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

by Michael Moorcock

  I told him I remembered his mentioning how he frequently took tourists back and forth to Venice; that he would sometimes carry the odd passenger who perhaps did not have all his proper documents for entering Italy. Noncommittally, he nodded. ‘You have a friend in trouble, Mr Papanatki?’

  ‘Myself and my sister. We must leave at once. When do you next plan to sail?’

  He sighed. ‘The competition has been terrible this season. And before that was the damned War. The bigger people are taking all the tourist trade from me. I’ll only be able to return from Venice with, say, half-a-dozen passengers. They will scarcely pay for the running costs.’ He looked miserably at me. ‘Therefore, it would have to cost, for the two together, a hundred.’ By the figure he meant gold. I had that in sovereigns. ‘You can take our trunks and so on?’ I asked him. ‘Of course,’ he made a generous gesture with his hand. ‘Trunks. Suitcases. Cats and dogs. No extra charge.’ He laughed as he saw my relief, ‘I’m not short of space on board. At the moment I’m half empty.’ We agreed where we should meet and what procedure I should follow. It was to be at the ‘Little Quay’ near the Tephane Docks. I left the coffee house beginning to feel I had accomplished the most important part of my escape. The streets stank of damp and decomposing spices. I was oddly intoxicated by the time I reached my next destination, a grog shop near the Tower, behind which my Bulgarian forger had his office. Another fifty pounds bought me crude exit visas as well as reasonably made British passports for myself and Esmé. The documents would be of no use for entering England itself, but would prove helpful in countries less familiar with the originals. I gave my name as Cornelius and supplied him with the necessary particulars, including photographs which I had prepared some time before. While I waited he made up the passports, peering through a gigantic magnifying glass as, in the light of a naphtha lamp and muttering admiringly at his own handiwork, he bent over an old, chemical-stained mahogany table.

  By the time I returned it was late afternoon. Esmé, evidently miserable, was utterly dishevelled. She was even more frightened than when I had left her. The Baroness had called quite early. Finding me gone, she had left a note. Esmé’s hand shook violently as she presented me with the envelope. Putting on a brave face, I comforted her. Everything was ready and all she was required to do was pack whatever she wished to take. At this, Esmé burst into floods of tears and the whole scene emerged. ‘She said I would be arrested. My parents will be arrested. You they will shoot!’

  Although privately furious with the woman for her cowardly terrorising of an innocent girl, I contained myself and merely shrugged. ‘She’s insane. Jealous.’ I opened the note. It proved without doubt her unstable mind. She wrote that she could have jumped too early to conclusions. She had thought over what I had said last night. Now she believed I had been led astray ‘by a little Turkish harlot’. Esmé was probably connected to the gang which had kidnapped me. If I got rid of the child at once it would probably save me and the Baroness would consider forgiving me, perhaps even go with me to Berlin, so simultaneously avoiding scandal and retribution. I must meet her in the restaurant at ten that evening when we could discuss what had to be done. I found this volte-face baffling, but decided it would do no harm to see her once more. By placating her for twenty-four hours I should certainly be able to make my escape without trouble from the authorities. I showed Esmé the note. She could not read the Russian. ‘It’s blackmail, of course. But I’ll go to see her and buy us time.’

  Esmé had made an effort to calm herself. ‘What shall I be doing, Maxim?’

  ‘As I said, you must get our things into trunks and cases. Tomorrow a car will pick us up. It’s all arranged.’ I hugged her. ‘You mustn’t worry. Be a brave little monkey. We are on our way to Venice. You’ve always wanted to go. From there we can reach Paris, if we like. And England. You’ll be quite safe, my darling. Those countries are truly civilised. Not like Turkey.’

  She was by no means convinced. Now our escape offered to become a reality, I think she grew nervous. She had known only Constantinople. In one way or another she could survive here. How would she fare abroad? I appreciated her anxieties. I had originally felt much the same about leaving Odessa. ‘It will be all right. We’ll be happy.’ I tried to cheer her up.

  ‘The Baroness has friends in those countries.’ She remained wary. ‘They will arrest us, Maxim.’

  ‘She has no power. That’s nonsense. Only here is she a little troublesome. She thinks she has more to threaten me with than is true. Someone like that is never much of a problem. We’ll be travelling as Maxim and Esmé Cornelius, British subjects. She won’t know that.’

