Moorcock, Michael - Jerry Cornelius 07

by The Adventures Of Una Perrson (and Catherinr Cornelius) (v1. 0)

  The man turned, inspected his territory, pointed to a table that was evidently vacant, and continued to set out places for the customers he was serving. He had not recognized Ahmed, neither had he been impressed by the large motor car, but Ahmed was undismayed. He stepped from the Rolls Royce, helping first Catherine and then his father to the ground. He led them through the gate to the table. They all sat awkwardly on the benches. Ahmed's father had the amused expression of one who was joining in a children's party. He beamed at everyone. This rs jolly,' he said.

  The man arrived to take their order and it was then that he remembered Ahmed. He stared Ahmed directly in the eye. 'And what can I do for you?' he asked blandly. 'Set tea for three suit you?'

  'Have you strawberries and cream?' said Ahmed staring back.

  'Strawberries and cream for three?' The man made a note on his pad. 'And the set tea?'

  'That would be lovely,' Catherine said anxiously.

  'Cornelius.' Ahmed's father spoke suddenly. 'Any relation to the Barber of Baghdad Cornelius?'

  'Barber?'

  'The comic opera, you know. German. Last century. A great favourite of mine when I was a student.'

  'I'm afraid my family's very ordinary,' she said.

  He patted her hand. 'People always say that about their families. They always think it's true, I suppose. Are you of Dutch or of German origin?'

  'English,' Catherine told him apologetically. She had the feeling she was being pumped. Perhaps Ahmed's father wondered if her intentions towards his son were honourable.

  'I didn't know Cornelius was also an English name.' He seemed disappointed, perhaps with himself, for displaying ignorance.

  Ahmed was still glaring after the man who had taken their order. 'He is being deliberately rude,' he muttered.

  'I think it's natural to him.' She tried to lighten the atmosphere. 'Ahmed says you're thinking of investing some money in a talkie company.'

  'Oh, I'd thought of it. My advisers keep telling me that one should invest in restaurants, couturiers and mass entertainment during times of economic decline. Bread and circuses, in fact. Possibly they are right.'

  'Oh, I think so. I was working for a film company until recently . . . '

  'Aha! You are an actress!' This seemed to relieve and enlighten him.

  'No,' she said, 'just a lowly script-girl, I'm afraid. I worked behind the scenes.'

  'Forgive me.' He spoke as if he had insulted her. She seemed to be able to make both father and son feel guilty at the drop of a hat. However, she was getting the picture. Ahmed's father was probably already working out how much she was to cost him when it came to a pay-off.

  'That's all right,' she said. 'I'm not a gold-digger from Broadway—or Shepherd's Bush.' She spoke casually, as if she had not interpreted the implications of his questions. 'Anyway, as I was saying, the film company couldn't help making money, no matter how bad the films were, as long as they were talkies, of course.'

  Evidently he had not seriously considered investing in films. She had not held his attention, although he pretended to be listening. She began to feel self-conscious, wondering if she were still drunk. He took a watch from his fob pocket. 'I hope they will bring the tea soon,' he said. 'I don't want to use any more of your time than necessary.' He stared hard at Ahmed and then seemed to reach a decision, taking an envelope from his jacket. 'This is what I told you about, my boy. I have spoken to Samiyah's father. It is all arranged for next year, when you return.'

  Catherine pretended to be interested in the river.

  'Oh, thanks,' murmured Ahmed. He put the envelope in his own pocket.

  They ate their tea and chatted about how green the English countryside was. When they departed Ahmed left an enormous tip on the table and waved, in a lordly way, to the waiter who watched them go, pocketing the money casually as if it was no more than his due. They all got back into the car.

  'Well, I must be returning to London,' said Ahmed's father. 'Where can I drop you?'

  'What's the time?' asked Catherine.

  'Catherine's going back to London, too,' Ahmed told him.

  'Oh, perhaps . . . ' He made the offer reluctantly.

  'I'm going on the train,' she said. 'I've a return ticket. I think there's a fast train at five past five.'

