The Laughter of Carthage (94 page)

In honesty, I was able to tell him it was a dream I shared. I did not add that I was sceptical of Kemal or any of his other lieutenants, however well cut their uniforms, ever making reality of their dream. (As it happened, I was quite correct. Giving the vote to women is not necessarily a mark of progress.) ‘Do you wish me to show my plans to your Commander?’ I asked.

‘The interest in your invention, M. Pyatnitski, comes directly from myself and from a certain Çerkes Ethem, who commands our largest force of irregulars. I think you might actually find us more representative of the nationalist cause than Kemal himself.’ Swinging his legs over a bench he moved towards the window, almost as if he expected someone to be listening there. His boots were as brightly polished as the rest of his accoutrements. I recognised a dandy, just as I was quick to scent internal politics, jealousies and plots within the camp. These I might exploit to my advantage.

‘You are plainly a far-sighted man, Orkhan Pasha.’ I hesitated. ‘I’m surprised a peasant irregular like Çerkes Ethem should support your ideas, however.’

The Turkish officer shrugged, lighting a fresh cigarette, ‘It’s probably accurate to say he supports me rather than my ideas, m’sieu. He is primarily a soldier. He wants to see this business accomplished as swiftly and efficiently as possible. What is more -’ he hesitated in some embarrassment, clearing his throat - ‘his gold will finance your planes. I suppose we should discuss such things. I have no head at all for business, I fear. Are you a practical man? I have never had to deal with the commercial aspects of soldiering.’

I recognised this typical Turkish attitude. To him the very idea of bargaining and discussing money was distasteful. Coming as I did from noble Cossack stock, I shared a little of his attitude. ‘There is no need for immediate discussion, Orkhan Pasha. I would prefer to bathe, as my first priority, if that is possible. I should also like my clothes cleaned. There was a misunderstanding earlier. As a result I brought no changes with me.’

Much relieved, he became solicitous. ‘Excellent. And then we shall dine.’ He clapped his hands. When an orderly appeared he gave rapid instructions in Turkish. ‘Very well, m’sieu. We shall look forward to enjoying your company in a little while!’

I was escorted to a decently equipped bathroom, with huge fixtures all in marble and gilt, where the orderly took my clothes away. I spent some time in the bath, collecting my thoughts and reviewing what I had learned. In these days, amongst most bandits and rebels, a good engineer or mechanic was regarded as a valuable asset, not to be too easily disposed of. I had become a commodity again, as I had been amongst Hrihorieff’s rabble, and at least knew I would not be quite so vulnerable to the arbitrary decisions of a petty warlord. I finished bathing as the orderly returned with my suit and fresh European linen in my sizes. Feeling considerably refreshed, I allowed myself to be led down a passage, up a short flight of stairs, to a long room on the second storey where hot food was being served from large dishes on a kind of massive sideboard. This appeared to be the officers’ mess. There was only one other present and he was already helping himself to aromatic sausages, stews and sauces which, if properly prepared, can be amongst the tastiest in the world. My mouth was watering as I greeted this stranger. He was evidently the bandit leader, Çerkes Ethem, whom Siniutkin had called the Zapata of Turkey: one of those charismatic ‘Robin Hood’ figures produced by almost every national revolution. His swarthy Mongolian features, his glittering narrow eyes, black beard and rough, brutish manners identified him. That such a creature should consider using any kind of aeroplane was astonishing. Orkhan Pasha appeared behind me soon after I had entered, leading me towards the brigand chief and introducing us. Next he removed the plate gently from Çerkes Ethem’s hand and waved us both towards a table, which had been laid for three in the European fashion. He clapped and signalled to servants standing ready against the far wall, speaking in rapid, humorous tones to Çerkes Ethem and then, turning to me, said in French: ‘The stewards feel very hurt if we did not require their services.’

