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

by Michael Moorcock

  I ran my thumb over the card’s embossed lettering. ‘Mrs Cornelius is a widow.’ She was a little hazy on this herself.

  I remembered how we had spent most of our time together talking about the cinema. He had shown great familiarity with Continental films. He was speaking with tearful enthusiasm of how she was fated to be recognised by the world of the silver screen. I told him I would pass on the wishes and the roses. He apologised for missing our earlier shows. ‘I have just acquired an interest in a movie business. If it is of any use to you, I will put everything at your disposal.’ It was ironic that this was the ‘angel’ I had prayed for only a few weeks earlier. Now, in that City of Angels, not one engineering firm had answered my letters. It came into my mind that I should easily demand a bribe for taking him to Mrs Cornelius’s dressing-room. How else, short of direct theft, was I to keep my word to Esmé? But only a fool would carry the price of a first-class boat ticket on his person. I had the impression that, no matter how besotted he was, Mr Hever possessed a profound sense of the value of money. I brightened, however, for it had been bothering me how Mrs Cornelius would survive without my management. I did not know if his interest was a share in the local flea pit or fifty percent of Fox, but I was not impolite as I turned him away. I could feel a certain sympathy for a man in the grip of an obsession. I told him to return after our matinée tomorrow, when I hoped to have an answer for him. He was disgusting in his gratitude.

  This time I gave Mrs Cornelius his card. ‘I think I’ve made you a useful contact. He could be the help you need getting a job in pictures.’

  She shook her head. ‘Never ’eard of ’im.’ By now she had a mental list of all the important Hollywood names.

  ‘You shouldn’t discount Hever completely. He’s only just come to the business. I do know he’s keen. He might be prepared to underwrite a more elaborate show, at any rate. We could make some substantial money for once.’

  She winked at me. ‘Somefink in it for you, Ivan?’ She would bear what I said in mind. ‘But you know me rule: “Don’t sell cheap what don’t cost yer nuffink” and “Keep yer ’and on yer investments.”‘

  I was offended. ‘I’m merely suggesting you agree to see him. He’s a pleasant enough fellow. I’m not asking you to prostitute yourself!’

  ‘It’s me I don’t trust, prob’bly,’ she said. ‘Ther smell o’ gelt does funny fings ter me insides.’

  I had decided I must raise what I could on my Georgian flintlocks. They were all I had left of any real value and the nouveauxriches of Los Angeles were rumoured to pay exaggerated prices for what were now being called ‘genuine’ antiques. I mentioned this to Mrs Cornelius. She shrugged. ‘Seems a waste. Yore fond o’ them in yer fashion. Sort o’ mascots, in’t they? I bet they bin up a few Jew’s arses over ther years. Do wot yer like, I s’pose.’ She remained unhelpful. My other alternative was to go to a loan company and see if I could raise money with the show as security. There would be no need for anyone else to know about it, since, according to the scrap of paper we had signed, my $500 had bought me ‘exclusive rights’. I was now in a state of mixed panic, anger, disappointment and sheer misery. I longed for my Esmé. It would be virtual suicide to let her down and lose her as a result. It would be like murdering a child. Wie heisst dieses Lied?

  TWENTY-ONE

  MY ACTING CONTINUED to improve almost in direct proportion to my sadness and desperation. During that brief period of my life I was greater than any Barrymore. Before long we would have been snapped up. I was grateful, however, for every show we did which lacked the approving presence of the Klan! It would take only one man to recognise me and I might easily find myself invited to a nightride. I had seen what happened to traitors. They stapled your testicles to a tree, lit a fire under them and handed you a knife with the command to ‘Cut or burn’. I had felt as sick only in the Ukraine, where similar brutes had passed their leisure skinning youths alive or roasting babies on sheets of corrugated iron. They were the guards in Auschwitz, moreover. There is a kind of Ukrainian the rest of us disown.