  Again he withdrew his watch. 'It's almost that now. Are you sure I can't—?'

  'Yes thanks.' She would have liked nothing better than to be driven back to London in a comfortable Rolls, but she wanted at least a few moments alone with Ahmed, to try to save something from the situation. Moreoever she was conscious of having come between them and she felt sorry for the older man. Doubtless he had wished to see his son alone. On the other hand she had the impression that Ahmed himself was glad of her presence, that he had wished to avoid a heart-to-heart with his father.

  'You'd better drop us at the station.' Ahmed sounded miserable. He said something to his father in his native language. His father replied. The name Samiyah was used several times. Ahmed scowled and his father laughed and patted his knee. The car entered the station forecourt.

  'Forgive me,' said Ahmed's father. 'It is the worst possible bad manners, to babble away in one's own language like that.'

  'Not at all,' said Catherine. She wanted very much to make a good impression on him, though she did not know why. 'It is a beautiful language. It was like listening to music'

  'Oh! Ha, ha!' He clapped his hands together. 'Very fine. Ahmed is extremely lucky! Well, goodbye. Miss Cornelius. I hope we shall meet again.

  'I hope so, too.'

  As the Rolls drove away from the station Catherine waved. Ahmed saluted. 'I'm dreadfully sorry about that. It really put the finish on a perfect bloody day, eh?'

  She shrugged. 'Not to worry. I expect there'll be other days.'

  'I can phone you?'

  'We're not on the phone at home. But write. Drop me a postcard.'

  'Yes. I'll copy out those poems.'

  They walked into the station and looked at the timetable. There was a train to Paddington in three minutes' time. 'That's lucky,' she said.

  They found the platform and sat down together on a bench.

  'I'm afraid I made the most awful ass of myself,' he said.

  'Don't be silly.'

  'You're probably used to more sophisticated men, eh?'

  'Both you and your father seem to have me firmly placed as a femme fataleV She took hold of his hand, smiling. 'You should see where I live!'

  'Oh, no!' He was eager. 'Oh, certainly not. Father might have made that mistake, but he didn't get the impression from me. Honestly, Catherine. I told you. I love you.'

  'Oh, all right.'

  'I'll send you those poems.'

  'That would be lovely.' She kissed his cheek. The train was coming. She got up. 'Well . . . '

  'You'll write back?'

  'Of course I shall. And I'll see you again, very soon.'

  'I hope so,' he said.

  'By the way.' The train had drawn into the station. A few people got out. She headed for a second-class carriage. 'Who is Samiyah? Your sister?'

  He became evasive. He opened the compartment door for her. Catherine began to laugh and a huge sense of relief swept through her. She knew. 'She's the girl you're going to marry! Your father's just finished the negotiations!'

  His expression of alarm made her laugh still harder. She sat down in a corner seat.

  'It's nothing to do with me,' he said. 'Really, Catherine. It's something my father arranged with Samiyah's father years ago. In my country . . . .'

  'It's all right.' She closed the door and opened the window, leaning out so that she could kiss him on his worried forehead. 'I'll see you soon, Ahmed. Send me those poems!'

  'Yes.' He was doubtful. 'You're not upset?'

  'Oh, a little.' She thought she had better say that in order to save his feelings. She waved her hand to him as the train trembled and pulled away from the platform. As soon as he was out of sight she sat back, humming
a tune and stretching her legs on the opposite seat. She had quite enjoyed herself, now she reviewed the day. The lady in the opposite corner stared at her in dismay as Catherine began to sing:

  There was I, waitin' at the church,

  Waitin' at the church, waitin' at the church,

  When I guessed he'd left me in the lurch,

  Lor, 'ow it did upset me!

  Then all at once he sent me round a note,

  'Ere's the very note, this is what he wrote,

  Can't get away to marry you today—

  My wife won't let me.'

  'You can't beat the old ones, can you dear?' warily remarked the lady in the opposite corner.