  Again, Esmé attempted to pull herself together, though her mind was clearly not at ease. I laughed and kissed her. ‘Within a week we shall be strolling down the Champs-Élysées together. You’ll have a new Parisian dress.’

  She said, ‘Perhaps it would be better to go to Athens first. Or Alexandria?’

  This amused me. ‘You really are a child of the ancient world. Is it so hard for you to relinquish it? We must think in terms of London and New York, my little one. You mustn’t be afraid. I shall always protect you.’

  She shook her pretty head, again close to tears. ‘You have already been captured once. If it were to happen in Venice …’

  ‘It cannot happen in Venice. These are genuinely civilised countries. You can’t know what that means yet, but you must have faith in me.’

  I spent the rest of the evening calming her. Eventually she began carefully to take clothes out of cupboards and drawers and inspect them, like a sensible little Hausfrau. Then slowly she folded her silk dresses. Just before ten I kissed her and was off downstairs to keep the appointment with my volatile Baroness.

  Tokatlian’s was impossibly crowded. The uniforms of a dozen nations squeezed together at the tables, frequently sandwiching soft, naked shoulders. As usual the band played its hideous jazz while waiters were scarcely able to push through the mass to find their customers. Arabs in burnooses and Turks in fezzes, Albanians in sheepskin, Montenegrans in felt, Circassians in leather, argued together and sang together or separately collapsed in corners. Russians in magnificent Tsarist uniforms, all of them looking the image of the late Emperor, picked their way from place to place, looking for friends, asking after lost relatives, producing rings, necklaces, small ikons from their pockets to sell to haughty Levantines. These aristocrats had learned to beg. For generations their ancestors, disdaining all forms of commerce, had looked down on influential financiers and great merchants. Now, reduced to the level of bazaar boys, they carried their pathetic goods wherever they went, unable even to afford the rent of a market cubicle. At first, in the dim light, I did not see the Baroness who was already seated at a window table. Then a tram went by outside and its glaring lights revealed her. She was wearing her best red and black dress and what remained of her jewellery. Her back was unnaturally stiff, a sign of deep nervousness. She saw me and waved. When I eventually reached her and sat down I noted how heavily painted she was. She had been weeping. ‘You should not cry,’ I said. ‘Your fears clouded your mind. You made hasty decisions.’

  ‘I don’t think I missed the essentials,’ she said firmly. ‘You must not lie to me any more, Maxim. If we are to save you, you’ll have to swear from now on to tell me the whole truth.’

  I sat back, making a display of offended pride. ‘My dear Leda, I do not intend to be questioned by anyone about my decisions! I should have thought my word would do. I have had my fill of interrogation during these last days!’

  ‘But you must tell me the truth.’ She was emphatic. ‘Do you swear?’

  I inclined my head. ‘If you like. Very well, I swear.’

  ‘I need to know exactly what hold she has over you. You’re so utterly impressionable. She could lead you into any trap, you know. Are you afraid of her?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You said you would tell me the truth.’

  Reluctantly, I was for
ced to say what she wanted to hear. Frequently that is what people are actually demanding. ‘I am a little scared,’ I admitted. ‘She has relatives in Constantinople. They might be criminals.’

  ‘She hinted at some of this. Doubtless they in turn have contacts with the Turkish rebels. Did they threaten to expose you?’

  She knew nothing of Siniutkin’s part in my kidnapping. I thought it best not to confuse her. ‘I went to meet the Count in Scutari.’ The waiter came over so I dropped my voice. Leda ordered us a light meal. ‘When I got there I was bundled into a car. Next thing, I was being driven inland!’

  ‘And you still did not suspect her?’

  ‘At the time, it did not even occur to me.’

  Leda now wore an expression which was new to me, a mixture of moral urgency and depravity suggesting I was right to believe her mad. Thus, I became willing, more than ever, to humour her. ‘Then that was how they knew where to find me,’ I said wonderingly.

  ‘Exactly! She’s a second-rate juvenile Mata Hari. She’s probably been working as an agent for years. She pretends to innocent vulnerability. It’s her best disguise. I’ll admit she hoodwinked me at first. But when I saw last night how shocked you were, I put two and two together.’

