The Laughter of Carthage - [Between The Wars 02]

by Michael Moorcock

  The water had grown suddenly blue and the clouds overhead had broken into white masses moving rapidly away to the North. As they rolled, the water became brighter, the ship’s brass and woodwork glittered in the sun and we were like a golden barge afloat on a silver sea. Almost immediately everyone was out on deck, standing along the rails, removing clothing, chattering and laughing, like clerks and factory girls on a works outing. The wake of the ship broke behind us, cream foam on royal blue, and ahead were the snowy Caucasian peaks, the verdant slopes of the foothills, the contours of forests, even the faint suggestion of Batoum itself; hints of white and gold and grey, as the ship changed course and began to head directly for the shore.

  The landscape was extraordinarily beautiful; a panorama of wooded hills and green valleys softened by the hazy sunshine. It seemed we had moved magically from the dead of winter into the simple fullness of spring. Flights of birds passed over dense forests. We saw pale smoke rising from pastel houses: a scene of astonishing peace for which we had been completely unprepared. People giggled and shook their heads like lunatics. More than one adult began to weep, perhaps in the belief we had been transported to Paradise. Gulls cackled in vulgar welcome and flung themselves into our rigging. The note of the engine grew brisker and merrier. Now we saw the ochre line of a long stone mole, the industrial buildings of an oil-harbour, the coaling-stations, the white quayside beyond, the sparkling domes of churches and mosques. British and Russian ships were tidily at rest alongside the landing-stages. Batoum was not a large town. She lacked the grandness of Yalta or the military solidity of Sebastopol, but in that haze, with her gilded roofs and her flags, she was infinitely more beautiful than any city we had ever seen. To us, used to uncertainty, destruction, death and danger, she looked at once fragile and permanent; a haven of security. She lay in a bay surrounded by densely wooded hills, with no major roads leading into her and only a railway connection with the rest of Russia. Her Oriental appearance made us feel that we had already reached our goal, that we were in legendary Constantinople, and we began to act is if this were indeed our ultimate destination. I was now genuinely tempted to have my trunks unloaded, to put down roots in soil which was, albeit Asian Russia, nonetheless still Russia. I have no idea what the result would have been had I followed my impulse. I nowadays sometimes wish I had chosen to leave the Rio Cruz there and then; but I was full of Mr Thompson’s praise, of dreams of my great scientific career in London. I suppose I would have been frustrated in Batoum within a month. It was a beautiful oasis in a turbulent world; it would be years before its character was completely destroyed under Stalin. Yet it was not really the resting-place for a man who dreamed of gigantic aerial liners, of flying cities, and who carried in his wallet a new means of harnessing natural power.

  Slowly the Rio Cruz eased her way into a space between a French frigate and a Russian merchantman, throwing her lines to waiting British sailors on the quay. Water slapped against warm stones smeared with bright green weed and rainbow oil. I smelled Batoum. I smelled damp foliage and roasting meat and mint and coffee. Palm-trees marched along her promenade; she had wide parks, public gardens full of feathery bamboo, eucalyptus, mimosa and orange trees; her streets were crowded with calm, dark buildings, the colour of vine-leaves, of rusty stone, brick or stucco. And flying high over what was obviously the public architecture near the centre of town, were the reassuring banners of two Empires, the Russian and the British. At dockside huts and customs houses smart Royal Navy bluejackets with carbines and bandoliers stood guard. The quayside was spotlessly clean. Polished brasswork and fresh paint was everywhere. I heard the hoot of motor-traffic, the clatter of trams, the familiar bustle of ordinary city streets. Through the lines of trees I made out hotels and shops, pavements populated with a mixture of races and classes. There were Russian, British and French uniforms, Moslem turbans and Greek fezzes, Parisian tailor-mades and Turkish tarbooshes. The Revolution had temporarily improved the life of Batoum, giving her an intellectual and fashionable element she had never previously possessed. I felt like a hound on a leash as I hurried to collect my little bag and wait impatiently at the side as the gang-plank was lowered. My pleasure was spoiled only by Hernikof’s fat body sweating and eager (doubtless he had worked out a means of turning a profit while in Batoum) pressing against mine. He winked at me. ‘A bit of a treat this, eh? Makes a change from stamping passports in Odessa, I shouldn’t wonder.’ Chilled by his casual intimacy with my past, I refused to be drawn and was hugely relieved when sailors and soldiers at last arranged themselves on the quay, barricades were drawn about the disembarking area, a desk was situated beside the gang-plank, officers checked one another’s clipboards, shook hands, and finally the signal was given for passengers to come ashore. I was first down the bouncing causeway, well ahead of Hernikof, my coat flying, my collar open as I began to appreciate the heat. My gloves in my hand, my hat on the back of my head, I grinned like a chimpanzee at British officials who carefully inspected my papers, then handed them back to me. Abstractedly I nodded and mumbled at the Russian officer who searched through my bag and returned it. I almost sang to the Ukrainian NCO who again looked at my papers and checked my name and description in the large ledger he carried. He was a gigantic, fat man with handle-bar moustaches and a kindly manner. ‘Be careful, friend,’ he murmured when I stepped at last through the final barricade and breathed the sweetly exotic air of Batoum. ‘A good many people here don’t accept there’s a closed season for boorzhoos.’ I turned to look at him sharply. He sounded like a Red. But he grinned. ‘Just a well-intentioned word.’

