Soon the canopy was swinging overhead shimmering like a netted whale and Signorina von Bek started the little engine, firing it up until blistering steam whistled through the valves. This kept hot air in the canopy but no longer powered our abandoned propeller. Now, as the basket jerked impatiently at the ropes, the aviatrix jumped expertly to her work, adjusting ballast, checking trim and giving particular attention to the neatly fixed patch of blue silk which obscured part of the national arms and the letters Fert. She moved like a nymph between her engine and her ropes, cheering whenever her ship responded as she should. Excitedly she leaned out of the basket waving to Kolya, who stood open-mouthed, watching the airship come to life. All the tethering ropes were at full stretch with one or two threatening to drag loose their pegs. She called for us to remove the funnelling fabric and she cheered again. ‘Hooray! Wonderful! What a godsend you fellows proved to be! Let’s get the luggage aboard. I say, what are you going to do about your camels?’
Kolya began to blurt something. I spoke in Russian. ‘Are you babbling in tongues again, Kolya, dear? Take her offer! We can be in Tangier within a week!’
‘Or in French Equatorial,’ he said gloomily. ‘You can’t steer a balloon, Dimka. But you can follow a road. At least I’ll know which direction I shall be travelling. Leave her. She’s an attractive and dangerous woman. She lives for thrills. I would have thought you’d had enough of adventures for a while. There are no clear advantages to your suggestion. With our original plan, we know exactly where we’re going.’
‘To Hell, Kolya! The danger’s now unwarranted.’
‘Is he all right?’ asked Signorina von Bek in English.
‘He is afraid to fly in your ship, I think,’ I said in English, then in Russian, ‘There’s nothing for you here, Kolya.’
‘Only a bastard would leave these poor camels,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay.’ It was the argument which won me. I had, myself, been deeply reluctant to desert my beautiful Uncle Tom. Yet her chances of survival on that lawless road were far better than mine. I was experiencing an agony of guilt and could hardly bear the idea of parting from Kolya. Yet survival, at such moments, demands no sentiment. Uncle Tom might find new owners in the desert, even if they proved to be the returning Gora. Her beauty guaranteed she would be well treated whoever inherited her.
‘Come, Kolya,’ I begged my friend the last time for conscience’s sake. ‘Signorina von Bek says the prevailing wind will take us west. She would prefer to go north, she says, but either way we wind up in Tripoli or Tangier.’
‘Or Timbuktu,’ he said significantly. ‘It is you who face unwarranted danger, not I. Go, if you like. Simply leave me my camels and our few remaining goods.’
‘Everything. Gladly,’ I said. My mind was set upon Italy. I was filled with the urgency of idealism, a sense that my true vocation was returning. Oh, Esmé! You saw me fly. My faith in the power of rational science was coming back. I was filled with the Holy Spirit. My whole body quickened. My senses returned, thanks to Allah’s wisdom. I had walked dead into the desert and out of the desert I arose, to live again. My body began to sing at last.
‘You have your passport?’ Kolya seemed ill-tempered suddenly. I was a little put out by his brusqueness. It was I, after all, who had been rejected!
‘Indeed, I have. I will fetch my kit from Uncle Tom.’
‘You have plenty of water?’ He drew a breath of desert air as if to renew himself. He hummed a strain from Tristan und Isolde.
‘Plenty.’
Kolya insisted on coming with me as I parted from Uncle Tom. He helped me lead my lovely creature back up the steep path to the top of the hill where Signorina von Bek waited in the balloon. A strong breeze now stirred her hair and her chiffon scarf was blown upward to frame her head.
‘You are a fool,’ Kolya muttered. ‘I do not fear to fly in that thing—although it’s folly—but I would fear to go with her. She is dangerous, believe me. Return to the desert and its freedoms. You have never known a woman like her, Dimka. She feeds off power. She plays with power and is fated to an early death, as are all her kind. And she’ll take at least one poor devil with her. She’s volatile, like nitro.’
