Jerusalem Commands: Between the Wars Vol. 3

by Michael Moorcock

  My plane was called The Hawk. She sailed above the world. She sailed through history. She sailed through time.

  They say in the papers that we are on the edge of a new Ice Age. Will it cleanse or will it merely preserve the world, I wonder? Was that miserable conflict, which ended in 1945, not our Ragnarok?

  My ship is called The Rose. With dawn light turning her silver-green fins to shimmering pink, she rises into a golden sky touched by the faintest bands of blue and grey. She could have been the first of a fleet - the mother of my flying cities, my new Byzantium.

  By stopping the spread of Hellenism through the Semitic world the Jews paved a way for crueller, more primitive Islam. The Jews did not kill Christ; they merely halted His progress. And paid a price, I agree, for so doing. Well, we are all wiser at last. Now is the time to recognise differences, go our separate ways. By all means let the Jews forge a homeland for themselves in Africa - but not at Gentile expense! How do we profit from our support of Israel? Why do we support her? There is one obvious answer to this question, one answer the Arab himself frequently offers, loudly and unequivocally, to the world: Now Jews control everything.

  Even Mrs Cornelius refuses to take my point. I rarely discuss politics with her, of course. Now she proffers me the newspapers which tell us each year who are the richest people in the world and she says they are all Anglo-Saxons or Greeks or Swiss. The Queen is richer than anyone else in the world. ‘And is the Queen a Jew?’ she asks me.

  ‘Maybe,’ I tell her.

  I rule nothing out.

  * * * *

  SEVENTEEN

  EVERYTHING MAN EVER IMAGINED can through our wills be made reality. That is my Faith. That was God’s final message to the world. It is the message His son incorporates and holds in holy responsibility. This is the doctrine on which my reborn Church of Byzantium shall be based. She will not be a Church who restricts and formulates. She will be a truly Greek church, expansive and all-embracing. For the word was made actual. I say this to you, brothers and sisters, and to you who would count yourselves my enemies: We are upon this earth to serve and honour God, and to redeem the Spirit of His Son, Our Lord Jesus Christ, and make His Word actual. Jesus brought a simple message to the world - Love One Another. Put down your arms; settle your differences with honest reasoning, not lies and guns. We are none of us perfect until we are reunited with God in Paradise, through the message and example of Jesus Christ, His Son.

  Science is God’s blessed gift to us, so that we may better understand His Word and learn to do His bidding. I know this now. It sustains me through all my disappointments, not least the way I am now forced to make a living. I was repairing bicycles for a long time. And little engines of various sorts, up in the arcade past Ladbroke Road. Now the fur coats. I had started attending St Constantine’s in Bayswater. For too many years I had avoided the consolations of religion. To be absolutely honest, I think I feared religion. Today I believe in God and the tenets of the Christian religion. A godless nation cannot prosper. But mine is not what the eldest Cornelius boy calls ‘fundamentalism’. Unless it is ‘fundamentalism’ to believe in God and His Word! Klyatvoy tyazhkoyu, klyatvoy strashnoyu ...

  I used to meet an émigré called Gerhardie who wrote novels. He had been successful, he said, before the War. We frequented the same art bookshop in Holland Street. We had interests in common with the proprietor, an academic, I understood, originally from Athens.

  ‘One must control the page as one controls a woman.’ It was Gerhardie’s favourite phrase. We walked together in Holland Park at four o’clock on a wonderful summer afternoon. That park is a godsend to lovers of beauty who cannot live all the time in fine surroundings or touch rarity with familiar fingers. ‘One must appear to let it have its head, but one must always be exerting the subtlest of guidance. This is the exquisite pleasure of real power enjoyed for its own sake.’

  He was writing a story about a dog which has the intellect of an Einstein. But he still couples with bitches, sniffs turds and pisses on lamp-posts. When challenged on this he insists, ‘I might possess the mind of a man but I must still uphold my honour and dignity as a dog.’

  His books were, he said, a little like P. G. Wodehouse’s, though more Russian. I took some of them out of the library. Modish things, with little perceptible plot, and observations which were barely fresh when offered to their fashionable 1920s audience, they were on the same lines as John Cowper Powys. I took them back the next day. At least ‘Mister’ Waugh had the taste to keep her dress-shop offerings relatively brief. I was able to tell my acquaintance that his books seemed ‘more substantial’ than Waugh’s and he agreed. He thought this was because for his part he had always enjoyed masculine appetites. His prose, he felt, had a more robust, continental quality to it, and he was not quite the narrow moralist. He was writing a new one, to be called Lemmings and Wrens, about creatures whose tempers are disproportionate to their power. ‘I was wondering if I shouldn’t add in gorillas, but there are difficulties, of course, with all this extra perspective.’ We stopped meeting at Holland Street. I think they had some trouble with the police. There is another Greek runs it now, they say is a hunchback, but I have never seen him in there. My literary acquaintance became even more reclusive. I had hoped to find him at the church, whose services I had recommended. The choir is adequate. For a while I used the Anglican St Mary’s at the end of Church Street, but there was a commotion, I do not remember the cause, and I felt no call to return to their bloodless fold.

