The Laughter of Carthage (91 page)

‘If they genuinely want my plane, I’ll drop everything and come at any hour of the night or day.’

‘They think they can be here in about two weeks.’

‘You’ll accompany me to the meeting, Count?’

‘Of course. But rest assured my friend is a man of honour.’

Suspecting his client to be a Jew, I made it clear I was not at all radically prejudiced; neither was I disapproving of another’s religion. In this way I connived unconsciously in my own delusion. Mrs Cornelius often remarked I was my worst enemy. My faith in my fellows, my happiness to live and let live, to offer a helping hand, expecting to get one in return when needed, all proved my undoing. For years I was too ready to explain my ideas to anyone who showed interest. And today who hears of old Pyatnitski? Yet everyone has heard of Lear. People show surprise at my profundity. My remarks are drawn from experience, I tell them. This hatred of Bolshevism is not notional. It is hard-won by a man who understands what it means to suffer under the Reds. I know now I should not have quarrelled in Odessa with my cousin Shura. That, too, was the fault of a girl. My worldly education was thus interrupted at the wrong time. If as a boy I had remained in the city I should have learned realistic caution. Odessa’s catacombs still echo to the murmur of an unfulfilled future; ghosts still tread the Robespierre Steps. Somewhere in the sky over the Nicholas Church flies a solo aeroplane, a graceful thing bearing a young man. His outline black against a yellow sun, he sweeps over the city of sleeping goats, the city of Odysseus. He looks down on streets which are falling to pieces, at houses nobody can repair, at grey wretches standing in the rain for bread which never comes. He weeps for them and his tears are silver. They rush forward. They try to catch the glittering drops. They quarrel amongst themselves; they kill one another for a silver illusion. The youth ceases to weep. Now his laughter is insane as he rises higher into the sky to where it grows black; and then he is gone beyond the horizon. Odessa, city of greed, city of reality. City of what might have been. There was a Jew in Arcadia who held my hand. He knew why his people put a piece of metal in my stomach. They made me cry. Hernikof bleeds and his eyes contract with disbelieving pain.
Es tut sehr weh.
They made us kneel in the snow. They scourged us with their whips. Brodmann told them. They pushed us into barbed-wire nets and lifted us over their fires like squirming fish, while red-tongued dogs sat on haunches, eager for the flesh to be cooked. I trusted them to release me. I trusted them with my life. I told them the truth. But in those days perhaps I did not know what the truth was. How does one prove one is worthy of keeping one’s own life? In that night, in those deserts, I prayed to stars because I thought they might be angels who would save me. I have done no harm, unless to love is harmful. I have betrayed no one. They betrayed themselves. It is not a crime. I said to them: ‘It is not a crime!’ Still they turned their backs on me. Let them find out what suffering can be. Let them wander as I have wandered. Let them long for dignified death. Brodmann was a wretch. Life is useless for its own sake. In the end dignity is the best one hopes for. But even that is usually denied. They must reinforce their rationale for doing what they do to you; and this means stealing your self-respect if they can. The planet turns. We are too small. I love the universe and all its wonders. I asked for no reward. I only desired to enjoy the gifts God bestowed on me. I am no better, no worse, than Hernikof, surely? Than other men? I could have become that respectable husband, with a handsome wife and two fine daughters, taking the air of the Grande Champs on a Sunday afternoon. I could have been that stockbroker in frock-coat and top-hat, watching his children whirl their hoops beside the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens, or strolling with his wife on his arm in Central Park. I could have had a name, reputation, family, every honour. But to earn them I had to forget my trust in my fellow men. The price, I think, would have been too high.

A couple of weeks after my first meeting with the Count, I received word through the Baroness to board a three o’clock ferry for Scutari. Count Siniutkin would meet me there. I hastily went to Esmé and taking her by the shoulders told her to be good. I would be back next morning at the latest. I left her some money. She stood on tip-toe, put her slim arms around my neck and kissed me. ‘You will be a great man,’ she said in Russian.

My confidence reinforced by her love and faith, I set off on light feet, stopping only to say goodbye to the Baroness. I assured her I would be careful. She had, she said, great trust in the Count himself, but I must be certain of his friends before I committed myself. I promised her I would be properly circumspect.

