The Laughter of Carthage (7 page)

‘Where will you land us?’

‘Not far from Venice. A village. You can get a train. A matter of half an hour.’

‘I am almost out of money, Captain Kazakian. I can’t afford any further travelling expenses. You promised to take me all the way to Venice, remember?’

He scratched the back of his neck and became embarrassed, placing the tips of his Angers into the pocket of his greasy, embroidered waistcoast. After some hesitation he produced three sovereigns. ‘I will give you these back. Your fee for helping us with the engine. They will pay your fare to Venice.’

It was a mixture of peace offering and sacrifice to the gods; a reluctant libation to the little spirit who watched over steam launches. I accepted his gold. It was my right.

‘My men will take you to this village,’ he said expansively. ‘You’ll find a good doctor there. The Italians are excellent doctors. They have many of them.’ He looked with shifty alarm at Esmé’s tiny, pale face. ‘You’re sure it’s typhus?’

‘We shall ask the doctor.’

At about three in the morning the Turks and Albanians began to unload our trunks and bags into a boat until it sat so low in the water I thought it must sink. I followed with Esmé in the other boat. The sea grew more boisterous as we rowed towards land. Captain Kazakian stood outside his wheelhouse watching us impassively. He did not wave. The ship carried no lights but the moon was full. We had little difficulty reaching the beach and dragging both boats above the waterline. I was so delighted to be ashore I felt I had to suppress a cheer. The night was warm. I could smell fresh-mown grass and trees and hear insects calling. Somewhere, far away, a donkey brayed.

One of the Turks left us suddenly. He set off up the beach at a run, disappearing behind the dunes. Unconcerned, the others unloaded and stacked our trunks. They were pleased with their work. I smiled at them in thanks. With a few words of farewell they refloated their boat. They rowed back to the launch which we could just make out near the tip of the headland. She looked incongruous in these waters, as if she had lost her moorings at a holiday resort.

Eventually the Turk who had run off returned. He seemed proud of himself. Everything was being done as if they were new to it. Was Kazakian again playing things by ear? With the Turk was a tiny old man in a black jacket and trousers, a dirty collarless shirt and bare feet. The old man seemed bemused, but cheerful enough. ‘
Buon giorno, signore, signora.’
He nodded with hesitant politeness.

I almost embraced the poor man. I was close to tears. For a little while I had suspected Captain Kazakian of putting us off on some convenient Greek island, but now I knew this was Italy! We were safe. Nearer now, a donkey brayed again. The old man turned and clucked into the darkness.

The Turkish seamen and the venerable Italian carried our luggage up the beach. Eventually I followed, supporting a tottering Esmé. We reached a narrow track and there stood a little cart, the donkey between its shafts. The cart had nets in it and a sack evidently containing fish. The old man moved the sack to the seat and began loading the trunks. When he had finished there was only room for Esmé on the board in front. We helped her up. She seemed to respond well to the little fellow’s murmuring voice. There is nothing more soothing to the nerves than the sound of soft, kindly Italian. The old man and myself stood together, watching the Turk return to his boat and shove off into the deeper darkness. Then, giving the donkey a sharp tap on its flanks, the old man led it up the track. I walked beside him.

He spoke nothing but his own language of which I knew only a few words. I told him I was grateful for his help and hoped we were not inconveniencing him. He did not understand but smiled and said:
‘Son contento che Lei sia venuto.
’ As if in reassurance.

I pointed ahead to where I could see a few lighted windows, wondering if perhaps we were closer to our destination than the Captain had told me. ‘Venezia?’ I asked.

He seemed surprised, but shrugged. I repeated myself a couple of times and he frowned.
‘Si. Venezia?’
He added several sentences which I could not understand. Then I said: ’
Dottore?’

He was agreeable to this.
‘Dottore? Si, si. Dottore!’
He motioned with his stick towards the lights.

‘In Venetia?’ I asked him.

This caused an unexpected reaction. He stopped in his tracks, looked up at me, waved his arms and began to cackle uncontrollably, bending over in his mirth.
‘Ah! Ah! Venezia! Ah!’

He became almost inarticulate with merriment as he tried to point towards the lights again.
‘No! La capisco! La città!’
He pointed with his stick as soon as he regained control of himself. ‘Otranto,’ he said.

I had never heard of Otranto and found the old man’s response to my mistake excessively humorous. The place was far smaller than I had hoped, with some winding streets, a ruined castle and several taverns. When we reached it a faint line of light had appeared over the horizon and an early cock was crowing from a red rooftop. Old and dusty, the town might have been Greek, judging by the Byzantine appearance of its main church, but from the look of its castle could also be Moorish. It was not what I had expected to find in Italy, this clearly defined mixture of architectural styles. It was almost as if Otranto had been invented by someone wishing to describe the national and historical influences of the past twenty centuries. Yet the whole was in fact not incongruous. I found it attractive. I would have thought it wonderful if I were not so disappointed at not finding Venice. It was, in fact, a small town, and could not have supported more than two thousand inhabitants.

We soon had a room, however, in a little medieval inn where a thin, cheerful woman took care of Esmé. I paid the old man with some of the silver left in my pockets. He seemed delighted. He and the landlord attended to our trunks. There were so many they half filled the tiny, low-ceilinged room. By the time they left, Esmé was in bed, enjoying the luxury of freshly laundered linen and I had gone downstairs to breakfast with the couple who addressed me in friendly, eager voices and made no sense to me at all. In the end we merely smiled and made various signs of goodwill. I returned to the room where Esmé now slept peacefully, her sweet face as pure as an angel’s, and drew the curtains. I undressed, got into bed, took my girl into my arms and did not wake up until afternoon.