‘This is nothing but jealousy, Kolya. I beg you reconsider your own decision. Do not sink, in your own anxiety, to besmirching a lady’s honour. Signorina von Bek is clearly a gentlewoman. She also has a fine mind. A man’s mind. But she could never come between us, Kolya. We are brothers. I merely express concern for your well-being. Can our few trade goods sustain you all that way?’
My friend responded with a brave shrug. He took Uncle Tom’s halter from my hand. ‘The camels are my chief asset. I have to sell them before I can do anything else. Uncle Tom I will try to keep, I swear.’
‘If necessary, you should get the best price for Uncle Tom,’ I assured him. ‘As soon as you reach the next large oasis.’
‘I will find you in Tangier,’ he promised, ‘and give you your share. After all, you helped get us this far.’
‘Perhaps.’ I gripped his shoulder. ‘Meanwhile you should be more sparing, old friend, in your use of drugs. You’ll have none left by the time you get to a city.’
‘Oh, I’ll not run out.’ We had reached the balloon and he reverted to mumbling mode, handing my valise and other luggage into the basket as I climbed in to help Signorina von Bek stow the bags into the lockers.
I reached over the side and, defying Bedouin custom, shook Kolya’s hand, then drew him towards me to kiss him. ‘Farewell, good friend,’ I said in Arabic. ‘May Allah continue to protect thee and bring thee safe to thy destination.’
‘Your slave really isn’t coming?’ Signorina von Bek seemed disappointed.
‘I have given him his freedom,’ I said. ‘He chose to take the camels and travel the lonely road of the Darb al-Haramiya. God goes with him. At least the camels will be well kept. He has a knack with the beasts. They are of great value to him. You see, Signorina von Bek, he is like me, a man of the desert. Unlike his master, however, he cannot imagine being happy in any other world. So it is. We are made as we are made. It is God’s will and God will protect him.’
There was nothing else I could add. My friend had chosen his path and it was no longer right for me to question his decision.
I believe there were tears in my eyes, however, when I waved goodbye to him. He released our last tethering ropes and we rose rapidly, crying ‘godspeed’ and ‘farewell’. I watched him with pounding heart as he turned, beginning the trudge down to what remained of his fortune. Poor Kolya! I had hesitated to tell him that I had transferred some of our load to my own bags, for safety’s sake, long before I had arrived at the oasis. I had three pounds of cocaine, a pound of heroin and four pounds of hashish, all removed from their hiding-place in the pack camel’s humps. This had depleted the cargo quite considerably, since Kolya had already consumed a large part of his share between Khufra and Zazara. On the other hand I had certainly saved him from himself and there was now far less danger of his being robbed for the remaining drugs.
I hold no brief for ‘dope-dealing’ and would never willingly be involved with it, but I had come unwillingly to the trade so it seemed fair to me I should take some profit from it. There would be no difference, in the end, to its use.
Signorina von Bek was leaning away from me, studying the outer canopy, relieved to see that the repair was holding. Her lips parted in a wonderful smile as she took stock of the horizon widening as we rose, with no sensation of thrust, high into the wide blue Saharan sky. ‘You are clearly a man,’ she said, ‘who cuts his own road through this life.’
I appreciated her recognition of my individuality but I remained cautious, determined not to flunk my chosen part. I could not afford to be discovered. ‘With Allah’s guidance,’ I said. ‘And as Allah wills.’ I looked down at the oasis. I could still make out my friend, a perfect homunculus, scrambling towards the tiny pool, his miniature animals.
‘Oh, see!’ Signorina von Bek pointed
with excitement towards the east. ‘There they are! How jolly! Those are the Arabs who shot me down! Thank goodness we’re on our way. Will your slave be all right?’
I looked across the dunes of the great Sand Sea. Riding with lordly languor towards Zazara, their elaborately worked long guns cradled casually in their arms, their cruel eyes only visible from within their veils, came the same Tuareg party we had seen weeks ago near al-Jawf. It was inevitable they would discover Kolya before he could get clear. For a moment I looked towards the Gatling, thinking I might scare them off, but they were hardly in range and I had no idea how the basket would behave in concert with the force of a powerful machine-gun.
