The Laughter of Carthage - [Between The Wars 02]

by Michael Moorcock

  ‘Russia will be saved. Russia will be saved.’ Leda murmured to me that night. But today I ask my Baroness, who probably died when Bolshevik bombs destroyed her flat in Brüderstrasse twenty-five years later, ‘My dear woman, whom I almost loved, when will that be?’ She lived over a Berlin antique shop, working for a Swiss specialist in ikons. I never knew if there was anything between them. The Swiss survived. He died of old age in Lausanne fairly recently, having become a millionaire from the profits on our ikons. She must have been fifty-seven. I bear her no ill will. I can still smell her. Indeed, I can smell us both. I feel the fine linen wrapping itself over our bodies, the depth and quality of the mattress; I taste the wine, hear noises in the street outside as soldiers keep the peace; the stars are clear and golden in a deep blue sky which outlines the palms; I see the lights of ships on the water, listen to the sirens and the nightbirds calling.

  It took 20,000 British troops to maintain, in one small Russian city, an illusion that the past could be kept alive, or even rebuilt. Illusions cost their creators no small part of themselves. I am reminded of those familiar Arabian tales where magicians are drained of their soul’s substance by the very phantasms they conjure. The reward is never great enough to justify the price. Look, says the sorcerer, there is a griffon and there a dragon! I do not see it, says his audience. Look again! Ah, yes, now we see! (But the energy has drained from the illusionist into the illusion. He is suddenly a corpse.) In the years of their dying all Empires are sustained in this way. And what has the Communist illusion cost the Russian people?

  I shall not deny that in our ignorance we were pleased enough, my Baroness and I, to enjoy the fantasy while we could. We ate, we made love, we stared at the goods in the shops, we visited bazaars, I purchased a little poor-quality cocaine; we pretended we were in love. But that same night a shock ran through the Oriental, like an earthquake. Aroused from half-sleep we went to the window. Red flames poured upwards from the darkness of the water and huge clouds of black smoke obscured the stars. A ship was burning in the oil-harbour, on the other side of the mole, close to where our own ship was moored. I could see there was no immediate danger to the Rio Cruz. Nonetheless at Leda’s suggestion I pulled on my clothes and went downstairs. A number of English officers were already in the lobby, some partially clad, some in dressing gowns. Their voices were loud and excited, though it presently emerged they were no better informed than I. Eventually, when a motorbike messenger arrived, one of the officers turned to another: ‘Sabotage, of course. The Reds got a bomb aboard a tanker.’ This was sufficient for me. I returned to the Baroness. ‘Our ship might now decide to leave earlier. We’d best be prepared for it. But Kitty is safe.’ The prospect of our idyll ending prematurely caused us to make love with increased passion.

  We returned in the morning. On board ship Mr Larkin was completely confused. The Rio Cruz was covered in oily filth and her crew worked demonically to clean it off. A French frigate, at great risk to herself, Mr Larkin told us, had towed the tanker out to sea and beached her on a sand-bank where she now burned harmlessly. Foul smoke drifted over everything, settling like swarms of flies. Mr Larkin’s face was half-mad. ‘That’s not the worst of it.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You knew that chap Hernikof, didn’t you? His body was dumped by the gangplank last night. He was stabbed in at least six places. It was ghastly. He’d been stripped naked. There was a Star of David carved into his chest and someone had cut the word “Traitor” into the flesh of his back. I’ve never seen anything like it. God knows what madman did it. He had contacts in Batoum, I gather. It could have been one of them. Turned against him, perhaps. Reds? Whites? Zionists? I don’t know. The military police aren’t optimistic. They have so much on at the moment.’

  The Baroness was leaning heavily against me, almost fainting. There was no blood in her face at all and her eyes were glazed. I supported her as she clutched my arm.

  ‘What’s more,’ Larkin was oblivious to her reaction, ‘Jack Bragg’s missing. He went ashore yesterday afternoon and didn’t return last night. There’s a general search out for him. We still don’t know if it’s connected with the Hernikof business.’

