The Laughter of Carthage: The Second Volume of the Colonel Pyat Quartet (Colonel Pyat Quartet Series Book 2)

by Michael Moorcock

  This last seemed highly unlikely. I told her the Allies could easily defend the city. The whole civilised world would lend aid, if necessary. A few brigands were no threat. Down the centuries she had held firm against entire nations of enemies. But Leda refused to be calmed. ‘It’s getting exactly like Russia. Can’t you see that, Simka? The whole horrible world’s going the same way! That’s why I worry about you. I don’t want to lose you.’

  I laughed heartily. I was indestructible, I told her. Like Leonardo, I moved from city to city, always able to gauge the wind in time. Someone could be relied upon, no matter what my circumstances, to find my genius of value to them.

  She was sceptical. ‘Then why are you still here?’

  I had, I reminded her, my loyalties. Moreover she should take into account the murdering tendencies of the Turk. My Steam Car Company had been a mere day or two from reality when Mr Sharian was killed. ‘But I shall find another Mr Sharian.’

  ‘Oh, Simka, it is such a shame. You deserve better. You should not have to go cap in hand to Armenians. If I had the money you would never have to know this awful frustration. Somewhere I’ll get a job and keep us both. I am good at arithmetic. My husband always admired my accounts.’

  ‘You must think of yourself and Kitty first. I can always find honest employment.’

  ‘I have become a miserable burden to you. No wonder you see so little of me.’

  ‘I have distant relatives, don’t forget, in the city. One of them is thought to be dying. And my vocation, darling Leda, I have always said to be my first mistress.’

  ‘Mrs Cornelius went to Paris, I hear. I would not have left my own husband in such a predicament.’

  I refused to listen to this petty criticism. ‘You always knew it was a marriage in name only. Mrs Cornelius had already spoken of her plans and I had insisted she go.’

  She began to weep very discreetly. ‘I doubted you. I’m sorry. I will not be a check on your freedom, Simka. I’m not jealous, though I could not bear never to see you.’ Her expectations, I thought, were now even lower than the last time. She had become a realist. I felt renewed sympathy for her. ‘Actually, my darling, Mrs Cornelius begged me to go with her.’ I hoped this would make her feel better. ‘She was angry when I refused. I told her it would mean leaving you.’

  The Baroness laughed and shook her head as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. ‘If only it were true.’

  I was offended, but she did not seem to notice. I rose and dressed. The cheap room, which offered a special rate if you took it for a whole night, had no carpet on the wooden floor. I felt a splinter drive itself into my foot and I cursed. I pushed back one of the shutters to see while I eased the little shard free. Outside a mob was demonstrating. It was impossible to know, from the Arabic on their banners, what their grudge was. Leda pulled a dirty sheet to her shoulders. ‘Don’t be upset. You must look after yourself. I haven’t any illusions. I’m almost ten years older than you.’

  I lowered my foot to the floor. Affection and understanding suddenly returned. Crossing to the bed and kissing her, I promised I would see her very soon.

  By the following day, however, Esmé had become ill. A cold had become something more serious, perhaps influenza, and the doctor’s prescriptions were costly. Obsessively, I nursed my child, brought her nourishing food from the restaurant, did extra work at the docks and continued my quest for another backer. Her tiny face, in a frame of sweat-drenched blonde hair, smiled bravely back at me whenever she was awake. Again I had no time for the Baroness. The cards I had ordered were delivered: The European and Oriental Steam Automobile Company Ltd. I distributed these widely. I saw no point at that stage in alienating Turkish interests. The steam cars were for the world. Did it matter, in the long run, if the finance for their development came from the Orient or the Occident? The money was better spent on cars than on guns! I had many false hopes in that period.

