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

by Michael Moorcock

  ‘I want to talk now.’

  ‘At four.’ She turned back, ran forward, put her arms round my neck, kissed me on the nose and smiled. ‘If it’s bad news, four o’clock’s the ideal time to hear it. If it’s good, we can celebrate tonight.’

  I looked at the pile of letters I myself was too fearful to open. All were connected to the Company’s failure. I would never open them. I returned to bed, staying there until lunch time while I tried to review my situation. I was furiously incredulous that I was destitute. I lay in my huge, clean bed, looking up at the ornate ceiling while sunlight brought Parisian spring into the beautiful room. Yet my only asset, save for my Odessa luck pieces, was the Hotchkiss, which would have to be sold and the profit handed to Kolya for Esmé. Letting Esmé have her own money would be foolish. She had become habitually extravagant. She could spend anything I gave her in a day. The house would only be ours for another month and most of the furniture was gone. There was very little left to arrange. I could rely on Kolya to take care of anything else. My only fear was that my news would bring Esmé too heavily down to earth. I was afraid she would fall back into her delirium; I should not be able to leave her if she suffered another. I tried, with this in mind, rehearsing the exact tone of my revelations. But half my brain would not respond to the other. I hate to admit the truth: I was to be torn away from the girl I regarded as my own flesh. Yet I at least had become used to disappointment, disillusion, betrayal. She had known only sunshine and ease since she had met me. How much worse it might be for her, with no automatic means of anaesthetising herself.

  I ate a sandwich and drank a glass of beer in the brasserie round the corner from the house, walking down St-Michel to the Seine. It was damp spring weather with a slight mist in the air and on the water. The quayside bookstalls were mostly closed up, but a few patient old men like unkempt dogs sat guarding their wares. Traffic clogging the bridge was so still, so muted, I imagined time had frozen and myself the only unaffected individual in the entire city. Sounds became increasingly muffled and faint. The people I passed took on an unreal appearance, like projections in a cinema film, though the colours were brilliant. I crossed over the bridge to Notre Dame where I stood looking up at the cathedral’s massive doors. They represented a barricade against the corruption of the world outside. In all her sensual beauty, Paris surrounded me; her trees, just budding, were isolated one from the other. She was the least compassionate of cities, the most self-involved. She rewarded success grudgingly while quickly punishing failure. In her present haughtiness it was impossible to imagine how she had been during the Revolution or the Siege, with the mob in her streets, screaming and destroying. I could understand, I thought, how she had come to be attacked by her own inhabitants; by pétroleuses with crazed, wounded eyes, trying to burn her into recognition of her own mortality. They had failed, if indeed that had ever been their ambition. She remained impassive. Poverty and distress merely disgusted her. Noise offended her. She turned away from it.

  By the time I walked back it had begun to rain. Beside the little round church of St Julien Pauvre, I heard the almost mechanical click of water on her laurels, smelling the dampness of her graveyard as a curtain of drizzle moved slowly across to me. I kept to backstreets and doorways. I could not afford to be found either by Brodmann or Tsipliakov. But Paris knew I was there: she intended to purge me as if I were an alien microbe. I longed for the warm chaos of Rome, even the filth and clamouring greed of Constantinople. I could not begin to imagine New York. In other cities, in their marble and granite towers, the world’s Mapmakers were still at work. The arms dealers and the grain merchants tested the pulse of a desperate planet. Greeks were betrayed to Turks; Russians to Poles; Ukrainians to Russians and Italians to ‘Jugo-Slavs’. Ideas of virtue and probity were subtly discredited. Jazz music drowned all protest. Would America, providing so much of this distraction, be even worse than here? I countered my fear. There were Russian colonies in Venezuela, Brazil, Peru and Argentina. If the United States failed me I could go South. From there it would be easy to find my way back to Europe. With this consolation I turned into the little cinema at L’Odéon and watched part of Birth of a Nation again, emerging into sunshine, my optimism restored.

  I arrived back at the house by four, but Esmé did not return until six, full of pretty apologies, cursing buses and taxis and the traffic on the South Bank, kissing me all over my face, telling me about the present she had bought me. She had left it on the tram. She would get me another on Monday. It was too late to have tea, but since she seemed in such fundamentally good spirits I decided to speak.

