The Laughter of Carthage - [Between The Wars 02]

by Michael Moorcock

  For the first week, however, I will admit I gave less thought to my dear ones than usual and neither did I do much in the way of furthering my career. I lived a dream of excited discovery. I ate steaks, lobsters and hot dogs, Russian dishes as fine and as elaborate as any in Odessa. I tried Italian, French and Chinese restaurants. I visited cinemas to watch the latest films and I went to the vaudeville. I rode on streetcars, buses and trains. During that period I was content with my own company and any escort would have been a distraction. I was swimming in waters at once strange and deeply familiar, modern yet full of nostalgia. Here were soda-fountains which were fantastic extensions of cafés I had known in Kiev, smelling of syrups and candies, vast tiers of carved mahogany and oak, of brass and chrome and decorated mirrors; restaurants in which small forests appeared to be growing, picture palaces which might have been transported stone by stone from ancient Assyria, mansions grand enough to be the seats of European Emperors. Standing at the intersection of Fifth Avenue and 14th Street I watched black clouds of a thunderstorm come rolling towards me, abolishing the sun, block by block, before at last it reached me, a wild hissing of rain, roaring and flashing, driving me into a doorway. I walked almost the whole length of Broadway at night, visited the Zoo, bought sweet potatoes from a vendor in Central Park, purchased for next to nothing the favours of pretty prostitutes (some of whom spoke even less English than those in Constantinople), chatted with strangers in an easy way I found impossible in Europe. I told them how wonderful their city was. The true New Yorker believes there is no world but his; questions are rarely asked about your country of origin: he merely wishes to hear if you approve of New York. This was perfectly agreeable to me for it maintained anonymity while affording sociability. I still had plenty of good cocaine and more could easily be purchased through the girls I patronised. I cheerfully drank grape juice or Coca-Cola when no spirits were readily available to me. Alcohol, of course, was an abiding and somewhat tiresome topic everywhere. The newspapers thrived on rum-running tales. Prohibition and its consequences were the national obsession. But it meant little to me. I was a child on vacation. All I wanted was to be able to go down to the waterfront, watch the liners come and go, enjoy with fascination a sea plane exhibition provided by ex-War airmen. America (though falsely believing herself the first to fly) had taken to the aeroplane as readily as she took to her native Model T. The paradoxes of a culture able to accept technological innovation so readily while allowing the antiquated morals of religious extremists to be imposed on the entire nation had not become apparent to me. Careless of the rest of the sub-continent’s opinions, New York City, in the days of her glory, functioned as an independent City State. Financiers were called Morgan and Carnegie. The power of the Orient was limited to the corner drapery shop. New York fell resoundingly to Carthage in 1929; she was their greatest conquest amongst the world’s cities. As Constantinople, the centre of Christendom, was made the Ottoman capital, so New York became the capital of Carthage. Mastering her, they mastered America. Eventually, inevitably, this would lead to mastery of the world.

  Innocent of future disaster, I followed the marching bands into Brooklyn and Queens and went to see George M. Cohan, that quintessential American, in his latest musical. I ate baked clams and fresh oysters at Sheepshead Bay. I sat at a lunch counter near Grand Central Station reading a New York Times which made all the troubles of Europe seem remote, unimportant, even mildly irritating. My own interest, indeed, was in the doings of scientists and how they were honoured in America. President Harding, I read, gave Madame Curie a radium capsule worth a hundred thousand dollars as a gift from American women. After a slump, Henry Ford’s cars were selling well again. I also learned that the Edison company had given a questionnaire to all prospective employees. To my despair (for I had planned at a pinch to offer my services there) I could scarcely answer a single question. One asked ‘Which American city leads in the manufacture of washing machines?’ Edison was, I found from the newspaper, utterly baffled by the results of these tests. He decided university people were horribly ignorant. Perhaps it was as well I did not have to endure the frustration of working for a fool.

