The Laughter of Carthage - [Between The Wars 02]

by Michael Moorcock

  In the café a few wretched Kurds were cleaning the floors and tables. The Syrian sat at the top of a stepladder, smoking a meerschaum and ostensibly supervising the Kurds. When I appeared he put the pipe carefully between his few black teeth and began to climb down. Without acknowledging me, he carried the ladder into the kitchens. One of the Kurds told me that no girls were expected for at least another hour. I asked him, in a dreadful mixture of languages, if they knew a little girl called Helena. She might be Polish, I said. To please me, they made a pretence of thinking. It was obvious they had no information and were embarrassed by my questions. Outside in the Grande Rue heavy rain poured down the gutters, rushed off roofs and filled the holes in the pavements. The streets became a mass of black umbrellas and oilskins. I sheltered under the striped, sodden canopy of the Cafe Luxembourg, then moved first to look in the window of Wick and Weiss’s well-stocked bookshop, then to stare at ornamental brass lamps and tables, poor copies of French Empire originals. Some of the cinemas and music halls had already opened. The occupying armies kept many such places going round the clock. The rain freshened Pera’s air, momentarily driving away the more unpleasant smells from Galata. Posters started to peel from the wooden sides of newsstands, from tobacco kiosks, pissoirs and tram shelters, as if the city were being magically prepared for a new layer of advertisements. A troup of Punjabis went up the steep hill at a trot, arms sloping. As in Batoum, the British had stationed great numbers of nigger soldiers in Constantinople, presumably because Moslems might be less likely to offend the Turks. It was a mistaken notion. Turks are more arrogant towards people they regard as their inferiors, particularly former citizens of the Ottoman Empire. I think they viewed the occupation of their city by blacks as a planned insult. It was bad enough for them to be bested by Greeks, but to be ordered about by Africans like the French Senegalese was inconceivably appalling to them. For all that they had fully earned every possible humiliation (their cruelty to subject races, particularly Armenians, was legendary) they still did not understand why they were being punished. In 1915, while the world was concerned with other things, they had marched some million Christian Armenians into the desert to die. Many still insist it was the logical thing to do (‘People forget those Armenians were very rich’). Your Turks remain the true descendant of bloody-handed Carthage. They never change. They join the United Nations to protect them when they invade Cyprus; they imprison innocent Christians; they bully and steal as thoughtlessly as any of their Hun forebears might have. History is not a book of rules, but its examples are too often ignored. By showing continued respect to Turks we are like that woman who believes repeatedly her brutal husband will reform. It is an indication of her optimism, but never a reflection of the man’s true character.

  The rain eased enough to let me return to the Pera Palas where I bathed and changed. Then, with no word from Mrs Cornelius to make me alter my plans, it was time to go again to Tokatlian’s. I stopped at La Rotonde first. A few girls were there, and the redheaded Italian madame, but none of them had seen my Esmé. I said they would be rewarded if they discovered her for me, or could get her address. I believe they had the idea I wished to buy her and seemed very agreeable.

  At the restaurant I found the Baroness again enjoying the attentions of Count Siniutkin. They might have been lovers. He lifted his handsome, scarred face to smile pleasantly at me. It would have helped me at that time if the Baroness had transferred her affections, or at least shared them with another, but I think she was still faithful. Count Siniutkin, in very good form, greeted me warmly. We discussed the campaign in Anatolia. The Greeks were finding some resistance, he said, mainly from irregular units similar to those I had described in South Russia. I told him I had known Makhno personally; I had observed Hrihorieff at close quarters and Petlyura himself had tried to enrol me. Siniutkin named a couple of bandit leaders. He called them ‘condottieri’. The most famous and most worshipped was someone called Çerkes Ethem. He was to Anatolia what Pancho Villa had been to Mexico. ‘Similar circumstances seem to throw up similar types, eh? Meanwhile the French are being hit very badly in Northern Syria.’ I was not interested in Turkey’s internal squabbles and listened only from politeness. ‘They’re fighting old-fashioned issues with old-fashioned means,’ I suggested. ‘A bandit on a big horse can’t achieve a thing. Can it really matter who wins? Every single one is an atavist.’

  ‘Some are more progressive than others,’ Siniutkin insisted mildly. His blue eyes studied me. ‘Modern weapons, after all, demand modern bank accounts.’

  ‘Not necessarily, Count. In Kiev some seven or eight years ago I designed and built an excellent cheap aeroplane. Thousands of them could have been made for the cost of a hundred conventional machines. An entire army could be made airborne with my plane.’ I was not one to boast but I had my point to make. Siniutkin was genuinely interested. ‘This plane was a success?’

  ‘Very much so. My maiden flight was witnessed by all Kiev. You must have read about it, even in Moscow.’ I smiled ironically.

  ‘I have a vague memory, yes. But surely your machine could have been used in the War?’

  ‘I shall not list my frustrations now, Count Siniutkin. Enough to say the plans were submitted to the War Department in St Petersburg, together with several other inventions of mine, and the Tsar’s moribund bureaucrats did what they knew best. They ignored them. Of course I received no acknowledgement. But others were not so slow in seeking my help. One of my machines helped in the last defence of Kiev. Were it not for the cowardice of the nationalists, it would have turned the day. Petlyura thought so.’