  ‘Esmé, I have decided to leave France.’

  ‘What?’ She looked up from where she had been sorting through her purse. ‘For Rome?’

  ‘They’ll put me in prison if I don’t get as far away as possible. So I’m going to America.’

  She was half smiling. She thought I joked. ‘But I want to go to America with you.’

  ‘You’ll join me there, as soon as Kolya has a passport for you. There’s a delay, because you have no proper documents. There are so many émigrés in your situation everything takes longer. It will only be a question of weeks at most. Then well be together again.’

  ‘Where shall I live?’ She looked up frowning, putting the purse to one side. ‘The rent here is only good for another month.’

  ‘Kolya has offered you a room in their Paris apartment. He and Anâis are not there half the time so you’d have the place to yourself a good deal. And servants. Everything you want. Possibly Kolya and Anâis will be able to bring you to New York. They intend to go soon.’

  She had grown pale and was biting her lower lip. Her eyes cast about as if she had lost something.

  ‘You mustn’t be afraid.’ I was gently reassuring. ‘You’ll soon be meeting Douglas Fairbanks.’

  She smiled. ‘Maxim, do you love me?’

  ‘With all my heart.’ The question somehow disturbed me. ‘You are my wife, my sister. My daughter. My rose.’ I moved towards her.

  ‘Why do you love me?’

  ‘When I first saw you I felt something. An echo of recognition. I had always sought for you. I found you again. I’ve told you this before.’

  ‘I love you too, Maxim.’ She still seemed distracted. Perhaps she was resisting the meaning of my news.

  ‘I’ll stay, my darling, if you need me.’

  She was brave, my little girl. ‘No. That would be wrong. I want you to go. I’ll join you soon. You must fulfil your destiny. It lies in America now.’

  ‘You’re behaving splendidly.’ I had expected tears.

  ‘It’s for the best,’ she said flatly.

  I reached out and touched my fingers to her lips. She kissed them, glancing up at me with a strange, almost tragic, expression. Then she gasped and dropped her head. I held her shoulder. ‘You won’t notice I’m gone. You’ll know I’m with you in spirit the whole time. I love you, Esmé.’

  ‘I always feel you’re with me.’ Her voice was small, sounding oddly ashamed. Her response was mystifying and yet touching.

  ‘You must try not to miss me,’ I said.

  ‘You’re not leaving me for good, are you Maxim?’

  ‘Never! We shall be married one day. When you’re legally old enough.’ I smiled. ‘Perhaps in America where the age of consent is lower. That might be best. Would you like to be married in the Wild West? With Indian braves for guests? In a little wooden church on the plains?’

  ‘That would be wonderfully romantic.’ She stood up. Suddenly shy, she took my hand. ‘Let’s go to bed now.’

  Our evening was beautiful in the peace and delicacy of our love-making. It had been the same with Kolya. There is a kind of release when lovers are about to separate for a while.

  Oh, Esmé, my sister. My wistful spirit. My ideal. I never wanted you to be a woman. They took you and forced your face into the dirt and horror of the world. You said you were awake at last. But what is wrong with a dream? It harmed no on
e. It leaves no stain. Why talk of death when it is inevitable? What drives these people to spread despondent news like rats spread plague? Why should we know fear? They tore me from beauty and hope. With whips and pistols they drove me from my childhood, into this unbearable, cold, futureless wasteland. Children are trudging through the mud of the twentieth century; trudge across the wreckage of the world, homeless and without love. Questo dev’essere un errore. Non mi dimentichi. Men ken platsn!

  It poured all the way to Cherbourg: waves of light rain drifting like smoke across meadows and woods as the bluebells of France bloomed and the trees came to furious leaf. The train was warm. It smelled of coal and garlic and old women’s perfume. My brave little girl had stood with Kolya on the platform, waving a handkerchief, turning and smiling suddenly at my friend as if he had made a joke. He was frozen in black worsted, hat on head, hands in pockets, his white face expressionless as he watched the train pull out. Esmé, in red and white, leapt like a flag at a fête; she seemed still to be bouncing as the train curved and I lost sight of her. I was not at that moment much distressed. The prospect of travel as usual drove all other thoughts away. I refused to brood on that disaster which overtook my first real chance of public success. It would have produced unnecessary melancholia at best, insanity at worst. So I sat back in my seat, raised my hat to the three maiden ladies going to visit their sisters, to the dignified schoolboy sitting with Zola in his hand, and then took an interest in the countryside.

