Jerusalem Commands

by Michael Moorcock

  Furnished in the ubiquitous Indian colonial style, my rooms did not adjoin Esmé’s. It had not been possible to control the key allocation at the reception desk without raising suspicions. In fact Mrs Cornelius and Esmé shared a suite in the southern corner of the hotel and I was very glad that we were due to stay in Alexandria only for one further night before taking our reserved places on the Cairo Express. I was equally relieved not to be billeted with Wolf Seaman and to find that Malcolm Quelch would be my room-mate for the next thirty or so hours. I looked forward to further intimacy. His brother had not been misled, it seemed, in his enthusiasm for Malcolm’s scholarship and local knowledge.

  That afternoon, after a late lunch, Esmé and I went shopping. Her normally cheerful spirits had returned and she was full of interest in the world around us, the well-tended gardens and ornamental trees, the beautifully ordered avenues, the jostling fellaheen who filled the sidestreets, the heavily veiled women, the gaudy Jews and the sober Copts, and all the other myriad creeds of this city, which had welcomed most and persecuted few; and everywhere were casual reassurances to show how the founder of the city was still acknowledged. There were signs in Greek everywhere. There were Greek cafés and bazaars and shops of all kinds. There was a Greek cinema and a Greek theatre, Greek newspapers, Greek churches. Here the two great defenders of our Faith had come together to bring order and renewed life to that old and decadent nation, just as Ptolemy, following in Alexander’s godlike footsteps, brought a refreshing and outgoing new dynasty to the country at its most corrupt moment, when it most needed honourable leaders. Since then Egypt has always sensed when new leadership was needed, from the time of Cleopatra, who so yearned for Mark Antony to rule both her heart and her destiny. Sadly, we were to see little of Ancient Greek nobility. We had struck a bargain with a carriage-driver who elected himself our guide, taking us to those parts of the city he believed to be suitable for Europeans and avoiding most of the Arab quarters. ‘Very dirty,’ he would say. ‘Very bad. Not nedif.’ He was a man of about my age, with large frank brown eyes, a small, neatly trimmed beard, a fez and a European linen jacket worn over the local trousers which, Captain Quelch had told me, were commonly called shitcatchers. There was nothing to do but to give ourselves up to our Oriental Chingachgook, who eventually drew the carriage to a halt in a large and impressive square. ‘Place Mohammed Ali,’ he told us. ‘Good European shops. I will wait for you here.’ He demanded no money and, after helping us down, lit himself a thin cigarette then settled whistling on the steps of his carriage. I was careful to make sure I would find him again, across from a large equestrian statue, presumably of the hero himself, which graced the well-ordered flower gardens. This wide square was flanked by a number of official-looking buildings in the usual European styles, a Gothic church and what I took to be a bank, on the same lines as the church. Elsewhere were glittering cafés whose décor and elegance could rival anything in Paris, where a grand pallor of European ladies and gentlemen took tea and a murmuring interest in other Europeans moving with the grace of so many fine yachts about their business. I became increasingly impressed by the prevailing aura of calm and good taste, and when we entered the Rue Sharif Pasha we were all astonished to find it lined with the shops one might normally encounter in only the greatest of European capitals. I could not help but be taken back to Petersburg and the wonderful months of freedom in the early days of the War. Odessa in her splendid confidence had been rich and happy. When I spoke of these things to Esmé, I was a little disappointed that she gave me a fraction of the attention she gave to the contents of the store windows. By the time the sun was flooding, blood-red, upon the evening roofs, we had visited three dress-shops, a hat-shop and a shoe-shop and Esmé was satiated with silks, beads and ostrich-feathers—at least until we reached Cairo. I could not begrudge my darling these few indulgences. She must still remember my betrayal of her. Yet so naturally gracious was she that she never reminded me of that moment when, arriving on a foreign shore, she had scanned the rows of waiting faces and failed to find mine.