  ELEVEN

  In which Miss Persson attends a meeting of veterans

  A fly, one of the last survivors of the season, buzzed wearily about her face. Down below, in the thickly wooded valley, a wounded airship sank towards the waters of the Rhine. She heard the distant echo of a roar, primeval; she might at that moment have fancied herself some Parsifal, her quest Arthurian. It was the autumn of 1933. Although the afternoon sunlight was misty, every detail of the landscape was sharply defined in greens, browns and golds, with the sky a sharp blue-grey above.

  She had arrived too late to witness the battle, bound to be decisive, between the tanks and the airships, but now, as she stepped deliberately into the middle of a wide unpaved forest track of churned orange mud, she came upon a camouflaged tank. There was every indication that the machine had been abandoned; its cannon pointed towards the tops of the pines, its engines were silent, a beam of dusty sunshine illuminated a section of its tracks like a delicate searchlight. The tank bore no markings, but seemed to be of a familiar Bavarian type; it was probably, therefore, part of the victorious fleet, unless it had been requisitioned by an enemy.

  From within the tank there was a creak of metal. The hatch of the turret began to open. Una Persson cocked her Lee-Enfield and raised it to her shoulder, sighting on the hatch.

  As if squeezed from a blackhead a yellow face slid into view. A frightened, bloodshot eye regarded her weapon.

  'Oh.' Una lowered the rifle a trifle. 'It's you, you little wanker.'

  Jerry Cornelius offered her a weak wink and then, as his confidence increased, raised his shoulders above the level of the hatch.

  Again, he hesitated. 'Um . . . ' He was wondering if she were friend or foe.

  'How did you manage to get out of this one?' she asked severely. To have reached his present position he would have to have left the battle early. The odds were that he had not even taken part in the fighting. 'Another breakdown?'

  'Oh, come on!' He was getting cocky now. T survive, Una.' He pulled his mean body into the soft daylight and began to slide down the dented armour of his tank until his feet touched the thick pile of pine needles rasied by his vehicle's tracks. He glanced at his flashy watch. 'Have you seen Frank?'

  'It was probably him I shot,' she said. 'I thought it was you. He ran away.' She pointed towards the barbed wire, visible through the trees, the remains of some earlier and forgotten battle. 'He must have left a good deal of himself behind. I've never seen anyone go through wire so fast.'

  'You're on foot?'

  'My motorbike ran out of petrol about three kilometres back.'

  'So you missed it?'

  'Yes. Frank wasn't on our side, was he?'

  She could tell by the way that he leaned his back against his tank, with folded arms and crossed legs, that she had frightened him. She knew very well that Frank was with the North Germans and she had not for a moment doubted his identity: Jerry had an entirely different way of panicking. She uncocked her rifle and slung it over her shoulder, approaching him. He was still nervous, but passive.

  'Cheer up, Jerry,' she said. 'The war's almost over.'

  'It's never fucking over,' he declared moodily. 'I'm getting tired of it, what with one thing and another. I deserve a rest.'

  'It must be your monumental self-concern which makes you so charming.' She licked her handkerchief and began to dab at the dirt on his face. 'When you go to pieces, Jerry, you really go to pieces.'

  'It's shell-shock,' he said defensively, but his spirits were already improving. 'Did you see our attack? It was a classic'

  'Actually,' she told him, 'I was looking for Petroff. Isn't he with you?'

  'If he is, we're really scraping the bottom of the barrel.'

  She was offended. She put her handkerchief away. 'You don't like him? I thought you had a lot in common.'

  'Bloody hell! Anyway, he's calling himself "Craven" these days, for obvious reasons. You haven't got any time for him either, have you?'

  She resisted the urge to defend Petroff, contenting herself with, 'He seems okay to me. Now.'

  ‘Joncing about. He only joined for the uniform.' Jerry began to dust at his own leather combat jacket.

  ‘You've got a scrawny little spirit, Jerry.' Her remark was somewhat hypocritical since she had had exactly the same thought about Petroff. 'Has Petroff stolen your glory, then?'

  Jerry yawned and shook his head. 'I don't think so. It's about all he hasn't pinched. In return, I got his crabs.' Reminiscently he scratched his crotch. Una experienced a sympathetic twinge (at least, she hoped it was only sympathetic). She became depressed.