  I looked on the bright side. I was, after all, Maxim Arturovitch Pyatnitski, a citizen of France, a man of affairs, on my way to catch a ship. The scandal would be forgotten. My achievements would be remembered. Presently, I was well dressed, carried my patents in my luggage, together with my Georgian pistols. There was no need to waste time on regrets. I was a free man. I was twenty-one years old. I had experienced more than most people do in a long life. And in America my diplomas, my honourable War record, would be even more impressive than in Europe. The sisters, when they spoke to me, were plainly admiring of my bearing and my appearance. When the train arrived I helped them onto the platform before attending to my own affairs. With a whole entourage of porters I marched from station to docks. It was impossible to miss my ship. She dwarfed every building, every piece of machinery in the port. I had never seen a ship so huge. I stared upwards, trying to make out the details of her decks. Little white faces peered back from far away. The Mauretania was a massive wall of dark metal topped by terraces of white and gold: the monstrous nine deck’d city as Kipling described her. Having served creditably throughout the War she was back in private service again; still the ship for whom most travellers had the greatest affection, particularly now, since cowardly U-boats had sunk her sister, the Lusitania. Leading my porters, I ascended the ramp specially prepared for First Class passengers. Entering an arch as tall as any palace’s I was greeted by a uniformed steward who inspected my ticket then led me towards the First Class boat deck. In the harbour intrusive tugboat horns were contentious and ill-mannered beyond the fading mist. My ship’s brass, woodwork, impeccable paint and silvered metal, glowed with an inner radiance, as if she were a living beast. I never knew any security greater than I experienced on entering my stateroom.

  Having tipped steward and porters and stopped to look through the porthole at Cherbourg’s roofs and steeples, I lay down on a wide bed. I lit a cigarette. I did not care if my voyage took a year or more. Momentarily there came a tremendous, unexpected pang, as I realised neither Esmé nor Kolya were here to share my impressions; but a little cocaine soon helped me pull myself together. I was determined to be positive, to enjoy every moment of my stay on board the floating city. After all, I had no clear idea of what I might have to deal with when I arrived. I washed and changed my clothes.

  Two hours later the bustle of the ship suddenly grew still. Anxious not to miss the experience I stepped outside my cabin just as the shorelines were let go. I went to join other passengers at the forward rails. Tugs were towing us slowly out to open water. The sun was dull, diffused, a splash of orange near the horizon. The sea was grey and white, alive with birds. The ship’s horns sounded a triumph, a farewell. When the hawsers were released, humming and hissing, they curled away and sliced into the waves, to be hauled in by invisible winches. The Mauretania dipped her prow, then rose gracefully. A breeze-borne spray striking our faces, we cheered with delight. Already there was a sense of comradeship between us, as there must always be on such a vessel. We moved into magical twilight. Slowly battery upon battery of electric bulbs blossomed everywhere on the ship. She was magnificent. She was a fabulous, unworldly apparition. She turned, this dignified aristocrat, towards the sunset and the West. I went below. I wished to put the final touches to my costume before dinner.

  I inspected myself carefully as I tied my tie. I was not dissatisfied, for I was undeniably handsome. I had an excellent figure, my high forehead spoke of brains and breeding, my strong nose of aggressive but fair-minded confidence, my dark eyes of romantic sensitivity. I could mix easily with nobleman and intellectual alike. Straightening my back, I gave a final salute to France. I was more than glad to leave that land of haughty thieves with soft hands and old names. Now I was breathing the clean air of the ocean. This was the first time since leaving Odessa that I could resume my full title without fear of jealousy, cynicism or assassination. Tonight it would not be considered in good taste to wear uniform, but I would wear one tomorrow.

  At length, in crisp and well cut evening dress, I strolled wide white and brass companionways. The drums and bass fiddle of an orchestra issued from the far off dining-salon. They were playing a waltz. I almost wept with relief. Raucous jazz, dazzling cubist colours, smart nonsense, Constructivist distortions, all were abolished here. This was the world of breeding and affluence I had always prepared myself for, since a child in Kiev. Until now it had always been snatched from me by the hands of the ignorant mob or the over sophisticated bourgeois banker. I was, I will admit, in an elevated state of mind. I experienced feelings which I can only describe as holy. I felt I had attained something very close to a state of grace.

