ordered him to spin it again. I was beginning to run with sweat as the sun climbed higher.
‘Hassan, you little fool! What’s wrong?’
He shook his head and put all his power into another pull on the propeller, nearly overbalancing me altogether. The remaining men muttered amongst themselves and chuckled. I ordered them dismissed. Reluctantly they climbed back down through the door in the roof. Now I was alone with Hassan who stood mutely by, his brown eyes round and blank.
‘Again!’
This time the propeller turned twice. I started to run, but had hardly moved a yard or so before the engine died once more.
I was baffled. Everything had tested perfectly. I asked Hassan if he had put more petrol in the tank.
At this the boy let his jaw fall and he shrugged, as if I had said something amazing to him. ‘Of course not, master!’
I swore at him. ‘You’re a cretin. Get the can.’
He shook his head rapidly, wringing his hands, his eyes shifting in every direction, ‘I cannot.’
‘It’s back in the shop. You know where!’ I was exasperated. ‘Hurry, boy!’
‘It’s all gone, effendi.’ He turned his eyes away. He looked towards the railway line. There was smoke on the horizon. He frowned.
The sun was burning my head and the engine, which should by now have lifted me into the air, was making my back ache horribly. I almost fainted as I stumbled towards the boy, begging him to fetch the petrol, threatening him with a thousand punishments, screaming at him that he would roast in Hell. But nothing moved him. All he did was stay just out of my reach, shake his head and say occasionally, ‘It is all gone!’
Eventually, of course, it dawned on me. Ethem was by no means the fool I had assumed him to be. He had left Hassan specific instructions to let me get as far as this but no further. The petrol would not be forthcoming until he could be certain of trusting me.
‘Benzin!’ I croaked imploringly. ‘A sovereign for just one can! Nobody will know.’
Staggering under the weight of the engine, waddling and bent like a hunchbacked penguin, I moved away from the edge of the roof. Below in the square a crowd had gathered and was looking up. Some of the faces had become almost animated, like spectators at a circus. A few voices shouted at me to begin. They were growing impatient. I half expected them to applaud. No matter how much I yelled at Hassan he would not change his single response, ‘It is all gone, effendi.’
I had not designed the equipment so that I could easily unstrap myself. My legs began to buckle. I was shaking in every part of me, was close to tears as my voice grew hoarse from imploring the boy’s help. More frequently now Hassan’s eyes went to the horizon. The smoke grew fuller. There was a locomotive somewhere up the track, still out of sight. It was then I thought I heard the rattle of machine-gun fire in the distance. With considerable difficulty and not a little pain, I turned in the direction of the sound. Just detectable on the ridge above the swampy plain was what could only be a squadron of tanks. They had the blue and white flag of Greece emblazoned on their sides, but they were British Mark IIIs in all their glory. And running behind them on two sides, with their bayonets fixed, I could see some three hundred Greek soldiers, firing as they charged.
From the town, the remaining bandits were trying to set up some sort of barricade. Clearly they had not expected such an attack. They moved hastily, in panic, cursing each other and shaking their fists at the Greeks. Two or three were already on their horses and fleeing in the opposite direction.
I panted now, the pain increasing with every breath. I felt as if I were being crucified: crucified on the cross of my own imagination. Hassan stared at me uncertainly. Then, with a look almost of pitying apology, he turned away. He ran towards the steps, pausing for a moment to watch me. I begged him to come back, if only to undo a couple of straps. I fell on my face, struggling to free myself from the constricting harness of the flying machine but becoming more entangled at every spasm. I was doubly desperate. I had no guarantee the Greeks or the British would not take me for a traitor, deliberately selling arms to the Turks.
Hassan disappeared below.
I let out a howl of terror which something pragmatic in my unconscious almost immediately turned into a song. When the Greeks finally found me on the roof I was beginning again on the second verse of Blake’s Jerusalem.
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