  As usual, late that afternoon, I discovered Mr Hever trembling and red-faced, almost drowning in his own seat, waiting for a word. I told him Mrs Cornelius valued her privacy more than anything. ‘I can understand,’ he said several times. Partly from curiosity, partly because I still had some notion I could borrow part of Esmé’s fare from him, I drew him out on a variety of subjects. Did he travel much? Did he live permanently in California? Where did he live in the State? Did he have views on the political situation? It was odd to witness so much awkwardness in so large a man. With his prematurely greying hair and rather thin, stammering voice, his expression of furious despair almost demanded kindness. He had renounced travelling in favour of the telephone. He lived up in ‘the hills’ but still took the double-decker downtown to work every day. He was ‘solid Republican’, he said, as his father had been. He had spent most of his adult life in the State and in his view it was best served by the Republican Party. I found this, given his interest of only a couple of years before, the most illuminating thing he had said. It seemed to me he, like me, wished to be completely free of this new, ersatz-Klann, which had abandoned oratory in favour of the blackjack, the boot and the bullwhip. I was sympathetic. Nonetheless I could not resist the unworthy thought that if he one day remembered me from Atlanta, he might be even more embarrassed than I. Living here so long, I said, one must automatically become interested in the movie business. He shrugged, pointing out that movies were only ‘a kind of hobby’. His real job had nothing at all to do with them. He was an engineer. I knew this, of course. ‘In what field?’ I was curious to see if he answered truthfully. ‘Oil,’ he said.

  ‘You’re employed by one of the big companies?’

  ‘I guess so.’ He was impatient to change the subject, to return to that of Mrs Cornelius. From a casual angler, however, I had suddenly become a game-fisherman. Here was someone who very likely could introduce me to an important executive! If I was careful, I might help Mrs Cornelius and at the same time help myself. It was regrettable I could no longer claim Klan connections, since we both were saying nothing of them. I had noticed, however, that he had been anxious to avoid the topic of politics. I wondered why. I considered what I should do next. It was all I could do to restrain myself from opening my document case under his nose. I longed to show him my plans. I knew that a professional engineer would be impressed by what many had been kind to call my genius. How could he expect a playactor to be a brilliant scientist? It did not make sense. Why should a scientist choose to become a strolling thespian? There again, I thought, was it usual for oil-company engineers to squander their earnings on the movies? Perhaps he would understand. For all my optimism about his response, I decided to hang on to my secret a little longer. Instead I asked if there was some message I could take (with his hideous black and red carnations) to the object of his desire.

  ‘If she would grant me my dearest wish,’ he murmured without much hope, ‘it would be that she accept my invitation for dinner tonight at the Hollywood Hotel.’

  I kept a straight face and said I would see what I could do.

  ‘Assure her my intentions are honourable!’ He had grown more anxious by the second.

  ‘She would take that for granted, Mr Hever.’ I carried his blooms to the great actress’s chamber. She began to interest herself in the flowers rather than what I had to say. ‘’Ow ther bloody ’ell do they git ’em that colour, Ivan?’

  I insisted she listen. He was a man of means, with excellent social connections. Some kind of silent partner in a movie studio. ‘I advise you strongly, for both our sakes, to accept his invitation. The Hollywood Hotel is where all the important people dine. You’ve read the magazines. Aren’t you curious? God, I wish he was in love with me. I would jump at the chance!’

  She laughed at this and her dawning anger dissipated, ‘Ivan, I still fink your sellin’ my body like any flashy littel pimp.’

  ‘He insisted he
had honourable intentions.’

  ‘It’s not the bloody fuckin’, Ivan,’ she said wearily. ‘It’s the bleedin’ boredom I can’t stand. Orl right, I’ll go. This ain’t normal, Ivan. If I even think o’ goin’ art ter supper wiv a chap yore usually poutin’ orl over yer bleedin’ face. I’m thinking of your career.’

  She sighed, ‘I’ve got a feelin’ I’ll on’y find art wot yore up ter by seein’ wot ’e ’as ter say! Wheel ’im in, an ’urry up abart it.’ She primly arranged her kimono, picking at her Marcel waves with pink fingers. She had begun, quite unconsciously, to exude sexuality with such force it was as much as I could do to pull myself from the room, close the door, straighten my shoulders and walk slowly back towards the daylight and the looming, untidy, cow-eyed creature silhouetted in the exit.

  ‘Mrs Cornelius presents her compliments,’ I said. ‘She would be glad to see you for five minutes, to discuss the possibility of her dining with you tonight.’

  I all but carried the poor monster into the presence of his adored madonna. Mrs Cornelius was happy to let me remain during the interview. She plainly found Hever endearing and most of her grand manner had gone by the time she dismissed him. She said, with an affectionate smile, that she would meet him at the exit after our evening performance. He lurched away, almost taking the door frame with him. ‘He’s sweet,’ she said. ‘Wot d’yer want me ter do tonight? Pick ’is pocket?’

  ‘Of course not. Merely mention the fact that I am a qualified engineer, that I have patents on a number of practical inventions for saving money in the oil business, that I was educated in St Petersburg and have worked with important companies in France, Memphis …’

  She raised a plump hand. ‘’Ang on, Ive, fer Gawd’s sake. I can’t remember the ’ole CV. Ya fink ’e can do yer some good, right?’

