The Laughter of Carthage (82 page)

The Baroness laughed heartily. She put her hand on mine. ‘I’ve never seen you so cheerful, Maxim Arturovitch. Aren’t you pleased I introduced you?’

‘I’m eternally grateful!’ To celebrate, I ordered three more cocktails. ‘You can’t possibly know, my dear Count, how much your news means to me.’

‘I’m so pleased. Kolya’s a splendid chap. Tremendously amusing no matter what happens to him. You could probably get in touch through an expatriate society, you know. But I’ll gladly find that last address for you.’

‘You’re very kind.’ I remembered my manners. ‘And what brings you to Constantinople, sir?’

‘A little of this and a little of that. Intelligence work, of sorts. Some interpreting. Luckily the Turkish I learned as a cadet has proven useful. My own escape was eventually made through Anatolia, after I had been drafted by the Reds, who were short of officers.’

‘You plan to move on again?’

‘I must see how things go. There’s pressure, of course, to join the Volunteers, but sadly I’ve no faith in our present leaders or their politics. I backed Kerenski. I remain a republican. Maybe I’ll go back when Lenin and Trotski calm down.’ He shrugged and pretended to study his fruit-filled glass as the waiter set it carefully before him. I think Siniutkin had been embarrassed by my question.

The Baroness broke the silence. ‘Well, one of you gentlemen must find me new accommodation. The family I’m living with is extremely German. Not at all pro-Russian. They spent the last twenty-four hours complaining bitterly about the new Sultan. Apparently Abdul Hamid was a saint in comparison, even if he did throw the odd houri into the Bosphorus. Germans have an uncanny ability to distinguish fine differences in tyrants. A sixth-sense not permitted the rest of us. They are boring me, Maxim Arturovitch. I must be rescued as soon as possible.’ She was ill-practised as a coquette. She had chosen an unlikely mask for her anxiety and despair. Obviously Count Siniutkin was as little deceived as I. ‘I’m sure one of us can find you a decent hotel.’ He blushed, as if he had let slip an obscenity, and brought a genuine smile to her lips. She said, ‘As soon as possible, my dear.’

Finishing his drink quickly the Count said he looked forward to seeing us again, then went downstairs to join two French officers at the long black and gold bar. Leda touched her knee to mine under the table. I was a little repelled by the urgency of her passion. ‘I have not forgotten you,’ I said. ‘I’m doing everything possible.’

‘Can’t we meet tonight?’ She flushed in mixed lust and humiliation. ‘I’m longing to make love. I can invent an excuse to the family. I’ll agree to any plan.’

‘I share your desire, my darling. But there’s so much to be arranged here.’

‘You won’t abandon me?’

I found myself automatically reassuring her, insisting my duties presently took up most of my time. ‘The military people keep irregular hours, you see. I must work on their terms. They have the power.’

She straightened her shoulders as she plucked up a menu. ‘And Mrs Cornelius? How is she?’

‘I haven’t seen her. I understand she left the city. I’ve no idea when she’ll return. Leda Nicolayevna, there’s a chance I can get you and Kitty to Venice. From Italy it will be much easier to reach Berlin. I didn’t want to say too much about this until I had concrete information.’

‘That isn’t the immediate worry, my dear.’ With a gloved hand she fingered her lips. ‘Apparently the British authorities are herding Russians of all classes onto some desert island. Is it true?’

The infamous Lemnos camp was at the other end of the Dardanelles. I sympathised with her fear. There were dreadful rumours of overcrowding and near-starvation. People apparently paid hundreds of thousands of roubles for a passage back to Constantinople rather than stay there. Visas were impossible to obtain. There was disease, insufficient medicine, needless death. Again I reassured her as best I could. I explained I only stayed on in the city for her sake. She said I must be resentful. I denied it. ‘I’m worried and rather overworked.’ She melted and asked me to forgive her. ‘You understand I’m so terrified for Kitty. And I couldn’t bear to lose you. I’m not asking for all your time.’

‘Of course. Give me your address. I’ll drop you a note in a day or so. There’s a chance I’ll have good news.’