  When I saw that there were actually izvotchiks stationed beside the curb, underneath the palm-trees, I gasped with delight. The nags were almost as old as their drivers and the finery of the four-seaters was patched and faded, but one might have been in Petersburg before the War, or at least one of her suburbs. I approached the nearest. With his long whip, big coachman’s coat, top-hat and thick, grey whiskers the cabby was an unchanged survivor from Tsarist days. I asked him what it would cost to take me to the best hotel in Batoum.

  ‘The best, your honour?’ A look of condescending good-humour came over his ruddy features. ‘It’s a matter of taste. And a matter of your politics, too, I’d say. Also a matter of there being enough room for you. What about the Oriental? It has a good view and reasonable food.’ I think I actually gaped at him. He spoke pure Moscow Russian. ‘How much? Well, it’s a rouble, but nobody accepts roubles if they can help it. Have you any Turkish lira? Or British money would be best.’

  ‘I’ve silver roubles. Real silver. No paper money.’ In this respect the conversation was no different to any one might find elsewhere in Russia.

  ‘Very well, your honour.’ He scratched his cheek with the end of his long whip. ‘Take your bag in with you. There’s plenty of room.’

  I was slow in doing as he suggested, for at last I saw the Baroness making her pre-arranged way along the pavement towards me. Then, to my horror, I realised her bag was being carried by the ubiquitous Hernikof. I did my best to ignore him as, according to plan, I raised my hat to her. ‘Can I give you a lift. Baroness?’ I had not, however, reckoned to have the company of a Jewish financier on our little idyll. He panted as he put the bag down, shifting his gaze from her to me and almost, I would swear, leering at us. She was polite. ‘You are most kind. M. Hernikof. I think I will accept M. Pyatnitski’s offer, however, since we were going in roughly the same direction.’ She took her valise from his hand and placed it hesitantly on the ground. I placed my own bag in the coach and reached for hers. Hernikof smiled at me. ‘Good morning again, M. Pyatnitski.’

  ‘Good morning, Hernikof. I’m sorry I can’t give you a lift.’

  ‘It’s of no consequence. I know my way about Batoum. Thank you.’ I resented his insolent, mocking tone.

  ‘You are too rude, Maxim.’ She was embarrassed as she arranged herself in our carriage. ‘You know poor Hernikof meant well. Are you jealous of him? He was
not trying to impose.’

  ‘I want to be alone with you.’ I settled myself beside her. ‘I’m determined we shall have an unspoiled holiday.’ The cab started off at a smart Petersburg trot. With a petulant twist of her mouth she dismissed the subject of Hernikof. The sudden movement of the vehicle as it crossed the wide quayside towards the boulevard seemed to excite her and her lips opened as though she already gasped in the grip of a lust if anything greedier and hotter than my own. When we accidentally touched we could barely keep from embracing and in order to preserve decorum I moved to sit across from her in the four-wheeler. We pretended to be interested in the pleasant buildings, neatly kept flower beds, the shrubs, the tall palms. We attempted to make conversation, rehearsing our charade.

  ‘What perfect sunshine.’

  ‘The British officers were very pleasant, I thought.’

