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

by Michael Moorcock

  I asked if we were bound for a country estate. With some amusement Count Siniutkin told me to relax and enjoy the journey. ‘This could be your best opportunity of seeing the real Turkey. It has broadened my understanding of their attitudes and made me more sympathetic to what is presently going on in Turkish politics.’

  I was having my usual difficulty with my nervousness at entering a singularly rural environment, with no image of our ultimate destination to reassure me. The road had become poor, causing the car to bump and bounce. I did not wish to be rude, but it was on the tip of my tongue to tell the Count that I had not the slightest interest in broadening my sympathies for any worshipper of Islam. ‘How long before we return to Constantinople?’ I asked him.

  ‘Not too long. A day or so. Perhaps a little more.’

  Now I was forced to suppress distinct panic. ‘I had not expected to be away even one night,’ I said. ‘I trust it’s possible to send a telegram back to Pera. People there will worry about me, you see.’ I did not want either the Baroness or Esmé to become so worried they would disturb my careful plans. There was no telling what could go wrong if I was gone more than twenty-four hours. ‘Of course.’ Siniutkin patted my arm. ‘Write the message. I’ll see it’s sent.’

  The thickly wooded hills gave off a heavy, damp scent I found relaxing. Bit by bit I recovered myself. ‘Is your backer a cripple, perhaps?’ I wondered why he could not travel to Scutari. ‘This is an expensive car. An Armenian, eh? Or a wealthy Greek?’

  Siniutkin laughed, as if I had made a deliberate joke. The car emerged from the wood, turned a corner and began to ascend an even steeper hill. We reached the crest. A beautiful valley stretched below, with small lakes, rivers, vineyards and groves of fruit-trees. On the far side of the valley was a great mountain, its tallest peak still covered in snow. The valley might have been from Greek antiquity, a lost land, untouched by time, unspoiled by modern industry. ‘There’s Mount Olympus,’ said the Count, as if to reinforce my fantasy. ‘Or so the first Greek colonists thought. Your new business partners live on one of its lower slopes. As I know you’ve guessed, they’re Turkish. But not the old kind of Turk. You’ll get on with them. They’re more progressive than most Russians.’ This, I was sure, was more a tribute to the Count’s optimism than his good judgement, but I kept my own counsel. I did not care for the contradiction of a ‘progressive’ Turk, but any backer in those days was better than none. As long as the Turks refused to use my ideas to support Bolsheviks, I would deal with them. I could not readily see how the Turks would wish to war on anyone at present, unless it was those they traditionally persecuted.

  The air became hotter as the day went on. We lost sight of the valley more than once during our descent. Eventually I could no longer tell exactly where we were. The road wound through little canyons and woods, passing tiny farms and plantations and drawing ever closer to Olympus, which Turks, the Count explained, called Mount Boulgourlou. Here and there were remains of grim Crusader fortresses, Moorish castles, Greek and Roman columns. The region’s whole history seemed represented by a magnificent junk pile. I was lulled into unsuspicious ease by this landscape. It was without doubt the most delightful I had ever experienced. The sun set behind us; the car took another steep, winding road then turned suddenly into a wooded driveway, rattling its gears to negotiate a final sharply ascending gravel rise and bring us to the forecourt of an impressively large old villa. The place looked as if it had not been lived in for some while. I had become so used, however, to the carelessness of even upper class Turks towards repairs and maintenance that I could no longer be sure my impression was right. The villa’s style was more Neapolitan than Turkish, but its windows had the usual intricately carved geometrical lattices. There were long, white balconies with wrought-iron railings, mosaic terraces, a blue-tiled fountain, slender pillars. I half expected a salaaming, exotically turbanned Nubian to open the car’s door for us. Actually the chauffeur did this, saluting as we got out, then an ordinary, barefooted house servant in fez, baggy white trousers and sleeveless jacket, ran quickly down the main steps and spoke in Turkish to Count Siniutkin, who understood him. He indicated we should climb to the first terrace where, under a silk awning, we found a table laid with glasses and plates. Looking at me the servant asked a question in thick, impassive French. ‘Will you take some masticha? said the Count. ‘This is an Islamic house, I’m afraid. The other choices are tea, coffee, lemonade.’ I accepted the masticha and we sat down.

  The house was surrounded by thick woods but here and there it was possible to see the slope of the mountain above, the glint of distant ocean. ‘This is where the Byzantine Emperors built their hunting lodges,’ said Count Siniutkin. ‘It is supposed to have the loveliest of all views.’