I went down to the Galata Bridge and at two forty-five boarded the first available ferry to Scutari. Treating myself to a padded seat for a few extra coppers, I leaned back to enjoy from the sea the wonderful panoramic views of Constantinople’s three great cities. The sun was high in the sky. The domes of mosques were awash with light. Everywhere I looked I saw a different shade of green or soft blue, shimmering white. The smell of brine and spices, flowers and coffee mingled. It was possible, I thought, that I would return to Pera a wealthy man. The world would very shortly hear of my achievements. I would not need to slip away from the city like a felon. I would march into London or Paris a celebrated lion: Pyatnitski, the creator of the flying infantryman. Pyatnitski, the inventor of the patent steam car; Pyatnitski of the aerial liner and the domestic robot. The fame of Edison would fade. Where he had created toys, I was about to create an entire civilisation!

How proud Mrs Cornelius would be of me, I thought, when she heard of my fame. I could imagine her reading the news in the
Daily Mail
and boasting to her neighbours how we had once been married. I would move about the world with all my lovely women; a great patriarch in the old Russian tradition, yet also a modern man and a man of the future. And it would all have started here.

Thus the centre of the old world would be transformed, becoming the hub of the new.

Triumphantly, in my mind’s eye, Parsifal reached to seize the Grail.

* * * *

EIGHT

BLINDED FROM TIME to time by the reflected sunlight on the water, deafened by the babble of some score of dervishes wearing mud-coloured conical hats and robes all crowded together at the front of the boat, sweating in my European suit and doing my best not to breathe too much of the stink of the donkey traders and silk merchants who filled up the rest of the steamer, I fixed my attention on the Asian shore. In Scutari Carthage had re-established herself far more thoroughly than in Stamboul. In Scutari virtually nothing of Greece or Rome remained. Here were the cemeteries of Turks, who would rather have their corpses interred on Oriental soil, some of whom had built themselves tombs so grandiose they rivalled the massive mosques, also erected as memorials by Sultans and Sultanas to dead relatives. Lacking much of the commercial squalor of the rest of Constantinople, Scutari seemed tranquil and graceful in comparison, and far larger than she appeared either from the Golden Horn or the Sea of Marmara, with her vast barracks and warehouses in unusually good repair. She had been conquered long before the European city fell and thus the Turks held her in special esteem. Not far from here Hannibal, disgraced and defeated, exiled from his own ruthless homeland, had sought the protection of that good-hearted Greek, Prusius, King of Bithynia; and here Hannibal, in terror at being captured by Scipio Africanus, had sipped coward’s hemlock and died. Like Rome and Stamboul, Scutari too was built on seven hills, but she lacked their density. Large areas were still given over to foliage, from which her domes, turrets, minarets and roofs emerged, adding to her sedate beauty. Here were the villas of Ottoman dignitaries and aristocrats, with their pools and fountains and cool arcades. Once they had been secure in the knowledge that here, too, most of Turkey’s armed forces were garrisoned. Even now, from fortresses and blockhouses, came the distant sounds of bugles, of marching feet and shouted orders, as the little ferry pulled into the quay beside a wide, busy square where horses, carriages, motor vehicles and carts moved apparently at random, under the tolerant eye of Italian policemen. Ahead of me the dervishes went ashore in single file and crossed the square where they were soon hidden behind market stalls. Eventually I took a few steps over the wooden gangplank and looked about me in the hope of seeing Count Siniutkin.

