The Laughter of Carthage (90 page)

On Friday, 1st May 1920, I kept the usual evening appointment with my Baroness. If it lacked passion, at least our loveplay was comfortable. When it was over she poured me a glass of Polish vodka, the kind we used to call ‘Bison-water’. The musky and dimly lit room was crammed with her possessions, including many framed photographs of herself, Kitty and her dead husband. She seemed unusually excited and full of secrets as she fetched a box of candied figs and offered me one where I lay in bed. ‘I am growing fat in Turkey,’ she said. ‘It’s better than living off German dumplings, I suppose.’ I wondered if she had at last found another lover. She had that air women often display in such circumstances, of possessing private power, of being inwardly amused, of having easily appeased a slightly troubled conscience. I stroked her face. ‘You grow more beautiful every day.’

‘I’ve something to tell you, Simka.’

‘That’s obvious. Is it Count Siniutkin?’

She was puzzled; then she laughed. ‘Oh, you expect everyone to be as bad as you!’ I had taught myself to forgive her these little insults. If it suited her to see me as a rake and a charlatan and so preserve some sense of identity for herself I did not mind. ‘I believe I have some good news for you.’

I became alarmed. She was pregnant! Yet I had been careful. I racked my memory for the likely date of conception.

‘I said “good news”, Simka.’ She sat back on her heels, rubbing cream into pink breasts and belly, massaging neck and shoulders. ‘I think I have found a financier for your inventions.’

I was delighted and considerably relieved. What did I care if the financier was her lover? All I wanted from him was the chance of bringing to physical reality just one of my ideas. From that, my reputation would automatically grow. ‘Who is it? Another of your wealthy Jewish friends?’

‘I wasn’t given his name. But your guess in one respect was right. He is an acquaintance of Count Siniutkin.’

I had not seen the Count for several weeks. After being a fixture at Tokatlian’s, he had disappeared completely. There had been talk recently of Tsarist officers leaving to fight in Paraguay or in the Argentine where there were already large numbers of Russian soldiers. I had assumed him en route to South America. Leda wiped the corners of her mouth. ‘I don’t know a great deal about it, but the Count thinks it’s an excellent opportunity.’ In two weeks Siniutkin would return to Constantinople, she said. He would then be ready to negotiate on behalf of the backer. ‘He’s interested in your one-man aeroplane. Could you prepare something on paper? An estimate of production costs?’ She frowned, trying to remember what Siniutkin had told her. ‘The factory space and tools needed, what raw materials are required, and so on. He’ll understand that you won’t want to reveal details, but needs as much as possible. He’s absolutely serious. The Count assures me that he’s above all a man of his word.’

I was content with this, reflecting how in finding Esmé I had somehow rediscovered my luck. For me, she would always be associated with my one-man plane. ‘Everything’s ready. I can easily work out costs. I know people in local factories. The engine is the main outlay. It could be made cheaply in large quantities. Did the Count mention money?’

‘He said his backer was not a spendthrift but would pay fairly.’

‘It’s all I ask.’ I kissed her. ‘My darling, you have won your passport to Berlin!’

We celebrated with the remains of the vodka and with the cocaine I had brought. When I returned to Tokatlian’s rather later than normal Esmé was asleep in front of the English primer I had bought her. Her exercises, written in a surprisingly clear, rounded hand (one of the benefits of her convent) had scattered across the floor. Tenderly I picked up the pages and stacked them together. She murmured in her sleep as I lifted her and put her gently to bed. If I left Constantinople soon, I had determined I would also take the Baroness and Kitty. My chances of entering another country unnoticed in the company of an under-age girl were poor. The schools of Constantinople already supplied the brothels of Europe. Officials would make the obvious assumption. A man and woman travelling together, a little Turkish girl as the daughter’s companion, would seem perfectly respectable. Moreover I now owed the Baroness that much at least. In bed, while Esmé settled to sleep in my arms, I considered the problem.