  I remember another great literary name of the forties and fifties, Hank Janson, telling me in the Mandrake Club that he sometimes imagined himself some slugular queen, continuing to breed entirely by intuition. All but mindless now, he had become a creature so specialised he could write his novels entirely without conscious thought. ‘Is this dangerous?’ he asked me. In the end he had to go to Spain because of the ridiculous British obscenity laws which allow a woman to be tied up and tortured in public but not to fondle her lover’s penis. ‘My covers were the nastiest things about those books. That and a bit of fladge. You can’t say “knickers” these days without some bluestocking taking the sheepshears to your knackers.’ I gave him the addresses of friends. That was in the days when the Falange kept strict discipline and Spain was the cheapest, safest nation in Europe. No longer, they tell me. The moment Franco’s hand slipped from the tiller the ship of state was doomed, prey to fresh invasion from Moor and Christian alike. Already the mark of atheism can be seen everywhere, especially in the architecture of the Costa del Sol and Nova Palma. This cheap, careless brutalism, as they proudly term it, is academic rubbish. It has nothing to do with what people require from buildings. They want human scale. Architecture is the greatest of arts, our most sublime acknowledgement of God’s purpose.

  Once it was our Church determined the aesthetics of our buildings. Then honest, god-fearing merchants imitated them, perhaps with a greater eye to practicality. Kings built their monuments and princes their dynastic piles. All by way of offering to God and to their fellow-men the confirmation of their good fortune, their thanks. Those who did not build thus were soon judged atheistic misers by Nobles, Church and State alike, and gained neither friends nor honour in the Commonwealth. I do not believe it is atavistic to pine for the Golden Age. The great buildings of Asia Minor retain their mighty authority, even as ruins, because they were raised to the glory of an unchallenged Faith. Those tawny red ruins distant against an ever-demanding sun: you could smell their age even as our boat slid past them, sailing into the pearly core of the mightiest Egyptian empire, which Homer called ‘hundred-gated Thebes’.

  ‘Fons et origo,’ intones Quelch, ‘fons lacrimarum!’ as we remark some unostentatious tomb or temple, the limestone framed by deep vermilion hills, by yellow-green palms. ‘Typically and terribly picturesque,’ says Quelch with that sneer I no longer believe. I wish I understood the reason for his defences. I think some peculiar sense of honour, a quasi-religious understanding of Fre
e Will, forbids his telling me why he denigrates and shuts out so much. But, of course, there is something else he is hiding.

  Quelch professed boredom with it, but for me Egypt was unique, almost a different planet, forever astonishing me with her gentian waters, her gashes of ochre vivid against the deep canary of the rocks, the lush emerald and jade of her palms and fields, her pale old stones worn by the winds of centuries, staring out of her unimaginably distant past, the tall, triangular white of bellying felucca sails, her little grey-brown donkeys and her creamy amber camels on the banks, her healthy children, the colour of cafe au lait, who ran along the river path calling out to us, her brightly veiled women who stopped to wave; her smiling men in tarboosh or turban. Quelch saw all this as squalid, boring or irritating and spent most of his time on deck reading a pocket edition of Simplicissimus in the suppressed Wheldrake translation which he had found in Cairo. He had a taste, he said, for the knockabout school of German romance, its men dressing up as women, its frequent whacking of servants, its impossible coincidences and extraordinary urinations. That this antiquated form of humour still had an appreciative audience was demonstrated from time to time by the peculiarly strained noises escaping my travelling companion, even at night in the dark, when he recalled some particularly hilarious episode, frequently involving a peasant girl, a pistol, a common domestic animal (usually a pig) and occasionally a Jew. Unlike most people, Quelch declared, his appreciation of German culture did not stop at Beethoven and Goethe.

  We each of us now had cheques in our pockets drawn on Sir Ranalf’s Anglo-International Moving Picture Company account, and gone was any suspicion from our minds that our new producer was not a gentleman.

  ‘Sir Ranalf,’ Seaman insisted one afternoon as we sat under the awning drinking bitters and soda, ‘is your grand Old English squire. We have them in Sweden, too. The kind of well-bred yeoman who, disturbing a nesting partridge in a cornfield, allows her, as a consequence, to lead him away from her eggs. Having reassured her that he has been thoroughly deceived, he will lift his hat and say “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, madam,” and continue his way by a different route. I made a film on the subject before I came to America, but they said it was too long. They cut it to ribbons.’

  ‘Quite a step from rural symbolism to smart society.’ Professor Quelch lifted his nose against the breeze from our punkah.

  ‘Not quite so different, you know. I am telling the same stories, the same morals, but in a slightly different context.’