  On a tray the servant brought the drink: a jug, with ice and water. Count Siniutkin poured a little masticha into a glass, then topped it to the brim with water. I held the drink to the light to enjoy its opalescent colours, then sniffed its sweet aroma. The heavy air carried a scent of roses, jasmine and fuchsia. As the sky darkened to a greenish blue I was filled with a wonderful sense of well-being. Almost to counter this, I pulled myself together and reminded the Count of his promise to send a telegram. ‘Give me the message,’ he said, rising at once. I took my writing case, addressing a sheet of paper to Mademoiselle Esmé Loukianoff at our suite in Tokatlian’s. I told her not to worry about me, to seek out the Baroness if she needed company but to remain discreet. All was well. I should see her in a matter of days. I remembered how she had wept when in the past I had been gone only a few hours. Yet the telegram was the best I could do, though it upset me that Siniutkin was now more intimate with my private life.

  ‘A lady?’ He lifted an eyebrow.

  I had to explain she was my ward. (My fear was that somehow Leda would find Esmé at Tokatlian’s and thus doubt the rest of my story.) But I had done all I could. I waved my hand. ‘Family matters. I would be obliged if you mentioned nothing of this telegram when you next meet the Baroness.’

  ‘My dear chap! Of course!’ Count Siniutkin was playfully sober. ‘I’ll get this off immediately. A servant will take the message into Shamlaya before supper.’

  ‘I thought for a moment there was a private wireless. The owner of this villa is evidently wealthy.’

  ‘He comes from a very old family.’ Count Siniutkin bowed then before ascending a short flight of steps leading through an archway into the house. ‘I’ll deal with this now.’

  I leaned back on my divan, enjoying the delicious tranquillity of that magical garden. Birds began a dusk chorus, the fountains sang, the air grew richer by the second. Soon I hoped to buy a similar villa as a reward for all my anguish. While certain I was unobserved, I took a quick pinch of cocaine from my little silver box and added a final touch to my exquisite mood. All I needed was a tchibouk to smoke, a couple of lovely little haremliks to worship me and I would be happy as any Sultan. It was my first real experience of the way Orientals lull their guests, making them drunk on exotic sensations, using nothing as crude as wine. Yet I had no reason to doubt Siniutkin. He was Kolya’s friend. A man of impeccable background and Christian. He would never betray me to a Moslem.

  When the Count came back it was with a grey-bearded little fellow in the uniform of a Turkish bimbashi whose grave, light blue eyes stared from a face scarcely darker than my own, though his was tanned by the sun. He shook hands, greeting me formally in good, clear Russian. ‘I am Major Hakir, Monsieur Pyat.’ The Count said: ‘Major Hakir represents a friend who cannot be here.’

  I have had occasion, in my life, to accuse myself of many things, but stupidity is not one of them; although I would agree I have sometimes been over-trusting or naïve. It was dawning on me very rapidly that the Count’s radicalism had not ended with Kerenski’s overthrow. He had merely transferred his loyalties to the Kemalist cause. Now, of course, the nature of his earlier questions became clear. And my replies, meant only as tact, had reassured him I shared
his politics. Naturally, I became deeply perturbed, but dare not show it. I had escaped one terrible Civil War. I had emerged with my life after being the prisoner of Ukrainian bandits. I had survived torture, prison, attempts to assassinate me. I certainly had no desire to risk exposing myself to such dangers again, particularly in Turkey where I did not even speak the language. My first duty to myself, therefore, was to humour these people; my second was to escape as soon as possible. How I loathe radicalism and the manipulative tricks, the despicable cunning of those who will descend to any level in the name of a cause in which they always invest the highest virtue. Yet once again if I was to save my life I must curb any expression of anger, nod and smile at the Turkish major, make a pretence at relaxation.