  In a very short time the discovery of an illicit whisky-still in the heart of the Bronx became more exciting than a report on Warren Harding’s adamant refusal to join the League of Nations. My only reaction to an editorial denouncing the British Trade Agreement with Soviet Russia was the vague hope I might now in a letter to my mother tell her how stimulating America was. Perhaps she would be allowed to join me here. Most of us were then led to believe that now, with the Civil War over and foreign governments resuming relations with her, Russia would become increasingly moderate. The fate of my mother and Captain Brown aside, I felt this was no longer of immediate importance (besides. I was officially a Frenchman). Neither did the defeat of the Spanish Army by Abd el Krim in Morocco seem significant. By far the best news was the American Government’s willingness to fund domestic aviation development. It spurred me to take stock of my limited resources and begin arranging my affairs. My vacation in New York was coming to an end. Soon it would be time to set off for Washington.

  Some three weeks after my arrival in New York I bought stocks of linen paper, all the engineer’s necessary drawing paraphernalia, confined myself to my suite with a large amount of cocaine, coffee and the occasional room-service meal, and began carefully to copy out designs and specifications of my already patented inventions. These I set aside in a large folder. Next I prepared the unpatented designs. These included my transatlantic aeroplane staging platforms, hospital airships capable of being sited wherever they were immediately needed, intercontinental tunnels, a cheap method for extracting aluminium from clay, a means of producing synthetic rubber, a long-distance aerodyne and a rocket-propelled airship. All would go for registration to the U.S. Patent Office. The others I would send directly to the Secretary of the Interior, whom I understood to be in charge of scientific projects. I also included copies of various press reports, although these were mainly in French. The ship’s newspaper had done a little piece in English about me and my work and this, too, was enclosed.

  After several days I was totally exhausted, but the work was done. I took both envelopes to the post office, sending them by registered mail to their destinations. Afterwards I went to the German Cafe in Chambers Street for huge helpings of sausage, veal, sauerkraut and dumplings. With its carved marble and dark onyx, its pillars, its animal heads, its polished stone counters, the restaurant was a monument of reassurance. Afterwards, in the company of one of my young ladies, I went to see a musical and some movies at the Casino Theatre. By midnight I was back at her lodgings somewhere near 9th Avenue and 53rd Street, with a line of the elevated railway running only a few feet from her front windows and there I remained for two days, entertained by Mae and her little, bright-eyed friend Irma. When I eventually returned to the Pennsylvania there was a message for me. To my considerable delight I learned Lucius Mortimer had called. He was staying at the Hotel Astor. He wondered if I would like to join him there for dinner. The note had arrived that morning. There was still time to telephone the Astor and accept his invitation. I looked forward to enjoying the company of the personable young major. I spent the rest of the day bathing, resting and tidying up various papers. By seven I had dressed and because the evening was warm decided to save a cab fare by walking the few blocks to 44th and Broadway. I was now thoroughly familiar with central New York. The grid system, like so much in America, was rational enough to make life much easier once it was understood. Der Raster liegt fest, aber die Vielfalt der Bilder ist unendlich. New York ist eine Stadt der nah beieinanderliegenden Gegensätze. The air smelled of sweet oil and pungent smoke, of coffee, fried ham and sour cream; the wild turmoil of the daytime traffic had eased to a moderate, almost sedate, pace and I found myself wondering at my good fortune as I made my way, whistling, towards the best hotel in New York. The Astor was both opulent and dignified, but not as impressive, in my v
iew, as the Pennsylvania. From outside it was restrained red brick, limestone, green slate and copper and inside had a somewhat hushed quality more suitable for a church or a museum which, in its solid murals and dark wood, it closely resembled. A graceful porter showed me, at length, through the Art Nouveau splendour, the marble and gold, past Ionic pilasters, painted panels, tapestries and trophies, to what he called ‘the bachelors’ quarters’ and a room crowded with huge hunting scenes where, at a table near the far wall, my friend awaited me. The blond-haired Mortimer like me was no longer in uniform and rose in evening dress to greet me, full of smiles and good cheer. ‘I’m so glad you’re still here, Colonel Peterson. I was afraid I’d have to follow you to Washington.’ As we ate he told me had crossed the Atlantic ‘once or twice’ since he last saw me. Now he had decided to give sea travel a rest for a while. Some people on his last trip had mentioned my name and he remembered his conversations with me. That, of course, had led him to try looking me up. Cutting his meat, he said how sorry he was to hear about the French scandal. I put down my knife and fork. I asked him what he meant and he became confused. Before he could explain, the waiter arrived and we ordered the next course. Then Mortimer reached into his jacket pocket to produce a substantial press cutting. ‘It’s from Le Monde,’ he said, passing it to me. It was almost a month old. ‘You haven’t gotten any of this over here? That must be a relief.’