  ‘I must help the Baroness to her cabin.’ I spoke gently. ‘Mr Hernikof was a friend of her late husband.’

  Larkin blushed. ‘Leave your bags. I’ll get a rating to bring them to you.’

  Leda was almost in shock. After I had settled her in her bunk I told Kitty and the nanyana she had mild food poisoning and went to the saloon to find some brandy. On the way back I bumped into Mr Thompson, emerging from the engine-room. ‘Morning, Pyatnitski.’ He wiped grease from his hands. ‘Sorry about the news.’

  I indicated the cognac. ‘The Baroness has taken it badly.’

  ‘Well, at least you seem to be bearing up. It’s probably nothing to worry about.’

  The significance of his remark, which seemed a little offhand, escaped me until I left Marusya Veranovna with the Baroness and went down to my own cabin for a restoring sniff of cocaine. It was evident Mrs Cornelius had not spent the night in her bunk. I sought out Mr Thompson. He stood leaning on a bulkhead watching seamen swing the loading booms over the ship’s forward hatch. They were taking off guns. ‘Have you seen my wife, old man?’

  The Scotsman was surprised. ‘I thought you seemed very casual. You didn’t know she hadn’t returned? She was due back last night, for dinner. I gathered she’d met you somewhere in Batoum.’ He glanced down at the deck, making a pattern in the film of oil with the toe of his boot. ‘Well, it was the obvious assumption. Then, when you came aboard...’

  ‘She wasn’t staying ashore?’

  ‘Not as far as we knew.’ He was a bright red. ‘Look here, I’d guess she got into some sort of minor trouble. And Jack Bragg became involved, perhaps tried to help her. We’ll know soon. But it’s early days yet to start worrying too much.’

  I was interested in neither his speculation nor his reassurances. I ran back to the gangplank, down to the quay where the purser stood talking to one of the burly Marines. ‘Are the police looking for my wife, Mr Larkin?’

  Larkin tightened his thin lips and polished his spectacles with a grey handkerchief. ’Well, we’ve told them all we can, Mr Pyatnitski. I thought you must know where she was. She went off cheerfully enough yesterday to do a bit of shopping and sightseeing. I knew you had business in Batoum and thought perhaps you were meeting her. We weren’t too worried.’

  ‘But you’re worried about Bragg?’

  ‘Jack had his orders. He was supposed to be on duty last night.’

  Presumably because he had made a fool of himself with the Baroness, Larkin was still embarrassed, very red about the neck. He cleared his throat. ‘Why don’t you try the MP Post at Number Eight dock. They might know something by now.’

  I dashed along the quayside, my heart pounding from the double stimulus of cocaine and adrenalin. I was panic-stricken. If I had not realised it before I now knew that I cared for Mrs Cornelius more than anyone. Without her help my chances of reaching England would be alarmingly reduced.

  The Military Police hut was a dark green building with red insignia. I banged on the door. A corporal in an ordinary uniform jacket but wearing a khaki kilt, opened up. He had the familiar white armband. He said something mysterious and when I cocked my head and asked him to repeat it, said slowly, as if to a moron, ‘And what can I do for you, sir?’ I told him my wife, an English woman, was missing in the town. He became friendlier and brightened. ‘Mrs Pyatnitski, sir? She was last seen at the Shaharazaad cabaret around midnight. Our people are still trying to trace her, but you can’t imagine what it’s like. There are a thousand private wars going on here. Whites against Reds. Greek Orthodox against Turkish Muslims, Oofs against Lazis, Armenians against Georgians, Turks against Armenians, this bunch of anarchists against that bunch of anarchists, not to mention the family feuds.’

  ‘My wife couldn’t be involved in anything like that. She’s never been to Batoum before. She has
no political connections.’