  ‘And the Russians unusually courteous. Isn’t it lovely to be in a proper cab?’

  The ride was relatively short, through orderly streets, unspoiled by war, and we had soon arrived outside the Oriental, a tall and elegant building in Nabarezhnaya Street, looking out onto the harbour. The hotel’s polished stone and carved Egyptianate pillars, decorated with gilt, filled me with an immense sense of comfort. While the Baroness waited in the cab I ran up the steps and entered the airy, peaceful lobby to enquire at the reception desk if they had rooms. A thin Armenian manager was elaborately upset, reporting there were no ordinary accommodations, only two suites left at three English pounds a day. He would be delighted to accept a cheque drawn on a European bank, at a pinch he would also accept francs, but desperately regretted he could not take any form of Russian funds unless they were gold. I pretended to dismiss this as perfectly normal and was a little disdainful, a little impatient. He became still more spasmodically apologetic, sending a Georgian porter to carry our baggage as I escorted the Baroness up a wide yellow marble staircase to the first floor. The carpets were of a pinkish-red and the wall-panels matched them, reminding me of the luxury of first-class train travel in pre-War days. Our suites were to be one above the other and when we reached her door I removed my hat, bowed, and loudly wished her a pleasant stay. ‘I will be at your disposal the whole time.’

  ‘I am more than grateful to you, M. Pyatnitski.’

  ‘Perhaps you would care to dine with me this evening?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Shall I meet you here at six-thirty?’

  ‘Six-thirty. Excellent.’

  I signed for the porter to continue upwards. We parted. This little scene, of course, was for the benefit of the hotel staff. I took another flight on strawberry carpet, then followed my small bag through a doorway fit for a Calif into an elaborate sitting-room. Beyond this lay a bed chamber whose size and appearance resembled a small harem, with its large four-poster, gauze curtains, an ornamental ceiling in deep blue-and-gold arabesques. From the windows I looked out past tall palms at the blue sea. I had ascended to Paradise. I tipped the porter with a silver rouble, silently daring him to complain, and when he had gone I stood on the balcony, inhaling warm, spicy air. I had forgotten what comfort could be. This was a hint of everything I might expect in Europe. There would certainly be luxury in London to match this. Luxury in Paris. Luxury in Nice. In Berlin. There would be handsome motor-cars, the country-houses of aristocrats, servants, expensive restaurants, everything which, as little as two months earlier, I had never expected to know again. I began to realise that soon I could be living in cities which were not ruled by the moment; cities which could barely conceive of the possibility of sudden attack, which presumed an invulnerable culture and institutions; where Bolshevism was at worst a bad joke and where civil justice was taken for granted. I began to shake as I stripped off my overcoat and jacket and stretched on the blue velvet counterpane, drawing deep breaths, laughing to myself, feeling tears of relief stream down my face as it dawned on me exactly how fortunate I was, how dreadful had been the horror from which I had escaped. For me normality had become violence, suspicion, lies, sudden death, random denunciation, arbitrary imprisonment: but suddenly I saw it could so easily be secure and elegant surroundings and well-mannered companions of one’s own choosing. My proper rewards were within my reach again. In an almost drunken mood I put on my jacket, let myself out of my door and walked with swift caution downstairs to be admitted, unobserved.

  My delicious mistress, already stripped to her petticoats, threw herself, a soft, sweet-smelling, purring, voracious creature, into my arms. Still wearing most of our clothes, we fucked on the counterpane. Then we undressed, entered the wonderful linen sheets which were freshly washed and scented with lavender, and fucked again. How I wished I might have fallen in love with her, forgotten every element of sense, worshipped her, allowed myself to rise to heights of euphoria, planned marvellous weddings and promised to be faithful until death as boys of my age usually did. Common sense would not have mattered. Leda would have enjoyed the romance as much as I. Her body was so soft, so vibrant, so powerful and in the midst of love-making the expression of ecstasy on her face made her look like a goddess, in whose veins ran fiery copper. Nobody would have been harmed by my falling in love. Her lust was magnificent. My lust was her equal. We had boundless energy. We hardly made use of the cocaine at all. Later, while I hid in her bedroom, she ordered wine and food for lunch. We gorged on cheese and cold beef and salmon. We guzzled French champagne; and when six-thirty came we ignored our decorous dining plans and fucked standing up on the deep blue and orange Turkish carpet, then she ordered caviare and white Georgian wine served in her suite and we gobbled that as greedily as we gobbled one another’s genitals. I was not in love. I could never love a woman, unless it was my mother or Mrs Cornelius. But she was in love and it pervaded everything; it made me gay. It almost made me forget Esmé and all I had lost. Leda said I must be the greatest lover in the world; we must never lose touch. I knew she dare not utter her real wish: that we should be together always. She only needed me to say the word. But I would not. I was already committed to my dream. With the Esmé I had known before the Revolution I might have fulfilled my destiny, for she had worshipped me uncritically from childhood. But Esmé was gone. She could not be replaced by this handsome, strong-willed aristocrat whose imagination and ambitions were equal to my own. Because she was used to power, Leda’s wishes would always be in some ways opposed to mine. There was no woman like Esmé. Without her, I must achieve my dreams alone.