  As I read I become increasingly horrified. The headlines were clear enough. There were pictures of myself, M. de Grion, Kolya, in happier days. A fanciful sketch of my completed airship. The shut down hangars near St-Denis. Our Aviation Company had collapsed completely and fraud was alleged. According to police reports the Chief Engineer (myself) had fled France, taking crucial documents proving the honesty of his partners. M. de Grion’s son-in-law. Prince Nicholas Petroff, was quoted as being baffled. He had been completely duped by me. It seemed the majority of stock was mine. I had sold it at a profit and escaped with my fortune, perhaps back to Constantinople where it seemed I might be wanted by the British for aiding Mustafa Kemal’s rebels. My sister, still in Paris and desolate, had never guessed what I was planning.

  ‘This is meaningless,’ I told Mortimer. ‘Prince Petroff is my best friend. He’s obviously been misquoted. But it’s damned bad news for me. I had no idea!’

  ‘I doubt you can be extradited on the evidence they seem to have.’ Mortimer was deeply sympathetic. ‘Presumably you didn’t anticipate this sort of publicity?’

  ‘Petroff warned me there might be an attempt to make me the scapegoat for the company’s collapse. That’s why I came to America. But I hadn’t guessed how vicious the papers would be. What they say is nonsense. They’re plainly putting words in Kolya’s mouth. He’s my oldest, closest friend. M. de Grion must be giving them all that. He was never over fond of me. Esmé’s due here soon. I hope to God she doesn’t suffer!’

  ‘She’ll still come?’

  ‘No question of it. And Petroff, too.’

  ‘They have your address? Maybe it’s as well you’re going to Washington.’ He frowned at me almost suspiciously, as if he hardly believed I could be so innocent.

  I was offended. ‘My dealings have been honest at all times, Major Mortimer. For your information, I’m not a wanted man in Turkey, either. I was instrumental in some arrests of nationalist rebels and spies. I left Constantinople entirely for personal reasons.’

  ‘By the looks of it, you’ve been poorly treated, colonel. If the scandal broke over here it could have some mighty unwelcome results. You know what the yellow press thinks of foreigners. They’re all anarchists and crooks trying to take over the country.’ He bent his body away from the table as the waiter set out fresh plates. Then Mortimer grinned suddenly. ‘Doesn’t it make you long for a drink?’

  For the first time since I had arrived in America I desired a large vodka. I nodded vigorously and he winked at me. ‘We’ll finish here then go visit some friends of mine. They’ll accommodate us. What do you plan to do about this?’ He folded and replaced the cutting.

  I was at a loss for an idea. There was no easy means of clearing my name. Only Kolya could help there. Esmé would agree to be a witness. But where and when could a trial be heard? I asked Mortimer.

  ‘In Paris. I’m damned sure of it. You’re safe enough in the States. The chances of a visa extension, however, might be a shade slim. You need friends in high places, old man!’ He looked critically at the cheeseboard, his knife hovering. Then, with a sigh, he impaled some Boston Blue.

  ‘There’s Mr Cadwallader in Atlanta.’

  ‘The lawyer? But it’s your word against theirs. I was thinking along slightly different lines. Who do you know in Washington?’

  There was no one. Deep in thought. Major Mortimer abstractedly chewed his cheese. ‘I might be able to help. I know one or two people with good political connections. Would a letter of introduction be of use?’