  ‘She’s British, sir. That’s enough for some of these wallahs. But we think she just went joyriding with a party of people from the nightclub. Some of the Russian officers are a bit wild, you know. Maybe they went up into the ruins.’ He pointed towards the hills, assuring me I should have any news immediately he received it. I made my way back to the ship. A light drizzle had begun to fall. The illusion was thoroughly destroyed. I listened to the sound of raindrops striking the big leaves of the palms like machine-gun fire. My impulse was to rush to the old quarter and begin my own search, but that would mean leaving the ship. I dared not risk being absent if the Military Police had anything to report. I bemoaned my carnal selfishness which had led me from her side. What must these people think of me? In their eyes I had deserted my own wife and returned with another woman. Ashamed and depressed, I climbed back aboard. But I could not bring myself to leave the rail near the gangplank. When the old nanyana came up to inform me the Baroness wished to know where I was I impatiently told her Mrs Cornelius was missing and I could not come. Eventually, after waiting two hours and seeing all the guns unloaded and borne away in a British army lorry, I went hastily to Leda’s cabin. She was still in her bunk, with servant and child paying attendance. ‘My poor friend,’ she said. ‘Your wife?’

  ‘No news. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Hernikof was a sweet, vulnerable man. So good to his people. Why should he have been murdered? He was like my husband. They did no harm. It’s so horrible . . .’ And she began to weep.

  ‘One does not have to do harm to become a symbol of another’s hatred,’ I said.

  ‘I think the Whites killed him,’ she whispered. ‘The Reds killed my husband and the Whites killed Hernikof. It’s as senseless as that.’

  ‘There’s no evidence. Bolshevik friends could as easily have turned against him if, say, he refused them money. Or some extremist Zionists. Who knows what his business was in Batoum? Or Turks. In Russia you’re no longer murdered for any particular reason. It could have been a simple mistake. Count yourself lucky you’re still alive.’ But I failed to comfort her. She remained agitated. ‘What of Mr Bragg?’ she asked. ‘Still not back?’

  ‘So I gather.’ Formally I kissed her hand, feeling unjust resentment towards her for the time she was taking. ‘You should try to sleep. Get some more brandy. I’ll look in as soon as I can.’ I returned to the quayside where Mr Larkin patiently checked his clipboard. The ship was thoroughly cleaned and new cargo was being loaded. ‘It’s a rum go, Mr Pyatnitski. There seems to have been a brawl at the Shaharazaad last night. Mrs Cornelius was insulted. Jack went to her aid. Then a general melee. A raid by the Russian gendarmes. Most of the customers got away. No bodies were found so that’s one good sign. As for old Hernikof, it seems he was there for a while, too. Then he left with a couple of Cossacks, or they might have been local tribesmen.’

  I was not interested in Hernikof. Why should I care if he had lost his life while engaging in some shady mercenary transaction? Doubtless he had considered me a useless luftmentsh of the kind which abounds in Odessa; I could guess from his eyes. Well, those eyes would never accuse me again. This is not to say that I approved of the manner in which he met his death. I might have cared about that more if I were not terrified for Mrs Cornelius. Had she survived the entire Revolution and Civil War only to be abducted by Caucasian tribesmen? Had she been raped and killed in some remote mountain village? I had heard such tales since I was a child. The Caucasian brigands notoriously owed allegiance to nothing save their own small community. They might claim to be Moslems or Christians, Reds or Whites, when whim or expediency directed, but they were at root nothing more than heartless thieves. I looked through the rain, beyond the town to the great peaks. If it proved she had been carried off, I would spend every kopek to raise an army of mounted men. I had ridden with Cossacks and anarchists and could prove myself as tough as any of them and infinitely more cunning. I was frequently underestimated in this sphere. People knew me as an artist, an intellectual, a man of words. But in my day I was also a man of deeds. I was determined not to lose Mrs Cornelius as I had lost Esmé. A woman of enormous natural goodness, she threw too much of herself away on feckless creatures who never appreciated her. I wondered if Jack Bragg was in trouble. Perhaps she was helping him. I went to the saloon for a drink. Mr Thompson followed me in. ‘Let me buy you a whisky.’ He sat me down near the portholes so I could look out at the quayside while he went to the makeshift bar. He returned with our drinks. He was at a loose end while the ship was in port. His stokers were cleaning boilers and engine-room. ‘There’s a dull enough explanation waiting for all this,’ he said. ‘You’ve a brilliant imagination and it’s a wonderful thing. But at times like this I’d think it could be your worst enemy.’