  ‘Wiv more sex.’ Mrs Cornelius leans luxuriously across the top of his lounger to take a sip from his glass. She is lightly swathed in apple-green silk, with an apple-blossom border, a Gainsborough hat and a great wave of ‘English Garden’. ‘More love interest, as they corl it.’ She kissed his small, but distinct, bald spot. ‘It’s wot they pays ter see, eh, Wolfy-boy? A flash o’ this, a hint o’ that.’

  ‘They get a strong, uplifting moral.’ Gradually he resumes that cool manner which always comes when his dignity is offended. Seaman hates any questioning of his artistic motives. Mrs Cornelius does little else but mock them. She is moved, she admits privately to me, chiefly by boredom from having to listen to his monologues in the bedroom when she would, if she had not felt paralysed, have flung herself from a window rather than hear another note of his trumpet-blowing. His genius, his mission to the world, his early brilliance, his prizes and his fine reviews were familiar to Mrs Cornelius not, she said, so much in the words but in the way you remember a particularly horrible noise, like a neighbour’s creaking mangle. I sympathised with her. We have many such windbags in Russia. I have spent my life avoiding them.

  ‘Besides,’ she says. ‘ ‘E’s such an easy bloody target, i’n’ ‘e?’

  I feel rather sorry for him and hasten to tell him I think our story will have all the moral uplift possible to pump into a modern motion picture, yet it must speak to the hearts of a popular audience. We will give them romance, spectacle, tragedy, laughter, tears, a story that cannot fail to engross them, ‘a message that celebrates modern love, that champions understanding and rationality!’ This more than placates him and he even smiles a little when Mrs Cornelius pats his hand.

  Esmé returns from the forward deck where she has been sitting under her sunshade. Never prettier than now, she is the epitome of my childhood sweetheart. ‘We were saying how wonderful our film is going to be.’ I kiss her lightly on the forehead.

  Seaman turns to leave. She stays him.

  ‘Oh, yes, Wolfy, dear, it will make us all marvellously rich and we will become millionaires. I was thinking, just then, what to spend my money on when we get back to Hollywood. A big house first, yes?’

  ‘Our own Pickfair,’ I promise. And so extraordinary are our surroundings that I immediately visualise, even to the smell of our roses, the home we would build in Beverly Hills. My ship is called Der Heim. She is a city of 100,000 people - artisans, artists, professionals, intellectuals, academics of all kinds. Her delicate towers shine bright as gold, bright as silver, bright as new-tempered steel. Meyn shif ist meyn sheyvet, meyn shtetl. My ship is my monument to God, my expression of His Will, my understanding of our ultimate purpose upon the Earth, which is to rise, in every sense, above the Earth. Let their skeletal arms lift and fall in the mud and blood of their ruined planet, where they gasp for air and beg for a quick death as they slaughter anything that lives and with such great enthusiasm do the work of their master, Satan. Our pain distracts Satan from His own. Satan it is who makes us suffer, not Christ. They will not accept this.

  Mrs Cornelius says I should not brood so much on these things. She insists on my accompanying her to The Blenheim Arms where she meets her friends, the schoolmistress and the clergyman. Then, while I drink their inferior vodka, she proceeds to demonstrate how I should be forgetting my grievances in a Knees-up. I have no instinct for the Knees-up. It is not my national dance.

  The temperature increases noticeably as we move up-river. It is dry, desert heat and does not greatly inconvenience the men but the ladies find it irksome. They are not allowed to wear sun-suits or swimming-dresses on deck because of the disturbance so much naked European femininity will cause amongst the crew (not to mention any passing native boat or spectator from the shore). We would attract, Professor Quelch assures us, the very worst sort of Arab attention, from the filthiest catcalling to imanic fulminations against the spawn of Jezebel. The imans, already causing a great deal of trouble in the rural communities, supporting Wafdist extremists whose policy of murder and terror works well in more remote settlements.

  The weather irritates Mrs Cornelius in particular. ‘It makes me sweat like an effin’ pig, Ive. I need ter be in somefink cooler - like a bar seat at the Oyster Room in Piccadilly Circus. English people weren’t meant ter take so much roastin’.’

  I suggest she will not notice the heat once we are working again. Our desultory rehearsals, usually in the vacated dining-room when not occupied, had been more a means of passing time than a means of perfecting what was, we felt, already perfect. Contemplating the muscular subtlety and strength of our ‘photoplay’, I knew I was on the brink of creating a film D.W. Griffith himself would recognise as great. Coming home to Hollywood I could display it with pride and then there would be no more ‘trousers’! Other directors would fight for our services. We would be a force as great as United Artists. Douglas Fairbanks had been made a star overnight by Anita Loos. There is no reason why I should not make Mrs Cornelius and ‘Irené Gay’ stars. The power of the director in these matters is always overestimated. Those elevated studio-hands have convinced the gullible public that they alone are responsible for all that is wonderful on screen, that the producers and the rest are responsible for all that is bad! That was never my own experience. For one thing producers usually have a great deal more common sense, while writers and set designers hate to waste time or money.