  I was not convinced the Baroness completely believed this rationale herself. But a Russian who finds a rationale is, as we say, already well on the way to action. She could now explain everything within the context of my having been deceived. She had named an appropriate villain. Since Leda did not want to part from me, Esmé must become the monster which, only yesterday, I had been.

  ‘I shall have to be careful,’ I murmured, ‘if I am to escape from her.’

  ‘You must go immediately to the British. They will want to know about the rebels. I doubt they trust the Sultan for accurate information. And half the present government are Young Turks already favouring the Nationalists. Still others are in French and Italian pay. I have all this on good authority. You should get down to the harbour tomorrow, see if the Rio Cruz has left, or when she is due back. Captain Monier-Williams will put you in touch with the right people.’

  Leda had forgotten our ship had been on her last voyage in these waters. The Rio Cruz was gone for good. But again I said nothing. The poor creature was half crazy, largely I suspect from lack of sleep and cocaine withdrawal, since I had not been supplying her. The Baroness frowned to herself. She had eaten hardly any of her food. ‘Did Mrs Cornelius know what was going on with that girl?’ She seemed to have a list of questions already prepared in her head.

  ‘A little. She, too, tried to warn me.’

  The Baroness uttered a superior sigh. ‘Oh, Simka. You’re only a boy. You’ve been led astray so terribly. How could you allow her to do it?’

  ‘She reminds me of Esmé Loukianoff, the girl I was due to marry.’

  From her beaded handbag Leda took a scented handkerchief and placed the tip of it against her eyes. ‘You are too romantic for your own good, my dear. But look where it has led you. She asked for your “protection” I suppose, wanted to be introduced to influential people?’

  ‘She had nothing, you see.’

  ‘Nothing!’ The Baroness laughed. ‘She probably earns more than the Sultan himself, selling our secrets to her masters in Ankara. That was why she tried to trick me, when she thought you trapped and gone for good. She needed to get to Count Siniutkin. She might even have succeeded. The poor man has disappeared completely.’

  ‘So I gather.’ Mention of the Count’s name made me turn suddenly, as if he might be standing behind me. Instead, near the bar, deep in conversation with a French officer, I observed the slight, dapper figure of Bimbashi Hakir. The Turk stared distantly back at me for a moment, then resumed talking. I became genuinely anxious, realising that not all the gang had been rounded up. They would know who had accused them and were bound to be vengeful. ‘It doesn’t feel safe here,’ I told Leda: ‘Let’s go to my little apartment for a while. We can say more where there’s less chance of being overheard.’

  Without hesitation, she agreed. I paid our bill and we inched our way clear of the restaurant into the relatively cool air of the Grande Rue. A procession of closed horsedrawn carriages was going by. It filled the street. On both sides of it were Turkish soldiers in ceremonial dress. This mysterious caravan disappeared down near the Galata Tower and, as if they had been held by an invisible dam, the ordinary trams, donkey carts, motor cars and horses suddenly flooded back. The glare of gas and electricity, the wailing, horrible music, the lurid signs and the constant whining of beggars made me feel suddenly nostalgic. I could understand Esmé’s reluctance to leave this city of her upbringing. I should have been glad to stay here at my own convenience and was determined to return one day, when the Turks were gone and Greeks or Russians ruled. A restored Orthodox Church would bring pilgrims from all over the world. But would the new order diminish Constantinople’s oriental excitement?

  As the Baroness and I turned up towards the little cemetery, a couple of pistol shots sounded close behind us. I heard a police whistle. They were the normal sounds of the Pera night and neither of us ever paid them much attention, but I had responded rather more nervously than usual. I found I was glancing into doorways. In one, Major Hakir’s fierce little face peered down the sights of a revolver. Elsewhere I saw bazhi-bazouks jumping from alleys. There was potential danger on all sides. The night was humid, but the sweat on the back of my neck was cold. I was unusually glad to get up to the apartment. Here Leda virtually threw me onto the couch with the violence of her sudden, greedy passion. ‘I love you,’ she declared. ‘I could not bear to see you hurt, Simka.’