  I barely listened to him. While he droned on in this conventional frame I continued to sift through the few facts I had. Thompson was assuming, like the Baroness, that Jack Bragg and Mrs Cornelius were somehow romantically involved. I was no fool; I knew exactly what they were thinking. I saw no point in disputing this foolishness. Mrs Cornelius was always a woman of honour. She embodied the great English virtues. For me, when she died, England died. Nothing remains but mud and old stones over which the bastard races of a hundred petty nations squabble. The spirit of England flew away in 1945 when the Socialists broke apart the British Empire. I witnessed it all. I have more authority than bearded schoolteachers with insane eyes and red mouths screaming at me from pedestals, those bezdusny! I have seen their breed before. Civilisation is dying, nation by nation, piece by piece. The omens are everywhere: In the cracked paving-stones, the fallen railings, the graffiti-smeared walls. The omens are as loud as the voice of God. Who needs to tease out subtleties and nuances? That is where too many people go wrong. Mr Thompson detected an affair. I detected only jolly friendship and kindness. Is it better to see the obscure vice or the obvious virtue?

  Those who belittle Mrs Cornelius’s greatness merely betray the smallness of their own souls. But I am sure Thompson meant well. He said nothing outright as he tried to ease my anxiety. While ashore he had found a few copies of some English illustrated weeklies, The Sphere, Illustrated London News, Pall Mall and so on. In them were pictures of new gigantic flying boats and airships which planned transatlantic crossings. With the Great War’s end, there seemed a fresh spirit of optimism in England. There were pages of smiling young pilots climbing onto the bright fuselages of monstrous aeroplanes, sketches of aerial cruisers with double-hulls and vast numbers of propellers and wings which in future might carry the mail across the Empire. Even in my anxiety for Mrs Cornelius I was captured by the excitement. ‘There’s people with money to spend on new inventions,’ said Thompson. ‘None of these things are cheap to build. You must remember to be cautious, like Mr Edison, and form a proper company. Too many innocent boys have been cheated in the past.’ It was strange how he thought me a boy. I had not been that since Kerenski elected himself to power. Yet there were youths in England of my own age who had never slept with a woman, who had not even left school. In that respect at least I had an advantage, but none of my dreams could be realised without Mrs Cornelius. I looked to where, in the last of the afternoon light, Mr Larkin was checking the documents of new arrivals. I became even more alarmed. The ship must soon be due to sail.

  Mr Thompson confirmed this, in the morning. ‘They’re expecting more trouble here. That bomb on the tanker was just the opening incident, I gather.’

  I decided, in spite of the danger, to take our luggage off the ship while I pursued my private investigation. The Rio Cruz would not leave until ten the next day. At dawn, if Mrs Cornelius had not been found, I would disembark. As I finished my drink the door of the saloon opened and the pale Baroness entered. ‘Have you heard anything?’ She sat down with a nod of thanks as Mr Thompson drew back the chair for her. Mr Thompson did not understand our Russian. ‘Can I fetch you something to drink. Baroness? Or a cup of tea?’<
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  ‘Some brandy, thank you.’ While the engineer returned to the bar she leaned forward. ‘I could not stay away. What can I do to help?’ She would cheerfully have seen Mrs Cornelius dead, yet was trying her best to be humane. I appreciated her self-control. ‘I shall have to go ashore if there’s any prospect of the ship leaving without her.’

  ‘Then I shall go. too.’

  ‘That’s impossible. There’s Kitty. You have your duty. I have mine.’

  ‘All our duties can surely be reconciled.’

  I did not argue with her. If Mrs Cornelius had been taken away from Batoum and I had to organise an expedition, Leda would be an impediment. There would be no room for love-making. It would be a time for bullets and fast-firing carbines.