  ‘You’re very kind.’ I doubt if I sounded enthusiastic. My future had again become uncertain. I could not go back to Europe. I might have to flee the United States. Was Esmé forever lost to me? I resisted panic. Desperately I tried to keep my mind in balance, but now things seemed blacker than ever before. I remember little of finishing the meal. At some stage Major Mortimer helped me to the sidewalk and hailed a taxi. Within a quarter of an hour we had entered the blue swing doors of one of New York’s many cellar bars. Inside was noisy jazz music, wild dancing, everything I had been glad to leave behind in Paris. Just then it was the last place I wanted to be, but Mortimer steered me through the crowd to a shadowy back room. He ordered drinks. They were not very strong cocktails, but I was glad of them and drank several. The speakeasy was patronised entirely by the well to do. It was no ordinary bohemian café. Lucius Mortimer was acquainted with many of the other clients and was obviously a regular and popular visitor. To them he spoke a patois almost impossible for me to follow. I had heard him and Jimmy Rembrandt using it between themselves on board ship. I grew rapidly drunk. By about one o’clock, as I continued to babble my problems to him, Lucius put a hand on my arm, looking me directly in the eyes. ‘Max,’ he said, ‘I think of myself as your pal and I’m going to try to help. Jimmy’s turning up here soon. We’ll talk to him. What if we went with you to Washington? I could introduce you to my friends. Do you have all your patents with you?’

  I told him what I had done. My letters had said I should be in Washington shortly and would call to ensure the plans had arrived. I had been sensible, said Mortimer. I should relax and take another drink. Once I knew the right people my troubles would be over. ‘You can rely on me, I need hardly say, not to breathe a word of the airship scandal. But sooner or later it could hit our papers, then you’ll have to be completely prepared. Forewarned is forearmed. The press like nothing better than screaming for foreign blood these days. Only last week, in my hometown - in Ohio of all places - the Ku Klux Klan lynched two Italians. They were either anarchists or Catholics. People are even less fond of Russians, so you’d better make it clear you’re French and go on calling yourself Max Peterson. You could be half English. That should stop suspicion. I’ll cover you. We met during the War when you were flying with the Lafayette Squadron. Everybody loves the Lafayette.’

  I was reluctant to involve myself in lies. However, I accepted Mortimer must have a better sense of the situation’s realities, so I agreed he should decide what was to be told to people. I would back him up in anything he said. I remained impressed by the American’s open-hearted generosity. What European near stranger would have done so much? I was almost tearfully grateful by the time Jimmy Rembrandt arrived, with two young women, actresses from a nearby show, and embraced me as warmly as any Russian. He slapped me on the back, announcing how much he had missed my company since the ship. A bottle of outrageously dubious champagne was ordered. This he chiefly fed to the ladies who, clucking and preening in their pink and blue feathers and silks, soon took on the appearance of confounded chickens. ‘Sounds li
ke a great adventure!’ Rembrandt was in an ebulliently reassuring mood. ‘We’ll get the train to Washington tomorrow. Can you leave that soon, Max?’

  We toasted our good fortune, our mutual destinies, the happy chance of our Mauretanian meeting. With such splendid companions I should have no difficulties when I came to confront and win over the American capital. Jokingly, they encouraged me to ‘remember’ my English mother, my father, the distinguished French soldier, and his father, who had fought for the South in the Civil War. We even considered an ancestor who had raised a volunteer regiment for the War of Independence. By the time we left the ‘speakeasy’ I was cheerful again, already half believing my new identity. They had struck exactly the right compromise, particularly in view of our destination. Their friends were Southerners to whom the only acceptable foreigners were those who had supported the Confederate cause sixty years before. Jimmy Rembrandt’s own mother, he told me, was from Louisiana and his Pennsylvanian father had been in Democratic politics until a riding accident just before the War. In the small hours we took a taxi back to my hotel while they lifted imaginary glasses to ‘Max Peterson, Gentleman of France’ and attempted to teach me how to whistle Dixie. The tune was important, they told me gravely, but the ability to remember all the words would prove crucial if I was to endear myself to their friends. As to my political views, they said, these were hardly in need of improvement at all.

  With friendly good humour they helped me to an elevator before continuing on to the Astor, promising to collect me in the lobby next morning. Our association was going to be of enormous mutual benefit. It would make my French aviation schemes, they said, look like a cardboard model of the real thing. I reached my room and tried to pack, but unexpectedly the melancholy returned in full force once I was alone. I lay on my bed and wept for Esmé. How long must it be before I could be reunited with her? What crime had I committed in the eyes of God, to be so severely punished while the cynical rich and ruthlessly powerful went scot-free?