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!
‘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.’
The Laughter of Carthage: The Second Volume of the Colonel Pyat Quartet (Colonel Pyat Quartet Series Book 2) Page 10