  ‘He must have connections with the important oil men. All I ask is an early introduction.’

  ‘You sure that’s it?’

  ‘I swear!’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Okey-dokey, if yer say so. Yore schemes ain’t usually that simple. What we do fer bloody love!’

  Once again that night I gave her my all. She responded with magnificent acting. ‘Mucker’ sat doubled up in his seat, squirming with admiration, ecstatic in the knowledge that his dream would soon come true. We took three curtain calls (this time without the aid of the Klan) and came off in a mood of cheerful elation. ‘Yore reelly pullin’ the stops art, Ivan. I got ter admit I don’t mind doin’ this fer ya, as it ’appens. A favour fer a favour, I orlways say.’ She was dressed specially for the high-class restaurant, in one of her hats. This was primarily of green and yellow satin. Her dress was midnight blue with lighter blue beading at throat, arms and knee. Her yellow shoes were a close match to her hat. ‘Wot d’yer fink, Ive?’ She admired herself. ‘A stunner, if it’s me as sez so!’ She took a deep breath, which threatened the security of her chest. ‘’Ere goes, then. See yer later, I ’ope.’ She placed her hand on her hip in parody of a modern fashion model, picked up her jet and chrome beaded bag, and waltzed off to keep her date.

  I became agitated almost as soon as she had left. I kept crossing my fingers, then uncrossing them because I felt foolish. I thought I would go mad simply waiting for her report, so I went into the next room where Mabel and Ethel were pulling on their stockings and asked if they had plans. ‘Nuffink spesh,’ said Ethel. She nudged her friend. They had always enjoyed our ‘romps’ in the past. When heavily made up and in high heels, their skinny little bodies could be almost attractive. I took them, one on each arm, along the boardwalk in the fizzing light of the fairground. The sea was black and still beyond the beach. I could hear the oil pumps, steadily grinding away, and I wondered how many lovers used the noise and the darkness as cover. Huntington Beach was at its best now, coming fully alive. Huge, crudely painted heads nodded above booths which popped and clattered or tinkled with tiny bells. The barkers yelled in a language of their own, more ancient than Romany, and the harem girls, if anything even less attractive than my two, wriggled their mean protuberances to the sound of some fartsaytik Edison cylinder. The stink of oil came off the beaches and mingled with the stink of oil from the fairground, with the smells of hamburgers and hot dogs, toffee apples, pink cotton candy and sugar-sticks. The ground, often covered by bouncing planks where it had become too muddy, was a museum of California’s glantsik garbage, the vivid colours of bottles, boxes and paper bags already beginning to fade. My theatrical colleagues were sharing a room with Mrs Cornelius. I thought it imprudent to go there, in case she decided to leave her date prematurely. I took them back to my own room, on the other side of the fairground. It was as if we had not left. The lights flashed and winked, the music churned out with mechanical cheer the waltz tunes of a more elegant century, and Ethel moved her skeletal, almost androgynous carcass up and down on my misleadingly trimmed member while Mabel, unusually for her, lowered a not oversweet vagina towards my head, then dropped with a slight yelp, full on my lips. I did what I could before my conviction that I was suffocating got the better of me. I had not forgotten Esmé. I could see her sweet, virginal face even as Mabel ground herself next upon my shoulder. It was astonishing how like Lillian Gish Esmé was. She would have no trouble at all finding movie parts if that was what she wished. I began to hope I might be responsible for giving the world two wonderful new stars. The temptation to remain in the acting profession was considerable, but I knew I could not resist my destiny any longer. I had other gifts to offer the world. I had my luftshif and boats and household appliances. Ultimately they led to my dream of maximum freedom, my aerial cities. Eybik, fargesn, ikh blaybn lebn.

  I escorted the ladies back to their own boarding house, a couple of blocks from mine. They made coffee for me and chatted about films they had seen, men they had dated, advertisements which had attracted them. By three in the morning they had crawled into bed together and fallen asleep. Mrs Cornelius, when she returned, was mildly surprised to find me there. She gave a little jump and then hiccupped. ‘Beg pardon, Ivan. Wot the ’ell are you doin’ up, and in my room!’

  ‘I wanted to hear how everything went.’