  It was almost sunset by the time we returned to our faithful cab-driver. Yacob helped put Esmé’s purchases into the carriage with us and then, chatting the while in a mixture of Arabic, French and English, took us smartly back to our hotel. Esmé had the generalised air of affection of one who has fulfilled her every immediate ambition, and a gentle smile would come to my angel when she recalled some particularly attractive gown she had seen or piece of jewellery she hoped one day to own. I envied her this uncomplicated pleasure. That day, as so often in the past, I imagined myself a parent living through his child. It was marvellous that, with the aid of a few sovereigns, such transcendental happiness could be brought to the girl I loved. The very air we breathed smelled of honey, that evening scent of hyacinths, and stocks, and roses which the British transplanted to so many ancient capitals. We watched the sky turn to deep violet, a houri’s eyes, over a sea turned scarlet as her lips by the setting sun and, when our carriage reined in to allow the passage of a band of kilted Highlanders marching back from some musical performance, Esmé flung her soft little arms around me and kissed me with lips tender and trembling as a baby’s and said I was the only man she could ever truly love. ‘We were born for each other,’ she said. ‘We own each other, you and I, my darling Max, mon cher ami, mein cher papa.’ And she turned her head to the darkening sea to laugh, as if fearful suddenly of the depths of her own emotion. She shivered. It was becoming too cool. ‘Let us go back,’ she said.

  I shall always remember Alexandria as the evening loses its heat and a wind begins to stir the palms and cedars of the corniche, when her lights appear, one by one, cluster by cluster, like jewels gracing some mighty dowager, as the scents of the sea and the desert mingle and the carriage trots on through streets grown silent for a moment, perhaps awaiting the transition from day to night, as if that transition is not inevitable, and I remember a moment of exquisite happiness when my darling called me her friend.

  I have known only a few such moments in my life. I have learned to value them and not regret their passing. I am so grateful for love.

  Birds die within me, one by one.

  Vögel füllen meyn Brust. Vögel sterben in mir. Einer nach dem anderen.

  What is there to do about it?

  TWELVE

  LAND OF RUINS, and of dreams, and death; land of dust and ghosts. Here all the great civilisations of the earth were born and here they come to die. Here, the British Empire perished, without honour, without nobility, without friends, like the Greeks, the Romans, the Turks and the French before them. For the British, too, inhaled the dusty seeds of Carthage and found them sweet and carried them home to England where, as Rosebay Willowherb was once Pompeii’s Fireweed, the seed was given a more familiar domestic name and soon took hold. There are two lessons that temporal empires never learn. The first: It is self-destruction to march against Moscow. The second: Never annex Egypt. Napoleon, Alexander’s only military and philosophical equal, might have survived if he had made only one of those mistakes. I hold no brief for the ‘Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb’, the myth which had brought us to Egypt in the first place, but belief in such curses reflects a deeper truth. Any other nation which tries to tamper in the affairs of Egypt attracts a curse. She is a fierce old mother and she punishes interference in her enjoyment of her declining years; especially she punishes those who would wish to ‘revive’ her. She is too tired for revival. She wishes only to be left alone, to live in her memories and the remains of her glory. By her own scale, she could live at least another thousand years.