  Count Siniutkin had become enthusiastic. His features, in spite of the scar, were full of boyish excitement, ‘By God, Pyatnitski, you could make a fortune!’

  ‘That would be incidental. If I can in some way improve the condition of the ordinary man, I shall be happy. One must live, but first and foremost I am dedicated to the creation of a better future.’

  ‘I can see why you and Kolya were such friends.’ He was admiring. ‘Sometimes you sound just like him.’

  ‘We had much in common.’

  ‘I should have thought the Bolsheviks would have wanted you to stay in Russia. Even they understand the value of innovative engineers.’

  ‘I would never help Lenin or Trotski take the blood of innocents. Any reasonable government would be welcome to my inventions. But I refuse to serve tyrants.’

  Siniutkin leaned towards me. His face had become earnest. ‘I wish you the very best of luck, Pyatnitski.’ He began to frown, then, and become abstracted. I think he had seen someone he knew downstairs. With a bow to us both, he stood up. ‘I hope to talk again.’

  ‘Little genius!’ The Baroness patted my cheek. She had disguised the bags under her eyes with powder. She wore a tiny hat with a fashionable half-veil and rather more perfume than usual. Perhaps through indirect association she was losing the appearance of a beautiful young matron and taking on the appearance of an upper-class woman of the world. ‘I think you have impressed our Count. I love to hear you talk your machine talk, though I understand hardly a word. But think how much better you would do in Berlin!’ I had caught, as usual, her drift and patted her hand. She sighed. it is very difficult with Kitty. The Germans resent my absence. I tell them I’m nursing an old friend, but they suspect the truth. We must leave Constant as soon as possible, Simka.’

  ‘I am due to meet a man this afternoon.’ I assured her. ‘I might have some news, in fact, by tonight.’

  ‘You won’t abandon us, my dear?’ This was overly dramatic. She had no easy means of expressing her real fears. ‘Of course not.’ I stroked her arm and handed her the menu. As we ate an inferior borscht and some stuffed cabbage leaves, my eye went rather too frequently to the street outside. Rain rushed down the plateglass windows distorting the appearance of the pedestrians, most of whom began to resemble those varieties of half-men who populate Classical mythology; then, once or twice, I was half convinced I had glimpsed
Esmé. I knew I was behaving ridiculously, pursuing the phantom of what was almost certainly a creature of my own invention. I concentrated on my food, but the Baroness, noticing my agitation, asked casually after Mrs Cornelius. I made some conventional reply and tried to think clearly. I knew I was suffering from mild concussion and lack of sleep. I would be a fool to become the slave of such a ridiculous delusion and obviously I had made a mistake in La Rotonde. If I found Helena she would prove to have dyed hair, a swarthy skin, green eyes and be about twenty. But, for all this reasoning, my willpower was inadequate to act upon it and again I left Tokatlian’s hastily, having made some vague promise to meet Leda soon, and crossed the street to take up my familiar position at the Rotonde bar. Girls came in, shaking umbrellas and wet cloaks. Some greeted me. Some tried to sit with me. I dismissed them. The Syrian gargoyle emerged from his sleeping-quarters and scowled to himself when he saw me. I ordered a drink from him and won him over with a large tip. His wizened features relaxed; he looked up at me and offered me a smile of astonishing, almost convincing, sweetness. We were once more part of the same alliance, if not exactly friends. I sipped absinthe and watched the crowd. The band played a bizarre mixture of Turkish accordion music and American jazz; men and women stepped onto the tiny wooden dance-floor and moved like marionettes, jerking back and forth to inexpert syncopation, imitating some dance they had seen demonstrated only in a poor quality cinema-film. Sonia arrived, shook her head at me as a sign she had no information, then left on the arm of an elderly Italian officer. I dozed over my drink. I considered writing a letter to Kolya. I knew I should at least leave a message at the Palas, but convinced myself the boy would know where I was if he could not find me at Tokatlian’s. I walked into the little back room where the Syrian changed money at a disgusting rate and bought a few English sovereigns. To remain alert I sniffed up a large quantity of his overpriced cocaine before returning to the absinthe and boredom of cheap fragrance, soft shoulders, bobbed hair and shiny frocks. What I sought now was blonde curls and petticoats, pink skin and honest blue eyes.