  ‘You ain’t me granny.’ She frowned. ‘I still carn’t work art yore angle.’ Then she grinned, removing her hat. ‘’E’s loverly, reelly. Soft as butter, an’ orl! Didn’t lay a finger on me, like ’e said.’ She was impressed by this. ‘An’ ’e’s fixin’ up a screen test wiv ’is mates at Lasky’s. I ain’t complainin’. A bit’v a barn, that hotel, though. I expected somefink more flash. An’ no bloody booze, would yer believe it. Woman ’oo runs it’s a reformed madam, I fink.’

  I was genuinely pleased for her, but I needed to know what she had done on my behalf. ‘Did you manage to slip in something about my inventions?’

  She sat down on her narrow bed and began carefully to roll down her fine silk hose. She grew bright red. The frame shook and creaked. She was laughing silently. ‘Anyone c’n read yer like a bleedin’ book, Ivan. Orl right, I carn’t ’ang on ter it! If yer must know yore “engineer” wiv a bit o’ spare cash is John Ewart Hever—Junior. Not on’y is ’e a bleedin’ millionaire wiv oil fields all over California an’ Texas. ’Is bleedin’ dad’s a millionaire. Thass J.E.H. Senior. ’Is fuckin’ uncle’s a millionaire. An’ when they wanna go slum-min’ they orl get in a big Rolls-Royce and piss over ter William Randolph ’Earst’s gaff ter see ow the ovver ’arf lives.’ She enjoyed the astonishment on my face. She reached over and patted my arm. ‘I carn’t say I ain’t grateful fer the intro, Ive. Mucker reckons ’e’s ther main tip as Republican nomination fer Guv’ner, next time rahnd. Fink I’d make a proper firs’ lady o’ the State?’ And she released her laughter this time, waking her room mates who asked her to put a sock in it.

  ‘But you didn’t mention my stuff?’

  ‘We’re ’avin’ dinner agin tomorrer. Some place darn near Laguna Beach, I fink. Fish restaurant. Orl on ther legit, eh?’ She winked again, ‘I’m lookin’ arter the
r value o’ me assets, like I said. But I’ll do it tomorrer night, Ive, I promise. It jes’ didn’t work art this time. Off yer go, love. See yer at ther show. I’ve gotter get me beauty sleep, in ’I?’ And humming a few bars of Knock ’Em In The Old Kent Road she waved me towards the door. I left, but I felt she had at very least failed to understand the urgency of my situation. Although glad things went well for her and grateful for the intelligence of Hever’s enormous wealth, for some reason I was seized by an additional sense of panic. Perhaps I suspected she might betray me (I should have known better) and claim Hever entirely for herself. It would be like an Indian who, having hunted down one of the last buffalo, refused to tell his tribe. Hever belonged to me quite as much as he did to Mrs C.

  That was why, next morning, I boarded a powerful Red Car inter-urban trolley rumbling the coast-road tracks to Marina del Rey. From near Venice’s huge indoor Bathing Pavilion, I took a Yellow local inland. It was a remarkable public transport system and a model to most other cities. The Huntington class tram cars were St Louis-built, superbly engineered and designed to live a century. They were named after the line’s owners, that old wealthy family established in California since she was ruled by Dons. I saw almost the final run of the Descanso, the big silver-grey Funeral Car, last of her kind. Unable to compete with the rapidly multiplying automobile, she was extinct within the year.

  The South Western Mineral Company was easily found. They had an entire building on Wilshire Boulevard, some twenty storeys high, standing in what was virtually a small park. I gave my name to the clerk at a vast reception desk which occupied the ground floor. He was greatly impressed when I was asked straight to the top. A pretty secretary met me outside the elevator, leading me through cool, grey corridors crowded with potted palms and ferns. We came at last to a massive door which was thrown open and there was ‘Mucker’ himself, as untidy as ever in his pale suit, virtually embracing me. It was as if an elephant calf had risen on its hind quarters in imitation of homo sapiens. ‘So happy to see you, Pallenberg.’ He was, even in his native environment, acutely nervous and consequently expressing embarrassment with every clumsy movement. ‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’ He was growing whiter even as he escorted me inexpertly through mahogany opulence towards his antique desk squatting before the shaded window and a view of the sea. From here the city looked curiously incomplete, like an unfinished jigsaw, with patches of irregular green, abrupt asymmetrical mud lots or exact squares of glittering concrete. It was as if this part of Los Angeles were in the almost organic process of reforming herself. Hever put his broad back to the view, offering me a chair, a cigar and a ‘pop’ with one brief, hesitant wave. I lowered myself into deep, Victorian leather, looking up at his worried eyes. ‘You’ve brought a message from Mrs Cornelius, I take it?’