  Much of this Professor Quelch explained to me next morning as we walked to the special platform of Robert Stephenson’s magnificent railway station (the only monuments the British ever raised to rival the temples and tombs of the Pharaohs). I was a little the worse for wear. I had enjoyed many glasses of port with those fine English chevaliers of His Majesty’s Protective Government, it being Christmas Day. They, of course, we
re granted leave for that peculiarly English holiday, Boxing Day, in which all able-bodied men appear on their village greens and engage in violent fisticuffs. At that moment I was never more glad, as I made my dazed way through the confusion of beggars, porters, guides and the sellers of every conceivable kind of fakery, that I had not been born an Englishman. I pitied my comrades of the previous night their sporting ordeal. But perhaps they were made of heartier stuff and were already preparing for the fight with an enthusiasm which in another race would be unquestionably sexual? Certainly many of their repressions were set aside that night and their language as well as their anecdotes became increasingly colourful, so that Grace the Hairdresser and Wolf Seaman made their excuses and left. I grew nostalgic, I told them, for the mess of my old brigade. I told them how I had belonged to one of the last Cossack regiments to stand against the Reds. I described the Red atrocities in Kiev and Odessa. I said how cheap life had become, how the most beautiful girls of good homes were prepared to prostitute themselves for a twist of salt or a handful of potatoes. They believed, they said, that Odessa sounded better than Port Said. Port Said was said to be even more of a sink of iniquity than Alexandria, the flourishing centre of a white slave-trade into Africa and the Middle East about which little could be done, since none had sufficient authority over either the whore-masters or their human cattle. One learned to live with such things, they murmured, and thanked God that they had nothing like it to contend with in England. They spoke too soon! That was before the disease had been brought home. Today half of London is indistinguishable from the filthiest souks of the Levant and young girls and boys hawk the most perverse pleasures quite openly. My acquaintances in the Egyptian police would have been horrified by what I see every day in the Portobello Road. And it is so familiar to us that nobody even mentions it any more. When will they tire of their ‘progress’ and see it for what it is? Year by year the beast grows; year by year it becomes harder to find common justice, common kindness and humanity. Where will it end?

  Professor Quelch, who had not attended the dinner, told me he was certain that some of the English police were now quite as corrupt as the Egyptian. ‘Bribery is rife in certain departments. I have it on the best authority.’ When I mentioned the white slave-trade, he shrugged. It continued to prosper partly because the chief men in the business were protected by high-ranking officers who received a share of the profits and their pick of the boys and girls. ‘Of course, most of the high-ranking British officers are ignorant of this. They believe everything’s in order. Besides, they know how difficult it is to control the European women and their pimps. The police can only enter a brothel, for instance, accompanied by a representative of the country of which the madam is a national. Every time the police get hold of the appropriate consular official, the nationality of the madam changes. They tried to round up the pimps a few years ago. In Cairo they have their own Pasha, a grotesque individual by the name of Ibrahim el-Ghar’bi, a fat, massive nigger who dresses like a houri out of the Arabian nights. I know him quite well. He’s a man of considerable wit and education. If, my dear boy, you have any “special requests”, then el-Ghar’bi is the chap for you.’

  I told him that I had no need of such services, but I was becoming impressed by the profundity of Malcolm Quelch’s knowledge of Egypt and her customs, old and new. I now fully understood why Captain Quelch had been so determined to have his brother look after us.

  As we walked beside the great green and gold train towards the first-class compartments, Quelch raised for a second time the matter of his fees. ‘There has been no agreement, as yet. I was wondering who to approach. Who, as it were, is our quartermaster?’

  I believed Captain Quelch had already agreed fees with Seaman. I was sure the professor could be paid on any basis he chose.

  ‘As a rule,’ smiling, he pointed to our carriage with his cane, ‘I arrange for my fee to be forthcoming on a daily basis for an agreed period of time. If, for some reason, you should break that agreement, then I am to be paid the full amount I should have earned. Since you were recommended by my brother, I had a fee of three guineas a day in mind. All found, of course.’

  This seemed reasonable to me. Quelch was also to act as a technical adviser and historical consultant when we began filming. He was clearly flattered to learn he would receive a credit.

  ‘And I would require some sort of letter making it clear to all concerned that I am part of your company.’ He made a nervous, dismissive gesture. ‘To keep everything above-board, you know.’