  Esmé grew well and was gay again. I began seeing Leda occasionally. The spring came. I took Esmé into the hills. We ate Imam-bayildi under fragrant mulberry trees while we watched goats and sheep graze. The sun was silver in a pale grey sky and the walls of the villages were washed with faint lilac, pink or yellow. Shrubs were starting to bloom. The distant sea was tranquil. Constantinople’s dignified seaside suburbs were nothing like the yellow houses of Kiev’s outskirts. The scenery was more exotic, more evidently Islamic. Yet my childhood was completely revived: that confident, egocentric childhood when I was beginning to realise my unusual capacities and give proper detail to my dreams. Esmé listened to me as Esmé always listened, and I described the glorious promise of the future. She would gasp. She would grow round-eyed. She would remark on my cleverness and anticipate a marvellous career for me, with herself as my loyal companion. Then she would indulge her own fantasies, of the kind of house we would own, when we were rich, how many servants we should have and so on. She supplied everything I had taken for granted from the first Esmé. But this Esmé I did not take for granted. I had lost one and could never bear to lose another. She had my daily attention. I made certain she was entertained, was healthy, had the food, the clothes, the toys she most desired, that our love-making was to her taste even when it was not to mine. I knew the dangers of being over-solicitous and tried to avoid them. Esmé realised how much I loved her, what she meant to me. She accepted my concern as her right, the care of a real father.

  Constantinople became gradually more familiar to me while, with the changing of the seasons, she also grew more magical. By now I had friends around the docks, acquaintances who were engineers on the vessels sailing regularly to and from the city. I was of service to many émigrés still inhabiting Pera. These continued to increase, for the Red Army pushed our Volunteers further back. Some Russians presently fought beside the Greeks in Anatolia. Others had been recruited into the brigand gangs taking advantage of the War. Everywhere groups of renegades joined the service of petty chieftains. There was an entire unit of ‘Wolfshead’ Cossacks helping to establish the regime of a Chinese warlord. Others had gone to Africa to join the Foreign Legions of Spain and France. Some White officers were even lending their expertise to the pirate khans of Indonesia. They had thoroughly turned their backs on our cause. So many Russian mercenaries were little more than children; as a trade they knew only battle and would rather sell their swords to Islam than live on Christian charity. The Allies, caught up in their own political machinations, had no time left to help our Russian Army consolidate. Generals departed for America daily, apparently to lecture on the Terrors of Bolshevism, but actually to join relatives in Toronto and Miami. The Baroness von Ruckstuhl was lucky. In April she became a receptionist at the Byzance. We met twice a week in her little room at the very top of the old hotel. Kitty received private lessons on those evenings, from a Madame Kron, attached to the American school. We still spoke of leaving. She continued to apply for a visa to Berlin, but both of us considered ourselves fortunate compared to the thousands of wretches reduced to hanging around the Galata Bridge or the harbours, selling ikons and furs to grinning soldiers and sailors.

  The cabarets had taken on a distinctly Russian air in parts of the Grande Rue. Noble princes and princesses who before the War had learned a few tasteful folk dances and little else, now performed them for drunks to the sound of out-of-tune balalaikas, while disinherited Cossacks nightly displayed their skill with pistol and whip. Counts gave riding lessons. Countesses taught drawing and music. The Tsarist upper crust had become a troupe of beggars and third-rate circus performers half a million strong. To be Russian in Constantinople was to be a laughing stock. One preferred when possible to claim another nationality. On occasions I was Polish or Czech. Sometimes I let people think I was British, French, even American. Similarly, the Baroness carefully retained her German style, though sometimes she dropped the ‘baroness’ (since every other Russian had a title) and became Frau von Ruckstühl. Because of my dark looks, I was frequently taken for an Armenian, and it was not alwa
ys practical to deny it. I knew a few phrases from Sarkis Mihailovitch, chiefly technical terms, and these proved useful to me. Armenians are not Jews, whatever people say. They were very friendly to me and some even called me ‘the nephew of Kouyoumdjian’. They began to ask me to take on the more complicated jobs, almost always ensuring I had the entire fee for myself. Five or six steam engines belonging to the ferry boat owners soon became familiar exasperating acquaintances. I learned a great deal about marine machinery and steam engines in particular. Whenever I could I experimented, making little improvements to my automobile designs.