  The rain had stopped. I walked down the sloping streets to the coffee shop opposite the gate of the Galata Bridge and ordered a medium sweet demi-tasse while I watched the nations of the Earth come and go. On this side, the vicinity was full of street-sellers instilling impossible virtues to their pathetic wares; fat Turkish businessmen in fezzes and dark European clothes standing in groups, gesticulating as they occupied their time discussing unlikely bargains. Against my better judgment I bought some ekmek-kadaif, the ‘bread-and-velvet’ Turkish women found irresistible, a combination of flour and cream. There were probably at that moment in Constantinople more minds turned to the invention of new confectionery than ever considered the profound problems facing the future of their city. But perhaps Turks were best employed in this way. Another favourite of mine was called ‘the imam fainted’. Imam-bayildi was the most delicious dish I had ever tasted, and remains for me finer than any of the great concoctions of Vienna or Paris. I had eaten two of these by the time twilight came. It was at twilight that I had last seen my Esmé and I sat there in the superstitious hope she would re-emerge at the same time tonight. As ships assembled on both sides of the bridge, waiting for the pontoons to part as they did twice a day, mornings and evenings, I wondered how I might stow away, preferably on a British or American vessel. Every so often the regular ferries to Venice were subject to rigorous police checks; it was impossible either to go aboard or disembark without all kinds of paper authority. The time might come when I had to make urgent efforts to find my Bulgarian forger and commission appropriate sets of papers. Though I wanted to help the Baroness von Ruckstühl, it might be necessary, as she feared, to leave her here. She would quickly find another protector. Her circumstances were not as bad as most. The best of Moscow and Petersburg society was to be seen every morning crowded outside the embassy buildings of France, Germany, Britain, Italy, even Belgium. The French had a joke. They said you could tell how desperate a Russian was when he found himself having to choose between suicide and Belgium.

  The flower of Russian blood was left to dry and dissipate on the bleak Lemnos shores. Professors of great academies, scientists, lawyers, artists of every kind, musicians and philosophers, were squeezed into the island camps to die of typhus or pneumonia. Royal princes crawled cap in hand before petty officials of a Germany they had meant to crush. One could not help be reminded of the ancient pagan conquests of great Christian cities, of Rome and Kiev and elsewhere, whose occupants had been forced to endure similar humiliations. Decent, devout Christians were exploited and misused, allowed to rot and perish. And the world pretended to sympathise while showing every sign of satisfaction. Tsar Nicholas and his government had been committed to outmoded institutions. Even Russian monarchists agreed on that. Now Russia’s surviving nobility paid a terrible price for their autocrat’s shortsightedness and folly, for their Tsarina’s lusting after a self-styled holy man whose advice produced some of the greatest strategic blunders of the War.

  When it grew darker I left the waterfront to walk back through rubble, up stone steps and between buildings which jutted overhead at drunken angles, leaning in an insane geometry of impossible curves and corners. Somewhere a blaze started and from the Galata Tower, built for the purpose, came the frantic ringing of a huge bell. One of the city’s many private, self-appointed fire-brigades (usually incendiaries themselves) rushed by, a confusion of bare feet, fezzes, turbans, old donkeys, hoses and copper drums of water; a loutish group of cut-throats who looted as much as they saved.

  I had just turned into the electric familiarity of the Grande Rue when I saw Mrs Cornelius’s head emerge from a motor-cab. She waved at me, shouting something I could not catch. I tried to run after her. She was angry, glaring back at me. ‘Unless yer pull yer bleedin’ socks up, Ivan, we’re never gonna git arta ‘ere!’ Then the cab turned down towards Tephane and disappeared. I did not know whether to follow her further, go to Tokatlian’s and the comforting bosom of my Leda, or try once more to see if Esmé had visited the Rotonde. Almost before I realised it I had passed through the doors of the café and was surrounded by warm commercial flesh and brutal serge. Always, since my Odessa days, I felt at ease in such environments. Perhaps it is because very little is ever expected of you in those places. You are tolerated in drinking clubs, working-class pubs and bordellos as long as you can keep your mouth shut and pay your way. You are at once amongst friendly company and anonymous at the same time.

  Because the tables were all occupied, I made an effort to reach the bar and order absinthe as usual. I saw neither Sonia, the Syrian, nor ‘Helena’. I felt ridiculous, believing everyone there must be secretly laughing at me. I was wasting far too much time, as Mrs Cornelius had said. I should be laying out escape routes, preparing documents, checking tables of boats and trains. Nonetheless, I did not leave. I still hoped to see the girl just once more, to confirm that I had invented her likeness to Esmé, and besides I was already an expert at sitting still. In recent years, as cities fell and were recaptured, changed governments, revised their laws, I had learned to bide my time and wait for the right opportunity. I fancied myself a reptile, sometimes, a patient old lizard able to lie on his rock for days until his prey moved into range. If necessary I can abolish impatience, almost abolish Time itself, drifting into a kind of semi-conscious hibernation. This utterly inappropriate response to my situation’s present urgency began to possess me at La Rotonde. Finding the girl became of paramount importance. Rationalising, I told myself I could easily live and work in Constantinople. There were plenty of recently arrived entrepreneurs who would finance my prototypes and moreover I could always get work as a mechanic. In a villa overlooking the Sweet Waters of Europe I could live like a pasha. I should have fellow countrymen for conversation, hundreds of books and magazines published in Russian. I could not imagine cold, stern, dignified London being anything like this. I should not have my pick of so many young girls in England, eit
her. By remaining here I could live a very quiet, aesthetic working life and when relaxing could taste all Constantinople’s many delights whenever I pleased. Such a routine suited my temperament; I was not merely a man of thought; I was moved by enormous physical passions and enthusiasms. I should become the principal architect for the new, gleaming, Christian city.