‘Roffy was unstable,’ I offered. I felt she took too much of a risk by offending him. ‘A friend warned me last year he was suicidal, but I couldn’t believe it.’
‘Sure,’ said Mr Callahan, closing his book. ‘I thank you for your time, sir. Can I ask where you’re bound for?’
‘This is the Reno train,’ snarled Mrs Mawgan. ‘I thought you knew that.’
He smiled quietly.
‘Walker,’ I said, ‘I’m speaking there in a couple of days.’
‘Walker,’ he repeated slowly, ‘I don’t know the town. And who is it has invited you this time?’
‘The Bolshevik Revolutionary Party.’ Mrs Mawgan began to move back down the train. ‘The Society for the Assassination of the President. The Vatican City Veterans’ League. The damned mick. Catholic bloodhound. Don’t help him. Max. He hasn’t the right.’ I looked from her to Callahan and he shook his head, as if to dismiss me. I began to follow her. Callahan remained on the observation car, calmly writing in his notebook while we returned to our places. From the window we now saw a wide, tranquil lake. ‘He’s going after the Klan, Max, not you.’ Mrs Mawgan was curious and agitated, seeming almost to relish the encounter. ‘He’s just hoping you’re sap enough to blab something useful. We’re okay. The IRS can’t touch us. We’re filing and paying regularly. The books are air tight. Everything’s kosher. But all this is a good reason for never seeing Atlanta again.’ She smiled to herself. ‘We can’t admit to a thing, although he knows what’s going on. He’d have a hard time proving criminal intent. My hunch is he hopes to flush us somehow. I’m not sure why. We’d better duck our nuts for a while, change our names and live in New York till this blows over.’
I did not care for her solution, but it would have been pointless saying anything then. I think Mr Callahan got off at the next stop, though I suspect other agents were still aboard.
We had to wait an hour on Reno’s unremarkable railroad station until the train for Walker came shunting in at twilight. Aside from a group of Indians on their way back to the reservation, we were the only ones to board. It was night by the time the train moved out. Our car was hideously new, vivid yellow and black upholstery, like the carcass of a gigantic bee. We moved slowly into a land which grew increasingly featureless. By the time we stepped off at Walker, the station was deserted. It was dark, poorly lit and there was a chill in the air. We found no porter, so dragged our luggage to the exit gate. The ticket collector had gone off duty. The street outside was empty of traffic. A few lights and a couple of small electric signs enlivened the town at the far end. It was not much of a monument to the high-living, hell-raising scout and Indian fighter Jim Walker. I guessed the place had seen better days. I became uneasy. This was not at all what we were used to. Normally we were met by elaborate bands, by the mayor and other prominent citizens, by church groups or women’s guilds. Even at this time of night there were usually three or four local Klan officers to welcome us. Tonight, in the cool breeze, I felt puzzled, vaguely threatened. Brodmann could have turned everyone against us. The methods of his kind were often very subtle. The logical explanation was that all Klan chapters were temporarily disrupted because of the power struggle currently going on in Atlanta. But this would not completely ease my mind. In the bleak street outside the station I heard a car engine. Then headlamps glowed as a Ford Model T turned at an intersection and advanced towards us. The Ford drew up at the kerb. ‘Colonel Peterson?’ A nervous face peered through the gloom.
‘I’m Peterson.’
A youth of eighteen or so climbed from his car and introduced himself as Freddy Poulson. ‘Sorry I’m late, sir, ma’am. My Dad couldn’t make it. A special meeting he wasn’t expecting. Some of the Reno boys should have been here, too, but they can’t get over till tomorrow, either.’
I relaxed at once. My reasoned guess had been accurate. ‘Can you help us with our luggage?’ We shook hands. I had only one suitcase, but Mrs Mawgan had several. He was eager to do whatever he could. He had red cheeks, blond hair and the wholesome looks of the better Russian steppe-born peasant. He was not in the least sinister and drove us to a building only a few minutes from the station. Brick, with a fancy false front, it bore the legend Philadelphia Grand Hotel. This also appeared to be locked up for the night. There were no lights. Mrs Mawgan was beginning to lose her temper even as, oil lamp in hand, dressing gown wrapped round him, an old man unbolted the doors. We entered an inhospitable lobby and, at his insistence, signed the book before going to our rooms. The place reminded me of a large private house converted to a hostelry. It was clean. The orange carpeting and yellow and white fleur-de-lys wallpaper was recent, yet the place seemed indefinably shabby; not what we had come to expect. But then neither was Walker. Freddy Poulson said he would drop by in the morning.