We ate a light meal. My mind was largely taken up with the wonderful news of Kolya’s ‘reincarnation’. His inspiration, his love had meant so much to me. Leda thought it was her company which made me so happy so she relaxed marvellously. We parted at the table. Again I spoke of my affection. I kissed her hand. It trembled. Count Siniutkin was still deep in conversation with the Frenchmen. I nodded to him on my way out. He looked a trifle startled, as if I had surprised him in some dishonourable transaction. From Tokatlian’s I went immediately to
La Rotonde
to forget the embarrassments of lunch and to celebrate Kolya’s return to my world. My celebration, as it happened, went on for longer than I had planned. Thanks to some unusual sexual invention, the extraordinarily high quality of the cocaine, the simple ambience of the city itself, Time began to pass at an accelerated rate. During the next three days I experienced one long, steady rise to increasing, undreamed of heights of pleasure: passion I had thought lost forever. When I remembered, I would check occasionally at the
Pera Palas
to see if Mrs Cornelius were back and would write a hasty, regretful note in reply to one of the many sent by my desperate Baroness. Twice I crossed the Golden Horn by the Galata Bridge, an excited whore on either arm, to taste the magic of Stamboul and her massive mosques. The old city still reeked of enormous power. Here the Sultanate seemed strong as ever. The power was of all kinds, spiritual and temporal, and not all benign. I had been unprepared for the scale of Stamboul’s palaces and monuments, her public squares and gardens. When I ventured, with Mercy and a little giggling thing called Fatima, into the Grand Bazaar it felt infinite: cavern after magical cavern twisting away into further mysterious labyrinths, selling the exotic bric-a-brac of two or three millennia. This astonishing market was the meeting place of the centuries. Timeless, it offered the impression of all human history somehow consolidating in this one gigantic warren whose shadowy roofs echoed to the cries of traders speaking every civilised tongue, ancient and modern: echoes of voices which had advertised these same wares a thousand years before. Unexpectedly, as you rounded a corner, a ray of golden light would break through some high, domed glass roof and pierce the antique dust; another window would materialise where no window should logically be and you knew if you looked through it you might see anything: a squadron of Roman gladiators, marching at double-time to the Circus, a Byzantine Court procession, the triumphant cavalry of Europe’s Crusading knights, an Osmanli harem’s scented opulence. Once within the Grand Bazaar I became afraid I should never leave, that it was a place without boundaries or familiar geometry. We bought drugs (opium, hashish, cocaine), confectionary and coffee; we sat on soft carpets and talked to merchants whose eyes were as old as creation, who smiled and offered us arcane blessings. We stared at brightly-coloured captive birds, monkeys, peculiar, hybrid cats. Our senses were enraptured by the most delicate and powerful fragrances. And then, somehow, we were in Stamboul’s evening streets again, with the sun setting, the moon and early stars beginning to appear in a sky of dark blue crêpe-de-chine. Even here, the magnificent kiosks and mosques, with their marble and gold and mosaics, frequently stood only a short distance from tottering wooden tenements. As in Galata there were whole blocks desolated by fire; other parts had received heavy shell-attack and remained unrepaired. Nevertheless the pageant of our whole Western civilisation, as well as that of the parvenu East, was apparent in each broken stone and blackened timber. This filled me with a sense of purpose.