  In the evenings Esmé and I would hire a carriage and a driver. We would tour Stamboul or take the little white coastal roads winding beside the pure turquoise of the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmara. The sky was equally blue, a colour I had once believed the fanciful invention of painters. We ate well, in restaurants overlooking wooded bays and tiny fishing ports. Listening to languorous Turkish music we watched the sun set on impossible landscapes. Spring mists diffused the light, especially at dawn and dusk, and we saw the hills of Scutari and Stamboul quiver in copper-coloured haze. Constantinople was a jewelled treacherous beast. She could fascinate you with her beauty, then strike you down suddenly, to suck out your blood and your soul. Her attractions were potentially fatal. I earned good money as a mechanic, had a worshipping child-bride, a mistress who was equally devoted, but must always remember that my true vocation was to be found in the more vigorous West.

  The Allies grew increasingly uncertain of their role. Peace talks continued. Europe was divided up, her future settled by her victors. The Byzantine city became an embarrassment to them. We heard more of Mustafa Kemal and his henchmen, of nationalists active in the capital. Many French and Italian military people thought Constantinople should remain Turkish rather than Greek. The Greeks, they argued, were just Englishmen in white skirts. The British alone gave genuine support to the Greek cause, supplying them with munitions and ships. Britons considered themselves the true inheritors of an Homeric tradition, thus in helping Greece, they reinforced their own self image. But could it be wrong to want control of the Straits while Islam and Bolshevism threatened to join hands in the Caucasus and Anatolia. Together they would form a Red Horde more ruthlessly effective than any Tamburlane or Attila directed against Christendom. It was not madness to predict the Antichrist’s army one day massing against us. Having fought and won a great battle, the Allies were exhausted but tomorrow that battle would seem as nothing. The mountains were bursting; from scarlet fire galloped the very armies of Hell. Into the fray came swaggering Carthage. The citadels of civilisation were attacked on every front. The West must entrench herself, restore her energies! The real enemy was still alive and on the march!

  These condescending young men, with their beards and tartan shirts, come into the shop trying to put Labour Party posters in my window. They have no idea what they were rescued from. The Communist and the Oriental remain serious threats to everything held dear by the West. Those decent men and women voting for Adolf Hitler did not believe they voted for tyranny. They were hoping to contain the spread of evil. Hitler’s greatest mistake was to make a pact with Stalin. His ordinary followers felt a wavering of their faith in him. The Third Reich truly began to crumble when it lost its internal morale and its supporters abroad. Some innocent people were caught up in the great struggle and did indeed suffer an unjust fate, but most who exaggerate the evils of Hitlerism and speak melodramatically of a ‘Holocaust’ are the very ones who thought they had a right to enrich themselves by exploiting their host nations. I am not a political person. Even in my present circumstances I believe in decency and the Fellowship of Man, in good will and tolerance. As a youth, my idealism was even more pronounced. I believed that Turks were open to reason, that they would be grateful to be left alone in Anatolia. I even sympathised with aspects of their struggle. My trust, as was to happen frequently in my life, was abused.

  On Friday, 1st May 1920, I kept the usual evening appointment with my Baroness. If it lacked passion, at least our loveplay was comfortable. When it was over she poured me a glass of Polish vodka, the kind we used to call ‘Bison-water’. The musky and dimly lit room was crammed with her possessions, including many framed photographs of herself, Kitty and her dead husband. She seemed unusually excited and full of secrets as she fetched a box of candied figs and offered me one where I lay in bed. ‘I am growing fat in Turkey,’ she said. ‘It’s better than living off German dumplings, I suppose.’ I wondered if she had at last found another lover. She had that air women often display in such circumstances, of possessing private power, of being inwardly amused, of having easily appeased a slightly troubled conscience. I stroked her face. ‘You grow more beautiful every day.’

  ‘I’ve something to tell you, Simka.’

  ‘That’s obvious. Is it Count Siniutkin?’

  She was puzzled; then she laughed. ‘Oh, you expect everyone to be as bad as you!’ I had taught myself to forgive her these little insults. If it suited her to see me as a rake and a charlatan and so preserve some sense of identity for herself I did not mind. ‘I believe I have some good news for you.’

  I became alarmed. She was pregnant! Yet I had been careful. I racked my memory for the likely date of conception.

  ‘I said “good news”, Simka.’ She sat back on her heels, rubbing cream into pink breasts and belly, massaging neck and shoulders. ‘I think I have found a financier for your inventions.’

  I was delighted and considerably relieved. What did I care if the financier was her lover? All I wanted from him was the chance of bringing to physical reality just one of my ideas. From that, my reputation would automatically grow. ‘Who is it? Another of your wealthy Jewish friends?’