  I had not heard of an illicit trade in archaeological information, but I assured Quelch that Seaman was bound to meet all his requirements. Even that unimaginative Swede would be able to see that Quelch was going to be of enormous value to us, especially when it came to negotiating with Egyptian officials who were, Quelch and the other English people had told us, growing increasingly ‘bolshy’. ‘Since we started giving in to them, there’s been virtual anarchy.’ He referred to the nationalists of the so-called Wafd, who had gained soft-hearted concessions from their protectors after considerable rioting in the streets which only stopped when the British were forced to shoot a few of the thousands demonstrating against them. He was about to say more when the green and gold locomotive let forth a vast, manly sigh, an awakening giant; the pace of loaders, guards and conductors suddenly doubled as they rushed to their positions and the last-minute passengers, some arguing violently with their night-shirted guides and porters, began to arrange themselves on board. Wicker luggage was forced through doors and windows. Mothers and nannies wailed or screamed for lost children; lost children responded in kind and husbands and wives shouted last-minute orders to their departing spouses. I was glad that a special carriage had been ordered for us and that we should not have to compete against the stink and the pressure of weather-beaten English matrons, ill-natured Egyptian businessmen and soldiers, both white and native, who fought to get the best possible positions for themselves before the train started. The rest of our party was already aboard, having arrived by bus from the hotel. Quelch and I had, at his insistence, visited Pompey’s Pillar, a rather unremarkable piece of polished granite erected in memory of an earlier and less lucky colonialist, whereupon he had mentioned his fees for the first time. I realised he was using this opportunity to raise the question as delicately as possible and assured him I would speak to Seaman.

  Of our party, only Mrs Cornelius was honestly glad to be on the move again. Seaman kept to himself at the far end of the opulent carriage, with the hung-over film-crew, wincing at the jingling chandeliers, between ourselves and himself. He stared through the windows as if already planning his first shots. I asked Mrs Cornelius what was wrong but she insisted he was merely moody. ‘‘E’s offen like this when ‘e’s startin’ a picture. On ‘Er ‘Usband’s Mistress ‘e ‘ardly said two words ter me, even when I was s’posed to be in front o’ ther bloody camera. Or on me ‘ands an’ knees wiv Mr Willy up me bloody backside. It’s restful in a way, though.’

  In spite of this I went up to the front and sat down across from Seaman who turned on me eyes so full of loathing that I was startled. ‘My God,’ I said, ‘what have I done? Shot your favourite dog?’

  He apologised. He was already, he said, imagining me in my rôle as the High Priest who seduces Mrs Cornelius away from her duties and brings about the chain of events culminating, thousands of years later, in the tragic death of two modern lovers. I had written the part myself. I reminded him that I saw the High Priest as a victim as well as a villain. The point of my scenario was that Fate has no heroes or heroines, no favourites. However, there would be ample time to debate the interpretation of the rôle. I mentioned my chief reason for interrupting him, the matter of Quelch’s fees. Seaman frowned. ‘You’re sure we need him? He seems a charlatan. No better than his brother.’

  I refused to respond to this unreasonable assessment, save to say that I had every assurance that Quelch was ideal for us. We would be hard-put to find someo
ne of his expertise and general usefulness at less than thirty guineas a week. He shrugged at this, promising absently to draw up the necessary letter. Meanwhile, Quelch could have his first couple of days’ pay as soon as Seaman contacted Cook’s in Cairo, with whom Goldfish had already made an arrangement. I returned to our group. Mrs Cornelius had attached herself to Professor Quelch while Esmé, festooned with her purchases of the past two days, sat sipping a pensive glass of lemonade brought to her by our own tarbooshed steward, whose name he told us was Joseph. He was a Copt, with healthy light-brown skin and almond eyes, scarcely more than fifteen, I would have guessed, and with the cheerful disposition, the dignified manner of many Egyptian Christians, in complete contrast to the rabble we had encountered everywhere in Alexandria. His nails, for instance, might have been manicured in one of Rue Sharif Pasha’s exclusive salons. He positively reeked of strong soap and rosewater. Lunch, he said, would be at 12:30 and he showed us the folding tables that could be raised between our seats. Privately, I reflected on the irony of my situation. It had not been long since I had been riding under such trains, or lain hidden in goods wagons praying that the railroad bulls would not find me! All my life I have known heights and depths. I am not sure I could say I regret such extremes of experience. They have taught me, at least, a certain humility and encouraged me to identify with the underdog.