Çerkes Ethem shrugged and put himself in his chair rather as if he were mounting a half-trained pony, but he was smiling, too. His Turkish was slower and easier to understand. He thought these men should be out fighting, not waiting on tables. It soon emerged that his hatred of Mustafa Kemal was greater than any dislike he had of Greeks, Armenians, Bulgarians, Georgians, British or Albanians. Evidently Kemal had tried to enforce discipline on the bandit, who resented it. His men lived off booty. Part of their prize was the privilege of taking any captured village’s women, Turkish or otherwise. Kemal was being stupid about that tradition. What was more, he demanded large shares of any treasure they found. As I listened to these criticisms, I began to suspect Ethem of being the likeliest man responsible for the recent burning of Ankara’s Armenian quarter. His wholehearted contempt for that persecuted race was almost admirable in its dedication, like a Cossack’s fierce, purified hatred of the Jew. As the meal progressed I found myself quite enjoying the bandit’s company, perhaps more than that of the sophisticated dandy seated next to him. Orkhan Pasha leaned back in his chair, eating little, smoking a great deal, listening with amused relish to his ally’s ravings. In other circumstances I might have grown to like Ethem, notwithstanding his dedication to Allah and his unselfconscious anti-Christian bias. He was then, I later learned, a much greater hero in Nationalist circles than Kemal himself. If he had succeeded in his bid for power, Çerkes Ethem would have withdrawn entirely from Constantinople. He told me he had no use for the place and was willing to trade her for an Allied pledge to recall the Greeks. He knew of Lord Curzon’s plan to expel all Turks from Stamboul, Galata and Pera, an idea supported by Winston Churchill and a handful of other visionaries in the English cabinet. He had nothing against the scheme, he said. ‘Then those people would have to bring all their wealth and knowledge to Ankara. It seems the only way you would get them out of their harems, eh?’ He revealed a knowledge of German, a little French, and a smattering of Russian from his pre-war ‘private expeditions’ across the border, so I had no trouble in following him. Orkhan Pasha, on the other hand, sometimes used such convoluted sentences, with such an affected Parisian accent. I frequently failed to grasp his meaning. However, the situation itself was clear enough to me. While Kemal busily prepared for a big campaign against the Greeks, these two intended to build my planes. At a critical moment they intended to unleash the machines upon the enemy, proving themselves not only ‘better Turks’ than Kemal (who was disliked for his Westernising notions) but also men with a practical command of modern technology. They needed to impress the politicians as well as their troops. By building the planes, I saw immediately, I would actually be driving a wedge between two parties of Nationalists and so rendering the whole force weaker. I could, in clear conscience, help Çerkes Ethem, if I so desired. I should be able to see my machines tested in the air while at the same time striking a blow at the Kemalist cause.

Orkhan Pasha asked when I could begin. I said I could start at once, given proper materials. I had unrolled my sheets of linen paper and was explaining likely unit costs and potential problems, when we were interrupted by a distant booming from the western perimeter. Strolling to the shutters, Orkhan Pasha opened them and peered through the lattice. Flashes of fire turned his face red and made his eyes as animated as a devil’s. ‘A Greek air attack,’ he said. ‘They’ve had wind of our mobilisation and are trying to slow us down. Now you can see how urgently we need your aircraft, M. Pyatnitski.’

‘They’re damned cowards.’ Çerkes Ethem wiped soft bread over his empty plate. ‘Like all Greeks. They hate to fight man-to-man. But what can you expect of British lapdogs?’ He grinned. ‘Not that it’s Greeks attacking us now. Do you think those flyers were born in Athens?’ He stuffed the bread in his mouth, chewed for a moment, then swallowed. He shook with amusement at his own wit. ‘The only way to get a Greek into the air is in a vulture’s beak!’

The guns of Ankara were firing back, but it was field artillery, useless as anti-aircraft defence. I heard the whistle of bombs. I had hoped never to be so close to another battle in my life and for a moment felt sick. I made myself go to the window. This attack was nearer than most I had experienced in Russia. In the flashes from bombs and shells, from flares which seemed to cut across the sky at random, I saw horsemen galloping hell-for-leather through the roiling smoke. I never discovered what they hoped to achieve, unless they simply dared the planes to hit them. Turks love to die. Death must be so much preferable to most of them, I suppose.

Orkhan Pasha turned away from the window with a shrug. He closed the shutters. ‘We have some planes,’ he told me, ‘but nowhere suitable for them to land and take off. That was why your idea appealed so much to us.’ He made an elegant lifting motion with both hands. ‘A man who carries his own machine on his back, who can rise into the air and come down again at will, like a bird, is exactly what we need. Certainly he can drop bombs and observe troop movements, but he can do much more. He can invade garrisons, occupy whole towns from within.’ His eyes became dreamy. I suspected he rolled hashish into his tobacco.