To me Otranto seemed a haven of tranquillity. I could have stayed much longer and even today have an urge to return. Then, however, I was anxious to get to a large city, where we should be unnoticed in the cosmopolitan throng. Esmé was still sleeping. I washed in cold water, dressed and went to seek the landlord and his wife. I found them on a bench together at the back of the inn. They were plucking chickens. When they saw me they called out. I could still understand nothing of their Italian but enquired again about a doctor, explaining with gestures and a few Latin words that my sister was sick. The skinny wife was the first to understand. She babbled at her husband who carefully set aside his chicken and rose to leave. The heads of the dead birds stared at me in ghastly amusement as if they saw something about me which others did not. To the wife I asked the distance to Venice. She shrugged and said
‘Treno?’
which I took to mean ‘train’. I nodded. I did not mind how I got there. Kazakian had said it would take half an hour, but I did not trust him. The woman uttered another string of sentences in which the names Roma, Napoli, Brindisi, Foggia and half a dozen more were mentioned. It was then it began to come clear to me we might be much further from Venice than even I supposed. Captain Kazakian had been so anxious to get us off his boat that I suppose we were lucky to be in Italy at all. It seemed it would cost at least the three sovereigns he had given me back just to get to Venice. I wished that it were possible for me to lay a curse on his engine. As it was, I closed my eyes and tried to visualise the machinery. There was certainly no harm in trying.

When the gangling doctor arrived, seeming far too young for the fringe of beard around his face, I was relieved to discover he spoke French. Dr Castaggagli informed me Esmé had nothing more worrying than neurotic tension which would almost certainly disappear with rest. ‘Have you been travelling for long?’ He was aquiline and prematurely bald. He reminded me of a Jesuit eagle. I told him she had never left home before. Our trip had been rather tiring. He nodded. ‘She needs to be somewhere peaceful,’ he said. If possible I should engage a professional nurse. He frowned to himself, adding, ‘But not here.’

I was delighted she had nothing seriously wrong. I offered Castaggagli one of my remaining sovereigns. He refused the coin with some amusement. He was a country doctor, not used to large fees. If I had no small sums, he would take payment in kind. So, since he was about the same across the shoulders as me, I gave him one of my overcoats. It had a good fur trim and was rather too warm for the climate, moreover it would have to be lengthened in the arms, but he was delighted. He offered to let me have a hat and scarf as ‘change’. I said that I would rather have a timetable of the trains from Otranto. He smiled. He would do what he could. It would probably be best if I went to the station myself. He asked where I would go. I told him.

He shook his head at this. He thought Venice might be an unhealthy place for a sick child, even though there was nothing seriously wrong. It was smelly in Venice and extremely noisy at this time of year. However, he would make some enquiries about the best connections. Probably it would mean a change in Foggia, at least.

To forestall his curiosity (and possibly his reporting us to the local carabinieri) I told him I was English. My sister and I were on our way to Corfu by steamer from Genoa when Esmé became ill. At my insistence the captain had put us off here. Perhaps there was a large city closer to Otranto than Venice?

Doctor Castaggagli said it would be far easier to head for Rome or Naples, particularly with all our luggage, and presuming us to be returning to London. He did not think Esmé should travel for several days or for very far. She must be installed in a good hotel room where she could have tranquillity and rest. Then she would soon recover. If I needed a specialist opinion (which he admitted was unlikely) I should certainly make for Rome where it was ‘very modern’.

Although regretting I should not see the beauties of that famous old city, I was already thinking it would be better to travel to Rome and thence to Paris. From Paris I could obtain legitimate papers and then proceed to London. I still had enough to pay our fares and a few more weeks at moderately priced hotels. Even if our money ran out we were in a law-abiding country. I could earn what we needed.

In Paris, if he had not yet gone to America I would find Kolya. He would help me. And there would be other friends: St Petersburg alive again on the banks of the Seine! In a mounting mood of optimism I made my decision. In spite of the doctor’s advice, I was certain that familiar comforts, streets, traffic, crowded cafés, would revive Esmé more thoroughly than any rural retreat. However, I thanked Doctor Castaggagli warmly; I knew that he meant well. He asked if he could be of further help. I needed to change money and buy tickets. He took me in his pony and trap to the town’s bank and there my sovereigns became lira: huge, magnificent, flamboyant notes. Next we went to his house. He insisted I wait in the trap while he dashed inside to return with the promised hat and scarf. They were both of good quality and, in spite of having several suits, coats and other accessories (though the bulk of our luggage was Esmé’s) I was grateful to him. At the little station, which looked as if it had been in Otranto since the time of Christ, I bought two first-class tickets for Rome.

The doctor insisted upon purchasing a bottle of wine, to enjoy a farewell drink. Reassuring myself that Esmé still rested and was content, I joined him in the courtyard of the little inn. We sat down together. The old marble bench might have come originally from a Roman villa. In the little garden beyond the courtyard the landlord’s wife clipped her evening roses. Doctor Castaggagli stretched his long legs out before him, his heels describing cryptograms in the dusty earth whenever he shifted position, and spoke of his love for this little town, his birthplace. In some ways I was envious of him. Over the years I have longed so for simplicity: the one gift God refused to grant me. However I enjoyed a certain contentment that evening, looking up at the crenellated Moorish castle and its monument to slaughtered victims of the Turks. The Osmanlis had raided Otranto in 1480, killing everyone they could find. I was reassured. No longer need I fear immediate threat from Islam, Israel or, indeed, Bolshevism. I was securely on Western European soil, and everywhere saw confirmation of progress; a civilisation I had always yearned to know. Here, such things were taken as casually as the weather, as the ubiquitous old monuments to an enduring history.