  The next morning, somewhat shakily, we returned to see if the ship were due to sail. Mr Larkin said he guessed we should be in port for at least another two days. Like children released from school, we all but skipped along the palm-flanked Promenade to observe the little Moslem boys playing tag and knuckle-bones on the stony beach, then, at the Baroness’s suggestion, we walked to the Alexander Nevski church, a building predominantly of blue marble, which had only been completed a few years earlier yet was the embodiment of Russian tradition, with its golden dome and spires. People entered and left the massive church at a surprising rate and it was my guess they prayed for lost relatives, even for the soul of Russia herself. We meant to stay only a few moments, merely to be able to describe where we had been when we returned, but the Baroness made us stay longer and I was grateful. In those days I had not discovered my Faith, yet I began to feel profoundly restful within those white marble chapels, beneath high, vaulted ceilings, amongst magnificent ikons. Here was evidence of the true spiritual quality of the Russian people, for each painted panel, set in alcoves throughout the church, was the work of a master. Coming to this tranquil shrine from the misery of Odessa and Yalta it was hard to believe that barbarism had so swiftly overtaken our country. (I heard later that after the British left Batoum, her Bolshevik masters argued amongst themselves about the function of the Cathedral. Some wanted it for stables, but there was noisy dissent from the Soviet’s Greek Orthodox members. After a great deal of impassioned argument these dissenters finally compromised. ‘We agree to your
using the Cathedral as a stable. In turn, however, we must be allowed to use your synagogue as a lavatory!’)

  Near the High Altar we came upon a life-size portrait of Christ standing on the water. He stretched a helping hand towards Peter, who was sinking. It was a prophetic picture of Russia. Peter, our patron saint, was sinking. And Christ was his only hope. This mural made a deeper impression on me than I realised. At that time I must admit I was impatient to return to the Oriental and our bed, yet now I can still recall the elaborate carved marble framing the picture. Christ stands surrounded by golden light. Peter is up to his waist in the waves, his hands stretched towards our Saviour. I remember the flowers and the crosses cut from stone, the little electric bulbs set at intervals along the curved top. All of it was virtually brand new. Doubtless the Bolsheviks demolished it and sold whatever was valuable, knocking away Christ’s helping hand.

  Leda and I walked for a while in the Cathedral gardens and left by a side gate in time to see a detachment of Punjabis marching down the Boulevard. I am certain the British used these troops the way the French used the Senegalese: as a warning of what to expect if the Reds were victorious. Asia had not let go of Batoum, even during that moment of respite. The Punjabis went past at the double, in their khaki turbans with the rifles over their shoulders, making for the harbour. As usual the Baroness failed to see their significance. ‘Don’t they look splendid,’ she said. That same remark might have been made by a woman in the eighth century as the Moors poured through the walls of Barcelona. (They doubtless felt they were returning home, for Barcelona takes her very name from a Carthaginian founder, Hamilcar Barca). When the Romans drove the Carthaginians from Europe as the Spanish, at great cost, eventually drove out the Moors, did they count that cost? In those days honour and religion meant everything. When Britain decided she could no longer afford her Indian mercenaries she marched them out of Russia, leaving her people prey to barbarian creeds, to the enemies of Christ. The West only waited a year or two before they began to sign Trade Agreements. The Trade Agreement is what destroyed the Chinese Empire. Genghis Khan knew its value. One might as well sign pacts directly with Satan and have done with it!