Çerkes Ethem had no scruples about financial questions. ‘How much would it cost to equip, say, a thousand men in this way?’

‘If you had your own factory?’

‘They could be made in secret. In parts. Let’s say in the workshops of Scutari.’

‘You’ll see from this note here. I’d guess, if we placed a bulk order for the engines, that we’d get them for about fifteen sovereigns apiece. Then there are the propellers, the wings. All must be made by skilled engineers and from specific kinds of wood. Another fifteen pounds, if produced in quantity. Say thirty sovereigns each.’

Çerkes Ethem began to scowl to himself. Orkhan Pasha let his chair drop forward. He dabbed at his eyebrow, removing a droplet of sweat. He looked almost desperately at his comrade, virtually willing him to speak and was then hugely relieved when the bandit said, ‘Thirty thousand in gold. Cheaper than a conventional plane. They cost about a thousand each.’ He pulled back his kaftan and drew a little, tasselled bag from his cummerbund. ‘There’s enough for four planes already!’ He shook with amusement. ‘The Greeks will give us more. And if they won’t, surely the Armenians will take pity on us.’ He winked at me. ‘This will get your factories going. We’ll let you have the rest shortly and we’ll make sure, incidentally, that you don’t betray us, Christian. The supply line will be easy enough. We’ll take the planes in boats up to Eregli, then bring them overland on mules. But first I suppose we’ll have to see one of your machines demonstrated.’

‘Naturally a prototype will have to be developed.’ I picked up the money. ‘But I would guess we could do that fairly quickly.’

Orkhan Pasha placed a hand on my shoulder. He was smiling. ‘And we shall want to see you fly it. Yourself.’ He uttered a soft, well-bred laugh which acted as a suitable complement to Ethem’s snorts and roars and which, on another level, was infinitely more threatening. ‘Then we’ll know how much faith you have in yourself.’

I resented their mistrust. ‘Enough to fly my first machine. I’m sure I’ve enough to test the next. Where can I begin? Have you machine shops here?’

Orkhan touched the tips of his fingers to his forehead. ‘My friend, I believe you. There are a few repair sheds. But it would not be good to work in Ankara. Çerkes Ethem will take you to a better place.’

I subsided, realising this plot was to be kept secret from their so-called President. My anger had clouded my judgment. Now I was to be dragged even deeper into the Anatolian interior.

Çerkes Ethem put his unshaven face next to mine. ‘You can even help us raise the money. That is as it should be, eh, Christian?’

He was to play variations on this moral irony (or what he perceived as one) for at least a further week. Three miserable days later, as my pony limped over a rocky mountain track, I was convinced I had become lost forever. The trousers of my suit had worn through, my overcoat had holes in three places, my hat was virtually useless, my shirt and underwear were crawling with vermin. My shoes had fallen apart and had been wrapped with rags and strips of leather so I probably resembled a very unsuccessful bandit, a leper or a wretched Hassidic rabbi. I was plunged in gloom. The gold Ethem had initially given me was tucked into my belt. When the bazhi-bazouk rode back to the end of the column from time to time he continued to remain, in his own way, extremely friendly. I was mounted on their oldest beast, behind the supply waggon. Ethem clearly enjoyed my misery. ‘Christian, this will give you all the more incentive to build yourself a flying machine!’

No one else called me ‘Christian’ (or occasionally ‘Infidel’). I think he had a romantic notion of himself, like so many bandits, as a hero of popular fiction. His men, of course, loved him for it, probably quite as much as they would have loved Douglas Fairbanks or Rudolph Valentino had they ever had the opportunity to visit the cinema. Ethem had all the grand gestures, the flowery language, the bravado, the way of pulling at his white stallion’s reins to make it come to a swift, sliding stop. I do not believe he could read, but I was certain someone had once entertained him with the same boys’ adventure tales I had enjoyed in my childhood. His larger-than-life manner, however, almost certainly kept up the morale of his men, who were prepared to suffer any hardship or peril for him. It was easy to see why so many preferred him to the rather dour Kemal Pasha, with his notoriously long-winded sermons, his strict morality and his tendency to consider obscure political consequences. I believe Ethem was conscious of the impression he had made on his men and played it up, courting them with displays of humour and daring as another might court a woman.