The square itself contained the usual whitewashed Turkish cafés, the offices of various shipping agencies, a couple of banks and official buildings, and from it narrow cobbled streets led upwards between yellow and red houses covered with vines and creepers. Tall plane trees shaded the roofs and everywhere were trellises over which trailing, sweet-smelling plants had been grown. It seemed warmer here. I removed my hat, took out my handkerchief and wiped my forehead, wondering if the Count had, after all, misled me, when, from out of the mass of donkeys, horses and push-barrows, an old De Dion Bouton saloon car emerged. At first I thought it was an army vehicle, since the chauffeur at its wheel wore a red fez and a smart, grey uniform, then I saw my friend’s scarred face peering from the back. He waved to me, jumped out of the car and ran towards me, effusively shaking my hand and apologising for not being there to meet me. Everywhere around us men and women carried huge bundles up into the shadowy streets or moved similar loads onto the ferries. The sky was a pale shade of blue behind the steeply banked houses and the air felt hushed in spite of the considerable commotion in the square. The Count handed my bag in to the driver and politely stood to one side as I climbed aboard. It was a large, well-sprung, comfortable interior. The car, said the Count, had been lent by his colleague. Sitting side by side, we moved off and were soon passing between latticed walls and wrought-iron fences behind which I could glimpse the great, low mansions of the rich. The road rose and fell, twisting through great clumps of trees, fields of tombs and white marble monuments, the awnings of restaurants where well-to-do Turks lounged and smoked in the bright sun, as if there had never been a war, an uprising, a palace revolution, to disturb their enduring tranquillity. Later the white roads grew dustier and the walls lower, revealing lawns and gardens, the glittering mosaics of magnificent villas. The air was scented by brilliantly coloured shrubs and flowers, filled by the sound of splashing, tinkling water from courtyard fountains. It was to Scutari that the rich retired and they were anxious to be as far removed from the dirtier, noisier aspects of their fortunes as possible. It was not long before the villas grew further apart and I saw what I took to be a farmhouse, with a herd of goats nearby. I remarked that I had assumed we should find Siniutkin’s principal in Scutari itself. He shook his head. ‘We Europeans are particularly noticeable in Scutari. He thought it best we meet where it is more private.’

I asked if we were bound for a country estate. With some amusement Count Siniutkin told me to relax and enjoy the journey. ‘This could be your best opportunity of seeing the real Turkey. It has broadened my understanding of their attitudes and made me more sympathetic to what is presently going on in Turkish politics.’

I was having my usual difficulty with my nervousness at entering a singularly rural environment, with no image of our ultimate destination to reassure me. The road had become poor, causing the car to bump and bounce. I did not wish to be rude, but it was on the tip of my tongue to tell the Count that I had not the slightest interest in broadening my sympathies for any worshipper of Islam. ‘How long before we return to Constantinople?’ I asked him.

‘Not too long. A day or so. Perhaps a little more.’

Now I was forced to suppress distinct panic. ‘I had not expected to be away even one night,’ I said, ‘I trust it’s possible to send a telegram back to Pera. People there will worry about me, you see.’ I did not want either the Baroness or Esmé to become so worried they would disturb my careful plans. There was no telling what could go wrong if I was gone more than twenty-four hours. ‘Of course.’ Siniutkin patted my arm. ‘Write the message. I’ll see it’s sent.’

The thickly wooded hills gave off a heavy, damp scent I found relaxing. Bit by bit I recovered myself, ‘Is your backer a cripple, perhaps?’ I wondered why he could not travel to Scutari. ‘This is an expensive car. An Armenian, eh? Or a wealthy Greek?’

Siniutkin laughed, as if I had made a deliberate joke. The car emerged from the wood, turned a corner and began to ascend an even steeper hill. We reached the crest. A beautiful valley stretched below, with small lakes, rivers, vineyards and groves of fruit-trees. On the far side of the valley was a great mountain, its tallest peak still covered in snow. The valley might have been from Greek antiquity, a lost land, untouched by time, unspoiled by modern industry. ‘There’s Mount Olympus,’ said the Count, as if to reinforce my fantasy. ‘Or so the first Greek colonists thought. Your new business partners live on one of its lower slopes. As I know you’ve guessed, they’re Turkish. But not the old kind of Turk. You’ll get on with them. They’re more progressive than most Russians.’ This, I was sure, was more a tribute to the Count’s optimism than his good judgement, but I kept my own counsel. I did not care for the contradiction of a ‘progressive’ Turk, but any backer in those days was better than none. As long as the Turks refused to use my ideas to support Bolsheviks, I would deal with them. I could not readily see how the Turks would wish to war on anyone at present, unless it was those they traditionally persecuted.