The Baroness had complained recently that Kitty was alone for loo long; the girl knew no children of her own age. Leda feared Kitty would grow bored and begin to wander the streets. I had already thought of introducing Esmé to Kitty, since my girl also needed a respectable friend. I would refer to Esmé as one of the distant relatives I had already mentioned. I would say I had promised her dying father to care for her. Would the Baroness, out of the kindness of her heart, agree to look after Esmé? I would pay all expenses. As long as Esmé agreed to the deception, the plan could not go wrong. Esmé was used to lying as the necessary consequence of poverty. I would explain how this little deception offered her a passport to the West and, eventually, marriage to me. More to the immediate point, if Esmé had a friend to amuse her it would ease my mind. Once my aeroplanes began production I could be away for days at a time. There were two weeks in which to lay the foundations of my charade. It meant the Baroness would be seeing far more of me. I was sure she would not be displeased.

From the following day on, my schemes went forward without a hint of resistance. Believing she had won back my heart, Leda became extraordinarily happy and affectionate and within a week was discussing elaborate arrangements for our journey West. She would go first to Berlin and join me later in London. She was confident, now, of finding employment. Her main concern was Kitty. It was the moment to mention my recent meeting with my cousin from Bessarabia who had been here for some time now. He was dying of TB and was at his wit’s end, with five daughters and a niece to care for. The niece was called Esmé, a good-hearted child. She had nothing to do all day, however, and my cousin feared she could easily go to the bad. Further elaboration and the Baroness was close to tears. ‘The poor child. Have you met her? What’s she like?’ Esmé was a sweet, shy creature, a little young for her age, but without a hint of vice in her character. She was too innocent for Pera. ‘I will write to your cousin,’ said Leda. ‘Give me his address.’ The house where he boarded was unreliable, I said, so she should let me have the note and I would deliver it.

Next morning I told Esmé what she must do. The Baroness was an old friend, a kind woman, very fond of me. She had once been my paramour. Nowadays she was useful to me and I in turn wished to be of service to her. If Esmé befriended Kitty we should all benefit. Esmé thought the deception a wonderful, harmless game. She agreed at once. That evening I went back to the Baroness bearing a note exquisitely written by one of my destitute waterfront acquaintances. With dignified, old-world elegance my cousin said he would happily allow his ward to visit the Baroness; he was more than grateful for her thoughtfulness.

From then on I began to enjoy a kind of life I had never previously experienced. The child I had lusted after on the ship and the girl who was now my mistress became great friends, playing together, sharing toys, being taken to parks, museums and the more suitable cinemas by their loving guardians. Reliably, the Baroness made no displays of passion in the presence of children. Esmé and Kitty found they had much in common and the language barrier was soon crossed. All was rather comfortingly bourgeois and for me was an attractive change. Leda von Ruckstühl even met my cousin once or twice. A broken-down cavalry officer, Blagovestchenski would do anything for a rouble or two. I justified all this play-acting in the knowledge that the Baroness already characterised me as a rogue and I was not therefore doing anything she should not expect. Besides, no harm was coming of it. The arrangement was helpful to everyone. All that was necessary for me was to rent a room near the Galata Tower while continuing to keep Tokatlian’s a secret. I was pleasantly surprised at how smoothly everything settled into a pattern for us; how relaxing it was to be a conventional patriarch.

It was almost a month before Count Siniutkin contacted us. The Baroness and I arranged to meet him at a restaurant called
The Olympus
in the Petite Rue. A Greek bazouki orchestra was playing so loudly when we arrived that we found it impossible to talk properly until the musicians retired. The food was greasy, unremarkable, but the Count explained there were certain people he did not want to meet at present. Otherwise, with us he was warmly enthusiastic. I asked him if he had travelled far, for he had a kind of weather-beaten look to him. He said that his business had taken him a fair distance, but explained no more. He was anxious to discuss my work. ‘I will be so happy if this opportunity leads to something. From the first I’ve been amazed at the imaginative simplicity of your idea.’