  Bimbashi Hakir said slowly, with that distant, pseudo-courtesy typical of the Osmanli, ‘Count Siniutkin says you have agreed to help us. We are very grateful.’ He gestured at the servant who poured him some masticha. ‘Certain hotheads in our movement wish to seek Bolshevik support. But our struggle is different here. We have no intention of putting a torch to history and religion. We merely believe that certain practical reforms are necessary. A cleaning of the stables, as it were. You can be of enormous help to us, M’sieu Pyatnitski. We must convince the pro-Bolshevik faction that we can have progress without absolute destruction of our heritage. You, I understand, are of the same thought.’ Fixing his pale eyes on me, he lifted his glass and sipped. I was reminded of Sultan Abdul Hamid pictured in middle years. Hakir had the same intense, unblinking, almost birdlike stare which he turned directly on whomever he addressed. I babbled silly catch-phrases to satisfy him and he smiled. These egocentric revolutionaries demand only confirmation of their solipsistic delusions. ‘I hope you will be my guest tonight. We shall travel together in the morning. As you can imagine,’ he made a gesture which was meaningless to me but which evidently gratified him, ‘I am taking something of a risk in occupying my own house!’

  What choice had I? I was furious! The victim of deceit, I had been lured into a nest of snakes and must now hiss and writhe and seem equally venomous lest they turn and strike at me in unison. I would take as much of the Turk’s gold as I could, giving him an inferior design for his trouble and reporting all I knew to the authorities as soon as I had the opportunity to get clear. Presently, however, it was of paramount importance to bide my time, let them think me a willing volunteer. Another might have lost self-control upon finding himself unexpectedly in the power of his hereditary enemies, but I managed to suppress emotion, presenting an almost enthusiastic face to the bimbashi. Neither he nor Siniutkin, whom I now perceived as a traitor to his race, his religion and his class, for a moment guessed my deepest feelings. Let them hang themselves, I thought. With important information about the Kemalists, I could easily approach the British and thus win myself and Esmé a passage to England, where, moreover, I should be safe from the Osmanli’s vengeance. It was my duty to learn everything. While Siniutkin and Hakir talked of ‘corruption’ in the Sultanate and Allied ‘machinations’, I pretended smiling enthusiasm. Soon after sunset we entered a wide, low room, hung with expensive silks and tapestries, furnished with low divans and richly carved tables. We ate what I must admit was an excellent, if simple, meal. The bimbashi was one of those Turks who prided himself on the elegance and near asceticism in his lifestyle (frequently the mark of an Islamic fanatic) and spared not a second’s thought for the miserable subject peoples who provided it.

  We retired early, with further expressions of friendship and mutual idealism. In a room full of Moorish arches and screens, with the breeze moving my four-poster’s mosquito curtains, I lay looking up at the rounded ceiling whose delicate colours were illuminated by brass lamps suspended on chains, and I carefully considered my situation. I might be able to get up later and steal the motor car, but with no proper driving experience, possessing only a rough idea of where we were, not even knowing how much petrol was in the tank, I set that plan aside as being only good for an emergency. Again I found myself having to cope with my anxieties about Esmé and the Baroness and pointlessly brooded on Siniutkin’s treachery. He had to be insane to betray so thoroughly his own ancient blood. He was one of those who supported indiscriminately any revolutionary cause: a latter-day Bakunin, hiding a corrupt and murderous soul behind a charming, aristocratic exterior. I should take particular pleasure in denouncing him as soon as I returned to Constantinople. It had become increasingly clear that the post-revolutionary world threw up huge numbers of subtle opportunists like him, but outside Russia this was my first direct experience of the breed. I would become far more cautious in later years. Men like Siniutkin take a perverse pleasure in betraying the people who trust them most; they are the willing agents of every tyranny. This kind would later lure friends back to Stalin’s Russia to be killed, become journalists on émigré newspapers, discover the secrets of poor souls trying to help friends or relatives still trapped in that ‘Union of Soviets’, then slyly pass the information over to the Cheka. They willingly practised the most despicable forms of hypocrisy to achieve Trotski’s maniacal dream of World Revolution. Inevitably, of course, most were themselves betrayed. Fittingly Siniutkin would be assassinated very probably by direct order of the NKVD. His kind did more damage to the cause of peace than any number of warring armies. The motives of Turkish mutineers were at least understandable, if scarcely reasonable. Men of Siniutkin’s stamp however remain to this day a baffling mystery to me.