  'So you haven't seen Petroff?'

  'Didn't expect to. You'll find him at headquarters, if anywhere. Sucking up to any general who happens to be available. He's lost his style, has Petroff.'

  'No,' she said to the first part of his remark, 'I radioed.'

  'Then he's gone over to the Prussians. Temperamentally, he should have been with them all along. Christ!' He became enthusiastic. 'You didn't see any of them go up, I suppose? We were using incendiary shells as a matter of policy, but we didn't expect them to be using hydrogen. Boom! Boom!'

  She sniffed and lit a cigarette. 'You sound like that horrible little friend of yours, Collier. He's not with you today?'

  Jerry frowned, consulting his dodgy memory. 'He got left behind during the Shift, didn't he? It's a shame. This is just the sort of fighting he likes best. Better than shooting HTA stuff. Those airships take ages to come down, even when the whole gasbag's burning. What a shame it can't last.'

  'So you were actually in the battle?'

  'I broke ranks, chasing one of the last of the ships. Her engines had conked out and she was drifting on the wind. I thought I'd be able to bag her, but I only got one shot in before I lost her behind the trees.'

  'She's down,' said Una. 'If it's the one I saw a few minutes ago. She was making for the river. Hadn't you better rejoin your squadron?'

  He scratched his ear. 'Was there anyone with Frank?'

  'Not that I saw.'

  'A little bloke, looks a bit like Charlie Chaplin. Toothbrush moustache? Used to be on the Bavarian side?'

  'Come off it, Jerry!'

  ‘I'm serious,' he said. 'Frank's trying one of his lone-hand stunts again. There's no possible way he could . . .'

  ‘Frank's an optimist.'

  She rubbed her lip. 'So was Petroff. I wonder if they're working together.'

  'No. Petroff would have been too frightened. His nerve has gone completely.'

  'I wish you'd stop crediting Petroff with your own cowardice.'

  'Why shouldn't I? He was my replacement, wasn't he? After Prague?'

  'So that's what it's about,' she said. 'I'll never believe the heights of egotism men can rise to.'

  'Speak for yourself,' he said. 'After all, Frank's only trying to put things back the way he remembers. It's you who's changing the rules, Una.'

  'There aren't any rules,' she told him.

  'That's women for you.' He grinned his cheap triumph.

  She became impatient. 'Do you think Frank will. . . ?'

  'We'll know soon enough, if he has any success. You prefer little wars, don't you? Civil wars.'

  'I suppose I do. It keeps things tidier. World wars change things too much, too quickly. They
're hard for me to identify with.'

  'Personally,' he said, 'I'd like to see one big one get it all over with for good. It's all right for you, you always take the glamorous jobs.'

  'Nonsense.' She knocked a piece of dried mud off one of the tracks. 'You're frighteningly simple-minded sometimes, Jerry.'

  'Aquila non capit muscas.' He shrugged. He was back on form and twice as aggravating. 'Come on. I'll give you a lift.' He helped her climb up the side of the tank and down into the stuffy interior. It stank of disinfectant and after-shave. 'I was sick,' he apologized. 'It's the vibrations. All that bouncing about.'

  'I think I'd better drive.' She handed him her Lee-Enfield and seated herself at the controls, squinting into the periscope. 'Is this reverse?'

  TWELVE

  In which Catherine Cornelius is confronted by the Horrors of War

  'When the 'ell you gonna get married, Caff,' said Mrs Cornelius absently as Catherine pulled on the jacket of her suit, buttoned it up and tugged it into place over her hips.

  There's no one to marry, is there, Mum?'

  Mrs Cornelius folded the wet newspaper around the crumbs and vegetable scraps and hesitated before she took the lid off the waste-bin and threw the bundle in. 'Ask Sammy if 'e got that bit of pork for me, will yer. Caff? On yer way t'work'll do.'

  'All right. Mum.'

  It was impossible to tell how Mrs Cornelius leapt from one association to another. 'Still, y'always come 'ome in the end, doncher?'