I said he was kind to flatter me. ‘Wait until you see the first machine take to the air!’

His handsome features were eager. ‘That will not be long now.’ His principal was currently unable to visit Constantinople but would be in Scutari in a matter of weeks. If I supplied the estimates they would be passed on at once. If all went well, as he was sure it would, I could expect to meet my potential backers and arrange a contract. I assumed he represented a group of international businessmen and for this reason needed to keep his association with them secret. We spent the rest of the evening together. The Count showed considerable familiarity with South Russian problems. He knew both Kiev and Odessa. He had also, it emerged, met Petlyura who was still, he thought, active in some corner of Ukraine. ‘A brave man,’ he said, ‘and a strong nationalist.’

I was tactful. I agreed Petlyura was fighting for what he believed in. I saw no point in airing my own opinions. Count Siniutkin had been a radical in St Petersburg. He had witnessed the consequences of Revolution. Yet he still believed in such causes if they were far enough divorced from his own direct experience. We spoke instead of Kolya, of the people we had known at
The Harlequin’s Retreat
and
The Scarlet Tango.
He was sorry the likes of Mandelstam, Mayakovski and Lunarcharsky continued to support Lenin. ‘But some will always cling to a political ideology as firmly as a woman clings to her faith in a worthless man. It is what they wish were true, not what is.’

I agreed. One might almost say he described the tragedy of the whole Russian people. ‘We seem to require religion as a necessity of life,’ said the Count. ‘As others need bread or sex. Apparently it doesn’t matter what form it takes.’

We grew a little drunk. The Baroness began to speak of life at their dacha in Byelorussia and the little country church where she had been married. She described the priest who had run her school, and might have been speaking of God Himself. ‘I am sad Kitty will never know a proper Russian childhood. We were all so fortunate. We thought it would be the same forever.’

‘The Tsar’s sentiments exactly.’ Count Siniutkin darted a sardonic look at me. ‘It’s what led to our present circumstances, isn’t it?’

The Baroness as usual refused to discuss politics. All she knew was they had destroyed her life and taken everything she treasured. ‘I have only Kitty now. And, of course, Simka.’ Sober, she would not have made this sentimental display. Politely the Count ignored her. I was grateful to him. Leda’s emotional state next led her to telling him how she now had ‘two daughters’ to look after and how she enjoyed the responsibility. At this, Siniutkin stood up, making his excuse. He would be in touch soon, he said. He kissed the Baroness’s hand, ‘In the meantime -’ He placed a small chamois bag on the table. ’- from my client.’ He bowed and saluted. ‘Good evening, M. Pyatnitski.’ He walked out into the evening crowd.

The Baroness lifted the leather purse. ‘It’s gold!’ In my little room near the Tower we counted ten sovereigns. I gave her five. ‘Your commission.’

‘Marvellous,’ she said as she loosened the ribbon on her drawers. ‘We can arrange for the children to buy new dresses on Monday.’

This wonderful family charade took root so successfully I considered making it permanent. If the Baroness came to know of and tolerate my carnal affection for Esmé, or at least turned a blind eye, there would be no reason for our ménage not to survive intact forever. Once or twice I came close to hinting at the truth, but held off, for fear of losing the status quo which had been achieved. My nights, as always, were spent side by side with Esmé at Tokatlian’s, but evenings were devoted to the woman Esmé now called ‘aunt’. I decided, moreover, that it was unwise to inform Esmé of my continuing intimacy with Leda. Female jealousy has ruined many of the world’s greatest schemes. While Esmé enjoyed deceiving Leda, I doubted that at her age she would appreciate the irony of her own deception.

A few days later a message from the Count informed me his clients were impressed. We would soon be discussing details. Was I willing to travel a short distance? I replied I would travel across the world if necessary. I met him alone at a bar near the Tephane Fountain. He said his backer’s group could not be certain when they would next be in Scutari, so I must be prepared to leave at short notice for the Asian Shore.