  Next morning, to my dismay, the traitor had gone. He left the excuse of needing to keep contact with French arms dealers in Scutari. I suspected that actually he could not bear to face me. All I could hope was that he had sent my telegram as promised. I was now entirely in the hands of the little grey-bearded bimbashi. Hakir was as superficially polite as ever. I think he never quite realised how Siniutkin had tricked me. He treated me without suspicion as a fellow conspirator, although he remained reserved. As a Christian and a Russian, I was still his ancient blood enemy. I determined to give him friendly responses for as long as necessary. I knew their radical cant. I was capable of making as much hot air about self-determination and universal justice as Lenin himself. We ate a small breakfast, then left Hakir’s villa, climbing back into the De Dion Bouton again. The chauffeur took a different road down the mountain, I received tantalising glimpses of distant Constantinople, her towers and roofs bright above the morning sea fog, then we were moving inland, leaving the lush, dreaming beauty of the hills behind and progressing relentlessly towards the barren, blood-soaked plateaus on which the primitive Osmanli hordes had first gathered themselves to launch, with ferocious jealousy, their attempted conquest of Christ, civilisation and the gentle humanitarian virtues of the Greeks.

  Hourly the earth grew poorer. The forests disappeared until the only shade came from occasional clumps of plantains or a poplar grove beside a small riverlet. Sometimes the road ran beside a railway track; at other times it would pass through a collection of dusty houses built around a miserable square, with the inevitable mosque, an occasional fountain and sometimes a police post. We passed poor farmers with heavily laden donkeys (or more frequently wives), two or three British army lorries, a car flying the flags of France, Italy and Britain, from which white, hard faces stared. I hoped we might be stopped by Allied police, but the deeper into Anatolia we went, the fewer Europeans we saw. At first the police posts had both Italian and Turkish officers; later only Turks could be seen. Once a detachment of Turkish cavalry went by, flying the standard of the Sultan. My companion scowled at this. ‘They believe they are patriots. In fact they support Turkey’s most vicious enemy.’ I wondered if this bimbashi had taken part in recent attempts to assassinate the ruling Sultan who, in my view, was more realistic than most of his predecessors. Now and then Hakir was saluted by a policeman who seemed to recognise him and I realised I must maintain caution everywhere. Superficially there was no telling who was a Kemalist and who was not.

  We stopped only once, at a farmho
use, to buy some bread and olives and to relieve ourselves. By afternoon we were climbing again into cool hills while the road became steadily worse and more than once we had to stop or swerved to avoid a hole. The bimbashi would sometimes admonish the chauffeur, sometimes apologise to me. He sat upright throughout the journey, occasionally lighting a cigarette, or reaching out to hold the silk cord near the window. Twice he pronounced the name of a town which I did not recognise. He pointed out the ruins of a Classical temple, a Crusader tower, the more modern remnants of a recently demolished village. Towards evening we descended into a narrow rocky valley containing a river and some stunted oaks. The car was forced to halt at a narrow track. Through clouds of gnats, the bimbashi led me down beside a stream, then across a shuddering, creaking bridge to a wooden house resembling a rundown Russian dacha. Originally it had been white, but most of the paint had peeled. The boards of the veranda were as unstable as the bridge and I thought the whole thing must fall as we went inside. The dusty rooms were sparsely furnished; they had not been lived in for years. As we progressed we heard murmuring voices towards the back, then we came into a low covered courtyard surrounding a brick well. Beyond it were quarters occupied by several horses and close to the well itself sat or squatted three of the bimbashi’s henchmen. They were not unfamiliar to me. With slight variations of features and dress they might have been Hrihorieff’s bandits, the sort now calling themselves Cossacks. They had the same wolfish, aggressively challenging, appearance. They did not bother to stand as the bimbashi and I came into the courtyard, though they showed respect for a man who now crossed from the stables, grinning at Hakir, lifting an eyebrow at me as if we were old friends. From the way he held himself, this leader had obviously been a soldier; now he was almost as ragged as the others, who had never been anything more than third-rate brigands, self-styled ‘irregulars’: bazhi-bazouks. They wore sheepskin caps, bandoliers criss-crossed their bodies, cartridge pouches bulged at chest and hip, and their belts were crowded with knives, swords, pistols, most of which were rusty. Crouching like apes beside the well they tried to light a fire under a cooking pot. The leader grunted something, offering to share the congealed contents of the pot with us, but we shook our heads. Eventually we accepted some pieces of bread torn off a grey, communal loaf. Outside, the stream rushed over rocks with such a din, I thought it must flood and wash the house away, but this amplified sound was merely a feature of the courtyard. As soon as Major Hakir and the chief bazhi-bazouk led me into another room, there was relative silence. Hakir and the bandit talked for a while in their own language. I could only understand a few words, mainly to do with military matters. At last Hakir turned to me. ‘We shall rest for an hour or two, then press on, although there’s very little daylight left. Can you ride a horse, M’sieu Pyatnitski?’