When I joined her in her room, Mrs Mawgan remained downcast. Her bad mood had not lifted. ‘I was stupid,’ she said, ‘I’ve let myself get spooked. If Eugene was the frying pan, this dump’s one hell of a fire.’
‘We can cancel.’ I consoled her. ‘And leave in the morning.’
She considered this, ‘I don’t know, Max. Looked at another way Walker’s not exactly in the limelight.’ She sighed. ‘But if that’s what I was looking for I could have picked any one-horse town. I can’t get over the notion it was us who were picked by Walker, or at least by Reno. See, I don’t know Hiram Evans well and I couldn’t tell you who owes him, who’s in his pocket, what kind of troops he can call out and from where. Also, I don’t know how much he has it in for Eddy or how hard he wants to hit Eddy’s friends.’
‘You can’t be expected to know all that, Bessy.’
‘It was my job. I guess I thought I could keep taking a percentage without getting my hands dirty. Well, here’s the pay-off. Walker, Nevada, at two in the morning. I think they’re trying to tell us something, Max.’
‘Who,’ I said, ‘and what?’
‘That’s what I think.’ She drew me down to her warmth and her delicious scents. ‘Better make this a good one.’ She tugged at my belt.
Next morning we joined Freddy Poulson in the lobby. Hard sunlight pierced the windows, creating dramatic shadows. Outside was the sleepy main street of a small Western town. Its low buildings were so widely spread its texture seemed faded, its detail unclear, like a photograph blown up too large. The whole town might have been improved by reduction. We ate breakfast at the New California Café. Everything in Nevada was named after another State, as if nobody was really sure they wanted to be there. From boredom Mrs Mawgan arranged cutlery against the red and white oilcloth squares. A fine dust, possibly sand, covered the white enamel sugar can and cream-pitcher. ‘Maybe you could put us in the picture, Mr Poulson. What’s the programme for tonight?’
His attitude apologised for the town and everything in it. He knew, as Mrs Mawgan said, we were getting a ‘bum deal’. ‘I’m a little misty myself. They’re putting you on at the Opera House. Eight o’clock, I think.’
‘And what sort of publicity do we get, Mr Poulson?’ she asked.
‘I gather this is just for, you know, the lodge?’
She frowned. ‘Have you heard what’s coming down from Atlanta, Mr Poulson?’
‘Only that Mr Clarke’s contract was cancelled. A new man’s taken over. Seems a good enough egg from what I hear.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’m really not who you should ask.’ He got up to pay the bill.
Looking at him dragging his wallet from his back pocket and smiling awkwardly at the woman behind the cash register, Mrs Mawgan said, ‘He knows he’s out of his league.’ Pensively she sipped her coffee, staring through the glass at the placid street. A few horses and cars went by, sharply outlined in the harsh light. I should not have been surprised if a herd of cattle had wandered through. ‘My guess is his father’s one of the only Klansmen in town. They’re banking on Reno for support. In which case why give them the word to set the thing up here?’ She became decisive. ‘You wait and go back to the hotel with Poul
son. Tell him I’ve a few things to buy.’
‘Where will you be?’
‘Western Union, maybe. Or Wells Fargo. Whatever I can find.’ She intended to send more telegrams.
By noon conversation between myself and Mr Poulson, as we sat in the empty hotel bar drinking Coca-Cola and sarsaparilla, had dwindled to nothing. I did my best on the subject of aviation, ship building, engineering in general. All he knew was cattle and mining, and not a great deal about those. When Mrs Mawgan returned she was brisker; her old, positive self. I felt more confident. She suggested, since we had time to kill, we meet the Press. Mr Poulson actually blushed at this. ‘Bill Straker, who was going to cover the story for the Informant? Well, he had to go out of town on another assignment.’
We went to the movie. The theatre was the same Opera House at which I was due to speak that night. I was surprised no bills were posted, then remembered it was supposed to be a ‘members-only’ affair. The Opera House was an ornate mixture of brick and carved wood outside and neo-Roman plaster inside. All the mouldings had once been gilded. Now the gilt was peeling. We watched an episode of The Purple Mask, a newsreel, a short Fairbanks comedy, a ludicrous sex melodrama with Gloria Swanson called Male and Female and two Bronco Billy adventures which seemed virtually identical. I think the whole town had come to the performance; the air was virtually unbreathable. For all that, the show was better value than anything you get today. The triple features at the Essoldo across the road from my shop are trash. Monsters have taken over from people.