They had sighted us now. They raised their rifles to their shoulders, their legs curled tightly around their stuffed leather saddles as they took aim. But their salvo either fell short or missed us and while they reloaded we had gained more than enough height and distance to be safe from their primitive firepower.
Unfortunately for Kolya, however, a few hours of freedom were all God would allow him for the moment. He was about to become a hostage again.
‘What was your man’s name?’ she asked me, busying herself with her lines.
‘Yussef,’ I said.
She came to stand beside me at the rail. ‘And you are Mustafa. I do not think we need to be formal any longer.’
Signorina von Bek put her hand firmly into mine. ‘You must call me Rosie,’ she insisted. ‘I’m so relieved to have the protection of a genuine Bedouin prince. As a matter of fact you do look rather like Rudolf Valentino. Though more refined.’
The Tuareg and Zazara and all our troubles were behind us. As our balloon sailed gracefully into the bloody light of the setting sun I embraced my Rose.
TWENTY-THREE
THE ESCAPE of sexual fantasy was no longer open to me. Instead I found more cerebral diversions. E si risuelgo da quel sogno di sangue, con ispavento, con rimorso, e insieme con una specie di gioia … Those stripes were white and the bars were black. Ripe stars teased my lips. Yusawit! Yuh’attit! Yuh’attit! Yukhallim. Yehudim. Yukhallim. Ana ‘atsha’an. Bitte, ein Glas Wasser. They refused to understand me. I never became ein Musselman. Dawsat. Walwala. I heard him. It was not me. I heard him betray us. Yermeluff. Yehudim! Yehudim! Gassala. Meyne pas. Meine peitsche. Meyn streifener. Meine Herzenslust …
Sometimes, in the desert, I had prayed for Faith. How I had envied my fellow-worshippers. Yet how many of them were also praying merely for social reasons?
I flew. I lived. The world below was washed by a golden tide. Atlantis emerged from the vibrant dust. My stripes were silver. They were ebony. They could not hold me in their cattle-truck. I refused to be identified. He was no Volksgenosse of mine. I said so. My eyes had never known such beauty; my soul had never experienced such tranquil security. We drifted on that desert wind; days and nights of wonder. And she brought me back to the Land of Life and restored my future.
‘You are familiar with Manzoni!’ she declared. I did not admit it was only in the Russian translation…. di non aver fatto altro che immaginare … Be nice, he said, be nice. Be sweet, he said, be sweet. Oh, Dios! Oh, Jesus! Que me occurre? Sperato di diventare famoso. Qualcosa non va? ‘I believe,’ she said, ‘that you have given me a privileged insight into the Arab mind.’ Gracefully, I accepted her compliment.
In the mornings and the evenings we sailed high above the pink and ochre Sand Sea, free from concern, but at noon, when we drifted to our lowest point, we had to be alert. The temperature could rise to 140°. More than ever, the landscape below us might have been that of the Red Planet. I imagined gigantic guns buried beneath the sand, ready to hurl their capsules to the sweet air of Earth: the deadly air of Earth. Here, in the desert, all death was honourable, all life was celebrated. Eroded mountain ranges and seas of constantly agitated sand, soft as silk, deadly as cyanide, fell away below us, mile upon mile, glittering lakes of salt, rivers of obsidian. The dreaming desert awaited a miracle that would restore it, tree by tree, animal by animal, river upon river, field upon field, city upon city, to its gorgeous past. Yet, I wondered, what hybrid might arise? How long had these wastes been nourished with Carthage’s blood? A quei tempi c’eramo oceani di luce e citta nei cieli e selvagge bestie volanti di bronzo . . . Por que lo nice? Du bist mein Simplicissimus, she said. But that was much later. Now as we drifted over those timeless landscapes beneath unchanging skies, I became her master and her teacher, her most intimate friend; yet had no desire to penetrate her. We lay entwined while a hard wind drummed against the great canopy and set the ropes and basket to a bass thrumming. An extraordinary noise, it filled the desert like the heartbeat of Arabia. We had no sense of danger as we continued to drift towards the west, towards Algeria and Spanish Morocco. If we did not come down on the mainland, she said, we might have to put down in the Canaries, which were also Spanish. We would be welcomed by the Spaniards. ‘I have several friends in the colonial service. But the Riffians are all over the place since Abd el-Krim capitulated. Some of the outlaw gangs have a thorough hatred of Europeans. Even you, Sheikh Mustafa, would be unable to protect me.’
