The Laughter of Carthage (3 page)

‘It is not, however, what you think. You have condemned me hastily. I believe you will regret that.’ After my dreadful ordeal, I could stand no more. I drew myself up. ‘I shall not argue with you on this public landing. I intend to leave. If, when your senses are restored, you wish to speak to me, I would ask you to be good enough to send a note first.’ I raised my hat. ‘Adieu, Leda Nicolayevna.’

I believe the woman went so far as to spit at me while, with an appearance of calm, I descended her stairs. It is never pleasant to see a lady of good breeding driven to the manners and language of the gutter.

Considerably glad to be removed from the harridan’s nonsensical accusations, I returned to the relative tranquillity of my suite at Tokatlian’s where I found a frightened, guilty Esmé. She knew she had done wrong, but how could I be angry? Still dazed by my encounter, I sat down in my chair, stroking Esmé’s weeping head and trying very hard to make sense of my thoughts, for fresh plans were urgently required. The prospect of the Baroness out of malice reporting me to the authorities was alarming. I could probably prove I was not the one to have had initial carnal knowledge of the child. I hoped she might admit she had known at least one man before me. I could insist I was merely her guardian, that I had saved her from sin, but the scandal would certainly hinder me in obtaining a visa for England. I became decidedly anxious as the time went on. I did not sleep that night while I considered my few options. It seemed the whole world again conspired against me. Must I be punished simply because I had given my being in all generosity to two women, had in fact made both happy? I had anticipated the dangers of arousing the Baroness’s jealousy. Now I was proven wise in my judgment. She pretended to be a woman of the world, but I had always known better. If she acted in haste, she could cause me immense inconvenience. My liberty could be at stake. There was no threat of mine which might silence her, no offer she would not in her present mood reject. I knew deep despair. Beside me in the bed, little Esmé, the cause of all this, snored gently in girlish slumber.

In spite of my desolation I forced myself next morning to hurry directly to the British Embassy. I somehow managed to drive my way through the crowd outside and from sheer panic was able to reach the front hall. I had been of great help to the British. They had been able to arrest a master spy on my information. I had a wife in England. I had served with the Australians. All this was explained to those soft-faced boy-policemen who backed my path. Yelling over the imploring din outside, I outlined my predicament: I had been involved in valuable espionage in Anatolia. I had more names to link with Siniutkin. But now my life was in danger. I was carrying plans, I said, of great importance to the British Government. By the time I stopped, my brown suit was drenched with sweat and impassively they told me to submit my request in writing. I began to demand to see someone in greater authority. It was at this stage that one of the soldiers said I should piss off back to whatever rathole I came from. Now I was not only insulted by officials, but was being set upon from behind by desperate Russians and foreigners close to hysteria. In their efforts to secure some privilege they made revolting beasts of themselves. There was nothing for it but to go down to the docks and look for my Armenian friends. I was seeking a person whom I had already met. They directed me to a certain grubby coffee house near the Quarantine Harbour.

After I had trudged up and down hundreds of alley steps, passed under scores of lines bowed with threadbare washing, avoided the droppings of dogs, donkeys and Turks, I eventually reached a shop in the half-basement below a great tottering wreck of wood and brick which had once been painted green. In French its faded lettering boasted housing Alfasian’s Famous Tropical Bird Emporium. From within, the occasional squawk or mutter of a parakeet echoed in an emptiness suggesting Alfasian’s was not a thriving concern. The broken planks of the steps down to the coffee house were slippery and rotten. In my haste, I almost fell into the basement area. The interior was packed with Armenians and Albanians smoking their long meerschaums and staring up at me from dreamy, suddenly cautious eyes. At the oilcloth-covered counter I asked for Captain Kazakian. A large, thickset man wearing a filthy American navy cap rose in the shadow of a cubicle and motioned with his cigarette. I recognised him and went to join him at his table. ‘You’re the Greek who fixed my boat so well,’ he said in Russian. ‘Well, friend, what can I do for you?’

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. Noncommitally, 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 Elysée 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 forced 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!’