  As we undressed, I decided this was a reasonable price to pay for my twenty-four hours of grace. What if, I wondered, I acted out the role she had prepared, would she again have changed her tune? The problems of living in this city had overtaxed her mind. It was fortunate for me that I had found this out before offering her the opportunity of travelling with Esmé and myself. She might have threatened far worse harm had she decided to denounce me in a Western country. With rather less enthusiasm than usual I gave her my body, explaining away my obvious uninterest with the claim that I had become fearful of Esmé and her Nationalist friends. Tokatlian’s was evidently a hotbed of revolutionaries, ruthless adventurers and desperate men and women of all kinds. I could not stay there any longer. I would move, I said, to this apartment. Then I would inform the authorities of our suspicions about Esmé.

  ‘But how will you stop her realising?’

  For my own amusement, I let the Baroness discuss a variety of notions involving the betrayal of my darling. If I had been a cynical man, I might have thought the whole female race treacherous and without conscience. So many women spoke of morality only to maintain their own position when it suited them, to gain power, or, as in this case, to threaten. In Constantinople everyone scrambled to get tiny pinches of power for themselves, and consequently everything was for sale. The women, the slaves, the subject races, all schemed and squabbled in the shadow of the Sultan’s palace. A few years earlier, Abdul Hamid, last true Emperor of the Osmanlis, possessed unlimited power, yet carried a pistol with him at all times. If someone disturbed, displeased or frightened him, he frequently shot them with impunity. Millions of souls had been at his disposal. Such absolute tyranny makes its subjects greedy for mastery over some small aspect of the world, whether it be animal or child. Thus Constantinople was a city famous for its dogs. People with the least power keep the most dogs.

  That night when I returned to Esmé, I had been shocked by the levels of duplicity a woman was capable of reaching in her jealous desire to hold a man. Equally I was somewhat admiring of her, even though she began to cut a ludicrous figure of a person whose deceits and subterfuges are transparent and therefore harmless. I found Esmé almost catatonic. There were clothes tumbled everywhere and nothing packed. She sat in the middle of a pile of frocks looking pale and frightened. Her pretty hair was tangled, her eyes red. �
��I do not know what to do,’ she said. She was paralysed by the prospect of leaving. Patiently I began to fold the cloaks and dresses and put them down in the trunks. She watched me helplessly as if I were abandoning her.

  ‘I’m not sure it’s wise to go,’ she said.

  I explained the Baroness intended to expose her as a spy. I laughed about it. ‘We’ll be gone before she can do anything.’

  At this Esmé began silently to weep again. I almost lost my temper. She was behaving like a whimsical child. ‘After tomorrow,’ I promised, ‘you’ll be Esmé Cornelius. They’ll be searching for a Roumanian girl called Bolascu. Even your parents won’t know where to find you.’

  ‘But they must! We have to send them money.’

  ‘I have already made the arrangements. They’ll get even more from now on.’ I was prepared to say or do anything to reassure her.

  ‘Can I see them before we go?’

  I hesitated. I could not risk being again separated from Esmé. ‘Very well. We’ll visit them tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I would rather go alone.’

  ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  She appeared to accept this and raised enough energy to help me do a little of the packing. By the small hours we were ready to leave at a moment’s notice. We slept until eight, then prepared to visit her parents’ tenement. It was a clear, misty morning. Constantinople shone with those wonderful, faded pastels for which she is famous. There was a cheerful mood to the streets. We carried two suitcases of clothes Esmé had discarded. She wished to take them to her mother. Though fearing we should run out of money before we ever reached Venice, I had agreed to give her parents another two sovereigns. The decrepit couple received us with their usual lack of emotion. Monsieur Bolascu had already bought himself a new suit which he had promptly ruined in some local gutter. Madame Bolascu was filleting a large fish at the table. Esmé kissed her. ‘We are going on holiday,’ she said in Turkish. ‘I wanted you to have these clothes.’ The woman nodded and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. Suddenly she looked at me and grinned. It was shocking to see that stony face break into such unlikely mobility. The fangs were revealed, yellow and black, and a kind of birdlike gargle issued from the throat. ‘Bon voyage, m’sieu,’ she said. Esmé wanted to stay. She pretended to talk to her father, who now dozed in a corner and could not hear a word. She hugged her mother. Madame Bolascu patted her on the back while continuing to grin at me. ‘She is a good girl.’