It was growing dark as we returned to the Philadelphia Grand. Mrs Mawgan had seemed girlish and romantic after the picture show, but became practical again once I dressed myself in my usual tuxedo. She took an intense interest in my appearance, combing my hair for me, adjusting my tie. ‘The worse the crowd the better you should look,’ she said. We returned downstairs to meet a nervous Mr Poulson who took us to a restaurant two blocks down the street. It was called The Lucky Indian. We ate hamburgers. ‘Evidently the Indian ran out of luck,’ said Mrs Mawgan, leaving hers unfinished. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I know how to get there. You boys run along. I have something to do …’ And she glanced towards the washroom door. This brought another blush from Poulson. She reached her hand under the table. In it was a little paper packet. I took the cocaine from her, though I had no opportunity to use it. I guessed she had a plan, perhaps something to do with the telegrams she had sent, so I assured Poulson she would be all right and we drove to the Opera House. No lights burned in the front at all. Possibly this was to be a secret meeting of the kind I had attended on the steamboat. I hoped I would learn the fate of Eddy Clarke, at very least. The stage door lamp was on in the alley as we went inside. It was gloomy and silent and smelled of rats. They said to go straight onto the stage. Poulson was sweating. I remember feeling sorry for him.
There were dazzling footlights smoking on the stage itself and dim electrics in the auditorium. The silvered expanse of the movie screen was still in place and my shadow spread across it, just as if I were in a German expressionist film. I was experiencing a rare attack of stage fright. My stomach was audibly gurgling and churning. When the footlights were suddenly switched off I peered, baffled, at the ranks of empty seats before me. In the middle aisle, where the stalls divided front and back, I eventually made out a dozen silent Klansmen, in hoods and gowns. With folded arms, their attitude was threatening and baleful. I was reminded of Birth of a Nation when the negro renegade Gus is sentenced to death, ‘I’m so glad to see you,’ I said. ‘I was beginning to feel I was on my own!’
‘We’re all set now, jew-boy.’ The voice had a deep, almost Russian timbre. ‘Go ahead. Let’s hear you whistle Dixie.’
It was only then I realised that these were not, of course, true Klansmen at all!
NINETEEN
THEY TOOK ME TO the desert. Buzzards roosted in the Totenburgen and red dust clogged my throat, making my arguments unattractive. Brodmann was one of them, I know. I recognised his jubilant eyes as their whips shredded my expensive evening clothes. I could scarcely believe she had left me to them. Had she known? ‘Your fancy woman had the right idea. You should have gone with her.’ They would teach me a lesson, said the deep-voiced leader, and I had better remember it good. I was sick. They drove me to the wasteland among buttes like ruined citadels and I vomited on the sand. ‘Get his pants down. Let’s check him out.’ Certainly that was the only evidence anyone required. My father should pay for every blow, every welt and bruise. The moon and stars were enormous and possessed a rare brightness. I was alone on a rock in the void while those spurious hoods waved over me and the white arms rose and fell. She was the Judas, not I. Women have no conscience. They will always betray you. I had been left to placate them while she escaped on the Northbound train. I held up my hand. I wanted to tell them the truth. The whip struck my knuckles. I watched the blood push its way through the dark swellings. It was all I could see, that blut. I know their infernal Inquisition. I understand their pacts. Even they are not always conscious of their interdependence. Had the Klan in its entirety been infiltrated by them? Was Evans the Pope’s own candidate? From then on, from 1923, the Klan’s power declined. It must have been a plot. The propaganda against Clarke became hideous. Nito tsu remen tsu reydn! Yidden samen a Folk vos serstert. A narrisch Folk. Sie hat nicht geantwortet. Ich habe das Buch gelesen und jene Leute sind verarmt. Wer Jude ist, bestimme Ich!
Wer Jude ist, bestimme Ich! Zol dos zayn factish. Fort tsurik. Vue iz mayn froy? In their desert my blood and tears were absorbed under clear black skies. They stared with impassive cruelty from the shadows. I held on to my agony. I would not become a Mussulman. Carthage could kill me. Carthage could not conquer me. The metal in my womb makes me vomit but the dibbuk is mastered again. I am stronger, always, than him. In the deep prehistoric dawn I crawled towards my bagazh. It was unopened, they were so arrogant, and all my things were there. My wallet, passport, some money. Everything I had left in the Philadelphia Grand. I found some more cocaine. It gave me the strength to change my clothes but I could not remove the blood, which had congealed everywhere on my body. I dragged my bag through the scrub to the dirt road and soon comes a truck. It stopped. The boy at the wheel scratched beneath his overalls but otherwise exhibited no surprise. He accepted I had been attacked and my car stolen. He said for a dollar he could drive me to Carson City. Some Samaritan! It was for the gas, he said. I gave him his dollar. He threw in a little water from his bottle so I could wash the worst of the blood from my extremities. He let me off at the station. From Carson City I took the first train leaving. It was going to San Francisco. I needed to find real streets where I could hide. I was careful to make sure no one followed me on board. I knew I had to discover deep anonymity. Brodmann, the Federal agents, and now the Invisible Empire itself had revealed their animosity. It was a conspiracy of which, I suspect, only I was aware. Diesmal wollte derJude gans sicher gehen. For a while at least I would have to find still another name.