  In the floating land of Mauretania I could now join my own. I had at last found a true spiritual home!

  THIRTEEN

  A SCIENTIFICALLY ORDERED City State, Mauretania embodies the best of all possible futures. Every monitored function is perfectly designed to give her inhabitants maximum benefit and comfort. Providing protection from the elements, luxury, security and mobility, the metropolis of the future will also fly. She will locate herself geographically at the convenience of her citizens. She will be heated, lit and provisioned from a central energy source maintained to perfection by a benevolent Master Engineer. Social discipline will be achieved chiefly through good will. Citizens will know that transgressing her code will mean isolation or perhaps banishment to a less hospitable environment.

  Mauretania is beauty and freedom: a country where art, intellect and business success are properly honoured, where health, good looks and wit are the norm, where everyone is truly equal, having already earned the right to be here. Thus every man is a Lord and every woman a Lady. This future has conquered nature but continues to respect it, unhampered by the past’s banalities, yet remains conscious of its fallible humanity. The world will have control of all its affairs. A central board will govern through selected officers, allowing liberty to all prepared to live and work for the common good. The Grand Patriarch of Constantinople shall be head of a reunited Church. The black and yellow hordes of Carthage shall wither away within a few generations, by a natural process of inbreeding. Fair-skinned, athletic young men and women shall look down through clouds and see the gentle gardens of India, the vast cornfields of China, the game reserves of the Congo; their inheritance. Human nature will not have changed, but certain temptations and threats will vanish: with the voice of Carthage stilled forever, Islam and Zion shall perish as shall everything pagan and ignorant; unnourished it shall rot under the ligh
t of truth. Krishna and Buddha will be pleasant myths of a time before the New Dawn. The Jew, the Negro and the Tatar shall be no more than those goblins of prehistoric legend. Byzantium’s world of free City States shall eventually send settlements to new planets, crossing the darkness of interstellar space to spread humanity’s benefits over whole solar systems, filling the universe with the love of Christ. Velocita massima! shall be the cry upon the lips of our clear-eyed pioneers.

  Not for nothing were our liners named after Roman countries, modern cities, provinces, sometimes whole nations: Places suddenly no longer tied to specific locations on the atlas. Free from the bondage of Space, we shall start to consider the bondage of Time. Nationality becomes a matter of individual application, just as the sailor selects his ship. And the choice is considerable: Umbria, Campania or Lusitania; New York, Paris, Stockholm, Rome, St Louis, Glasgow, Bremen; Oregon, Minnesota, California, Bourgogne, Lancastria, Saxony or Normandy; Great Britain, United States, France or Deutschland. Replacing old earthbound states they release us from all outmoded thinking, useless economic theories, decrepit moralistic behaviour. We are truly free because we possess complete freedom of movement. We wander in terraced parks and lush forests just as I wandered through the galleries and passages of Mauretania. We dine in comfortable surroundings where fountains arc; sweet music plays as we observe the passing world below. Elsewhere great undersea tunnels connect land masses, bear cargoes by automatic railway; orchards are tended by mechanical servants; herds of beasts live in controlled environments. Disease is conquered. We are escaped from old fears, from starvation and exposure. Perhaps even death itself is defeated. When I was young I read Jules Verne’s romance, The Floating City, in which he visualised a world very much like Mauretania. I, in turn, visualised its successors. Here, amongst my peers, my mind was unburdened, able to examine the most stimulating problems. I was never without a fascinated audience. Fired by my visions, some people even asked for my autograph. These educated, wealthy men and women were not easily impressed. From the second night aboard, which was the night I dined as a guest of the Captain, I wore my Don Cossack uniform with its discreet ribbon and became known as Colonel Pyat by most English-speaking passengers. By some friendly, lazy-minded Americans I was called ‘Max Peterson’. They found the Russian too alien for their ears but it was also their way of accepting me as one of themselves. I had no objection to Anglicisation. My interest, as always, was to adapt as quickly as possible to the host culture. Names were never of much consequence to me. It is what people are that matters, as one English gentlewoman wisely said during the voyage. She was a viscountess, connected to the finest families in Europe.