After the Turks were gone it would be upon these ruins we would build. Equally elegant modern architecture would rival the old. The sky would fill with the shimmering wings of silent aircraft. Bearing the polished steel of gently murmuring motor-vehicles, silvery overhead roads would curve and sweep between spires and domes no longer mosques but churches dedicated to our own, Greek Christ. Here exemplary human aspiration and dignity would expand. Constantinople would be a synonym for enlightened moderation. Before the benevolent power of electricity, steam and oil poverty would vanish. To her courts would come Arab spice-sellers, Christian tycoons, great poets, engineers, musicians. All would live in marvellous harmony, each knowing his place in the scheme of things. And ruling our Emperor City, if my dreams were to be fully realised, would be a noble, tolerant, far-sighted Tsar. A Tsar of a united world: a Tsar with the joyous vision of a positive Future. In his justice and wisdom he would reign justly over all men. This wonderful place, half-metropolis, half-garden, would exist in eternal summer. By science her light and temperature would be controlled beneath a glowing, transparent dome radiating the rainbow colours of the sun; a dome as beautiful as the dome of Hagia Sophia herself. That great Cathedral, symbol of our endurance and our Faith, would continue to dominate the city’s seven hills. All religions would be tolerated, but the Christian religion would flourish supreme, exemplified by our Greek liturgy. This creation of a better world on Earth would be a sign of the world to come. She would serve as a model to which other cities and cultures might aspire. Finally, thanks to the construction of enormously powerful machinery below the foundations, she might herself ascend one day to the heavens.

At first I tried to explain these visions to my companions, but they were inarticulate, even in their native tongues, and their schooling non-existent. Sometimes I felt more like a village schoolmaster than a rakehell. Eventually I contented myself with making the notes I am using now. In 1920 it seemed easily possible to manufacture reality from my dreams. I could not possibly know that, while I imagined this best of all futures, Turks, Jews, the dregs of Oriental Africa, schemed its abortion. They dare not let Paradise flourish on Earth, because all they have to offer is a modest reward in the world to come. They divided us and now they rule. Compromise was to be the order of the day; the very name of our century. Those who refused to compromise were, one by one, broken and destroyed.

I had been less than a week at the
Pera Palas
and was returning up the Grande Rue one morning, pushing my way through touts and hucksters, European officials in top hats and frock-coats, soldiers and sailors and women of quality, and feeling more than a little exhausted, when I heard my name called. Peering across the street I saw Major Nye, in khaki, standing on the corner waving to me with his swagger-stick. Behind him, in a leopard-skin coat and matching hat, stood Mrs Cornelius. An omnibus moved between us, a Turkish boy with a long cane clearing the way ahead, and I almost ran into it, my weariness forgotten, as I rushed over to them, shook the major’s hand and kissed Mrs Cornelius on both cheeks. The major was smiling. ‘We were wondering what had happened to you, old boy.’ But Mrs Cornelius was in poor humour. Her usual genial manner was strained. She wore more cosmetics than normal. ‘Have you been ill?’ I asked her. ‘Well, I’m not me usual chipper self, I must admit, Ivan.’ She spoke in what she called her ‘posh’ voice, which she affected sometimes in the company of certain types of Briton. ‘How have yer bin?’

‘I’ve managed to hold back the anxiety,’ I said. ‘I’ve been so worried about you.’

She did not soften. Major Nye explained they were about to have a drink before lunch and with his stick indicated the doors of a little bar. ‘This suits you, old man?’ We strolled into the semi-darkness as happily I told her of my discovery that Kolya was still alive. I was longing to get to London. From there I would locate him easily and let him know my whereabouts. She grew a little gloomier at this last remark of mine, ‘It’s not gonna be that simple, Ivan, I’m afraid. A couple of days ago I found art I’m a rotten Russian subject. Officially, any’ow. On account o’ that bleedin’ - dashed - certificate. I’m your wife. ‘Cause that’s ‘ow we registered on the ship.’

‘But we were never really married. What does it mean?’

She fell silent and made an effort to smile at the major. He was ordering our drinks. Her voice lowered for my benefit, she glared. ‘I’m bloody well stuck ‘ere, that’s wot!’ Then she added in a peeved tone, ‘I’ve been fuckin’ lookin’ fer ya orl over! Wot the ‘ell ya bin up ter? I’m now dependent on
you
gettin’ a visa for both of us. Fat bloody chance, eh?’

Major Nye turned back to us. ‘Mrs Pyatnitski has explained your difficulties. It’s a vile position. I’m trying to contact the appropriate authorities and clear the matter up. But everyone’s so overworked.’

I told him I understood. I had after all been an Intelligence Officer in Odessa, with similar duties and identical problems. One did one’s best to retain one’s humanity, but there were so many needy cases.