Having used the train’s facilities and killed the worst of the pain with unusually large doses of cocaine, I was somewhat calmer by the time we neared Oakland. I had a broken rib, which I could strap up myself. Otherwise, it was merely a question of waiting for the flesh to heal. I was now prepared to try to take rational stock of my situation. I should logically assume the various factions showing me ill will were not in league, as such. I was in danger largely because I no longer had protection. This obviously made me more vulnerable than I had been to those who already threatened my life. Half-dead from my beating I was not in a good position to cope with further attacks. I knew my assailants could not be true Klansmen, yet I had no proof of that. I must assume the Order to be riddled with spies. Evans himself could be an infiltrator. The Klan had declared itself the enemy of Pope and Bolshevik, of Jew and Jap. Going to earth in San Francisco was tantamount to hiding in the lion’s den, of course. This had always been the East’s beachhead in America. Her huge natural harbour made h
er the perfect and most important Pacific port while gold and silver from inland mines had made her the richest. My own ancestors might well have settled on her steep hillsides, coming in sailing ships from Odessa and Port Arthur to trade first with the Indians and later with mountain men, trappers who brought their beaver, bear, buckskins and buffalo hides from as far as the Rockies. When San Francisco was still part of Mexican California the Russian envoy Razanov had fallen in love with the sister of Don Luis Antonio Aiguella, but the Catholic Church had played its usual destructive role and Consuella Aiguella had ended her life in a nunnery. Eventually Slav and Anglo-Saxon banded together and drove Rome back beyond San Diego, establishing the rule of law in a land first named Nova Albion by Sir Francis Drake. Pan-Slavism was never an Anglo-Saxon enemy; rather it was always a potential ally.
My train steamed slowly to a halt, almost on the very edge of the shore. I could see masts, blue ocean, a mixture of water traffic. We were at the Bay. The locomotive had stopped on a great mass of stone and concrete: the Oakland Mole. Passengers trooped down from the cars to file aboard Southern Pacific’s ferry, in those days the only means of crossing to San Francisco. I was glad to smell salt again, to lean on the ferry’s rail and watch gulls swarming overhead as we sailed steadily through deep turquoise waves towards the mountain and its towers which many called the finest city of the Pacific Shore, the New York of the West. With its misty greenery and sparkling stone it was reminiscent of Constantinople, yet also a contrast. On these hills had been built, since the Earthquake, a modern metropolis of offices and apartment blocks, buildings as elegant as Chicago’s. From a distance she was beautiful. And was a mere century of violent history any different, finally, to a millennium? Violence and human rapacity has a repetitious quality to it, after all.
Our boat docked at last against the quay dominated by what at first seemed to be a church steeple, the Ferry Building’s tower. We filed through shabby archways, then I carried my own suitcase out into a wide square full of automobiles, cabs and rumbling cable cars which began and ended their journeys here. I was still moving, kept on my feet, I suspect, solely by adrenalin, not daring to let myself stop, so I pulled my body aboard the nearest heavy red and gold cable car. It lurched forward, bell ringing, clanking and whirring, its window glass rattling, up Market Street which was crowded as always with people and traffic and every kind of shop. In my battered and confused condition it had not been my best choice of transport, this odd development of the ore wagon. I disembarked before it made another sickening hump. I had no clear idea where to go. I had thought of Russian Hill, which I gathered was an artists’ quarter, the area I usually sought out, but I was afraid now of being recognised. Intellectuals read newspapers and some of them were liberals. I took two or three streets, stumbling up and down impossible elevations which also rivalled Constantinople’s (though in the main lacking her stone stairways) and depressingly found myself back in Market Street with its four rows of cable tracks, its bustle and cosmopolitan clamour. I took another street, running off at an angle, and to my horror realised the emerald, crimson and gold carved wood possessed the forceful barbarity of Chinese handiwork. Unwittingly, I had stumbled into San Francisco’s notorious Chinatown, home of a score of warring Tongs. I could smell it, a mixture of spices, vinegar, old fragrances, strong food and opium. An alien nightmare.
The Laughter of Carthage: The Second Volume of the Colonel Pyat Quartet (Colonel Pyat Quartet Series Book 2) Page 63