  ‘I wasn’t given his name. But your guess in one respect was right. He is an acquaintance of Count Siniutkin.’

  I had not seen the Count for several weeks. After being a fixture at Tokatlian’s, he had disappeared completely. There had been talk recently of Tsarist officers leaving to fight in Paraguay or in the Argentine where there were already large numbers of Russian soldiers. I had assumed him en route to South America. Leda wiped the corners of her mouth. ‘I don’t know a great deal about it, but the Count thinks it’s an excellent opportunity.’ In two weeks Siniutkin would return to Constantinople, she said. He would then be ready to negotiate on behalf of the backer. ‘He’s interested in your one-man aeroplane. Could you prepare something on paper? An estimate of production costs?’ She frowned, trying to remember what Siniutkin had told her. ‘The factory space and tools needed, what raw materials are required, and so on. He’ll understand that you won’t want to reveal details, but needs as much as possible. He’s absolutely serious. The Count assures me that he’s above all a man of his word.’

  I was content with this, reflecting how in finding Esmé I had somehow rediscovered my luck. For me, she would always be associated with my one-man plane. ‘Everything’s ready. I can easily work out costs. I know people in local factories. The engine is the main outlay. It could be made cheaply in large quantities. Did the Count mention money?’

  ‘He said his backer was not a spendthrift but would pay fairly.’

  ‘It’s all I ask.’ I kissed her. ‘My darling, you have won your passport to Berlin!’

  We celebrated with the remains of the vodka and with the cocaine I had brought. When I returned to Tokatlian’s rather later than normal Esmé was asleep in front of the English primer I had bought her. Her exercises, written in a surprisingly clear, rounded hand (one of the benefits of her convent) had scattered across the floor. Tenderly I picked up the pages and stacked them together. She murmured in her sleep as I lifted her and put her gently to bed. If I left Constantinople soon, I had determined I would also take the Baroness and Kitty. My chances of entering another country unnoticed in the company of an under-age girl were poor. The schools of Constantinople already supplied the brothels of Europe. Officials would make the obvious assumptio
n. A man and woman travelling together, a little Turkish girl as the daughter’s companion, would seem perfectly respectable. Moreover I now owed the Baroness that much at least. In bed, while Esmé settled to sleep in my arms, I considered the problem.

  The Baroness had complained recently that Kitty was alone for too long; the girl knew no children of her own age. Leda feared Kitty would grow bored and begin to wander the streets. I had already thought of introducing Esmé to Kitty, since my girl also needed a respectable friend. I would refer to Esmé as one of the distant relatives I had already mentioned. I would say I had promised her dying father to care for her. Would the Baroness, out of the kindness of her heart, agree to look after Esmé? I would pay all expenses. As long as Esmé agreed to the deception, the plan could not go wrong. Esmé was used to lying as the necessary consequence of poverty. I would explain how this little deception offered her a passport to the West and, eventually, marriage to me. More to the immediate point, if Esmé had a friend to amuse her it would ease my mind. Once my aeroplanes began production I could be away for days at a time. There were two weeks in which to lay the foundations of my charade. It meant the Baroness would be seeing far more of me. I was sure she would not be displeased.

  From the following day on, my schemes went forward without a hint of resistance. Believing she had won back my heart, Leda became extraordinarily happy and affectionate and within a week was discussing elaborate arrangements for our journey West. She would go first to Berlin and join me later in London. She was confident, now, of finding employment. Her main concern was Kitty. It was the moment to mention my recent meeting with my cousin from Bessarabia who had been here for some time now. He was dying of TB and was at his wit’s end, with five daughters and a niece to care for. The niece was called Esmé, a good-hearted child. She had nothing to do all day, however, and my cousin feared she could easily go to the bad. Further elaboration and the Baroness was close to tears. ‘The poor child. Have you met her? What’s she like?’ Esmé was a sweet, shy creature, a little young for her age, but without a hint of vice in her character. She was too innocent for Pera. ‘I will write to your cousin,’ said Leda. ‘Give me his address.’ The house where he boarded was unreliable, I said, so she should let me have the note and I would deliver it.