I reminded her that I had seen her handling the mitrailleuse and did not think she would require much protection! This remark was not received as flattery. Rosie von Bek helped me solve no mysteries of womankind. Rather she presented me with fresh ones.
I came to my senses beneath the bright stare of heaven, in the arms of the one Kolya had called the destroyer and whom I called Rosa. My rose. War’di War’di, ana nafsi. Sarira siri’ya. D’ruba D’ruba. She wondered at my stripes, my whiteness, and I made some mention of prison and the Turkish heel. ‘You have not always known power, sidhi?’ She was sympathetic.
‘A truly faithful man accepts the will of Allah. I am glad to say I have walked the path of humility.’
She murmured that humility did not seem to be my most obvious trait. I smiled at this as I toyed with my full, black beard. ‘You must know our saying—the doe shall always kneel to the stag. Such things are also determined.’
Through her desire I found my manhood again. I found my power. I was restored. She gave herself up to her imagination, free from any restraint, certain she should have no witness save the vultures, the eagles and myself, whom she called her Hawk—al Sakhr. But her escape was denied me; my pleasure came purely from the thrill of my recaptured sense of power, of self. She gave me back my world of dreams, my cities and my soul. This is the gift that Woman offers Man. Only a churlish oaf refuses her. Here is a true union of flesh and spirit, such as St Paul spoke of. And yet I was for her a figure from romance; she saw nothing of the real Maxim Arturovitch Pyatnitski, of Ace Peters, conqueror of Hollywood. Instead she saw in her image of me an altar on which she might sacrifice her selfhood, to be reborn, the Eternal Feminine. I was, in that sense, immaterial.
Often, when she spoke of her childhood and youth in Albania, Italy and Spain (where she attended convent schools), it was as if she mused aloud, content that while I failed to understand some of her words, I would never fully grasp her meaning. In this she was right, for she spoke sometimes in Albanian, sometimes Italian and frequently in English. I was only fluent in English, although I had picked up some Italian during my stay in Rome with Esmé, before we went to Paris. She spoke fondly of a certain Bon-bon. After a time I came to realise that Bon-bon was the present Dictator of Italy. Clearly she still had affection for him, but equally clearly there had been some kind of falling-out. The threat of a public scandal and pressure from close family members had interfered to destroy their idyll. She also believed he had taken an interest in an American heiress, ‘one of the Macraineys’, and was incapable of sustaining a passion for more than one mistress at a time. ‘But then his feelings about women are very clear.’ Turning to me she asked, ‘You have read the novel, The Cardinal’s Mistress?’
I admitted that I had not. I had little time for sensation tales, I said.
‘It is by Mussolini himself,’ she said. ‘I read i
t before I ever met him. He already displayed in that work everything Italy needed to restore herself to her old pre-eminence. He is a romantic with a strong sense of discipline.’
Save for Fiorelli, I hesitated to speak of friends in Rome. Several had been early converts to the Fascist cause. But I would have to explain too much. I had become fascinated with the character she and I between us had created for me, to our mutual benefit. Kara ben Nesi was my model, I suppose, the great German scholar-adventurer of Karl May’s Durch die Wüste. I had read these as a child, in Kiev, in about 1912. May was one of the few novelists my teacher, Herr Lustgarten, approved. He was properly philosophisch, he said.
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