The Laughter of Carthage (95 page)

For this purpose, too, I was an ideal butt for his wit. His frequent calling upon Allah to save the poor infidel, his characterising me as the very symbol of decadent city life, gave his simple-minded brutes hours of amusement. For my own part I was glad to be presently useful to his ambitions. While I remained so, I did not have to fear for my safety. He continued, nonetheless, to keep me mystified about our destination and even became reluctant to let me know which day of the week it was. I began to suspect that he had no set plan at all, but was wandering the countryside in the hope of discovering something he needed. Twice he left me in the company of the women and carts, taking his men off towards a nearby village. He returned exhilarated while behind him the object of his destruction gave off tremendous volumes of black smoke. ‘I have just financed five new flying machines!’ he announced the first time and, the second: ‘Three more planes. Christian.’

The villages were described by him either as ‘pro-Greek’ or merely ‘Armenian’. This was sufficient justification for his attacks. I suspected they were neither. Again I found myself wondering if it was to be my fate always to be the slave of some brigand. Attila was said to have kept philosophers about him for his own entertainment. But I used the time to advantage. My day-to-day knowledge of Turkish improved slightly, though most of Ethem’s men were to say the least laconic. But it had become possible for me to utter more than a simple
Agim
or
Susadim
when I was hungry or thirsty, and stand a fair chance of my more complicated notions being understood. And I began to make it clear to Ethem that time was running out. It was not cost-effective to drag me around with him on his raids like this.

When for the third time the bandit rode off towards a town he was away longer than usual. I could hear shots and what seemed to be artillery fire: a full-scale battle, in fact. Once or twice, men returned in a hurry to drag boxes of fresh ammunition up onto their horses and gallop back over the hill. Ethem had evidently grown ambitious and was attacking a more difficult position. Then, some two hours after the firing subsided, several bandits came riding back to the carts hell-for-leather. One of them dismounted and ran to bring a horse to me, ordering me into the saddle. Rather reluctantly I complied, clinging to the bridle and the mane as the horse galloped off with the others over swampy, yellow ground. I felt sick, certain I must fall, but it was not long before we reached a good-sized town, with several well defined streets, tall buildings, a railway station and a telegraph. Half its buildings were already in ruins, presumably from previous battles, and many more were just beginning to burn. There were corpses everywhere. This time I barely held back my urge to vomit.

In the main square groups of terrified citizens had fallen to their knees: they were arranged in ranks about an ornamental fountain, still placidly playing. Soaked through and grinning, Çerkes Ethem stood on the pedestal in the middle of the fountain, striking one of his more melodramatic poses. From out of a large Greek Orthodox church in the middle of a group of burning houses a line of men and women carried boxes and bundles. These people were either Greek, Armenian or both. Submissively, and to Ethem’s evident pleasure, they arranged their treasure along the edge of the fountain. His men still came and went through the smoke and the ruins, firing as they ran into buildings, whooping as they ran out. Even as I dismounted from my horse I saw one screaming young girl raped in the street by a fat bazhi-bazouk who had more trouble pulling down his breeches than controlling his prize. I averted my eyes.

Çerkes Ethem noticed my discomfort. ‘See how gladly your co-religionists pay for your machines, Christian!’ He was in his element. He shouted something in dialect to one grinning lieutenant, then splashed back through the fountain to put his arm around my shoulders. ‘These people are ignorant. You mustn’t worry about them. Now I’ll show you why we fought so hard for this town.’ He guided me out of the square and down a dusty sidestreet, pausing with a benevolent gesture to display what was left of some kind of garage. On a bench just inside lay a small petrol engine, very similar to the one I had drawn in my designs. ‘Here’s your chance. You’ll stay for a day or two and build a plane in peace. They’ll be too scared to bother you. I’ll leave a couple of men.’

Behind us the screams and firing began again. I was terrified, nodding dumbly by way of agreement and thanks. I wished desperately, with all my being, that I was not where I was, that I might never suffer such terror. How could I have escaped it in Russia merely to find myself plunged into it again in Turkey, where I had even less chance of survival? How I hated the Orient and all it meant!

Ethem patted me on the back. ‘Tell Hassan what you need.’ He beckoned a boy of about fourteen from the shadows of the workshop. Hassan smirked at me. ‘I’ll be back in three or four days. Some Greek soldiers need killing.’ With a strange, avuncular gesture, he returned to the square.

To shut out the awful sounds, which grew in variety and intensity as the day progressed, I made Hassan help me close the flimsy doors of the machine shop. I told him to bring lamps, to find people to clean the place. There were oily wood shavings on the floor, a few antiquated tools in a rack on the far wall. The place had probably been the only one in miles where people could find the services of a mechanic. Whoever had owned it had either been killed or had run away. There were very few spare parts, but a small crucible and bellows remained alive in one corner and here and there were the implements of the blacksmith’s craft, a clue to the workshop’s origins.

Thankfully, I was able to do what I had done more than once in recent years, and make myself blind and deaf to anything but the immediate job in hand. I concentrated my attention first on the engine, to see how it could be properly adapted to turn the propeller. I now knew a great deal more about aerodynamics than when I built my prototype. By that evening, when Çerkes Ethem returned, I was beginning to get some idea of my problems and how they might be solved.

‘Work well, Christian,’ he said. He placed a large, embroidered bag on the bench. ‘This will keep you going until I’m back.’ The bag was full of dead fowls, part of a lamb, a leg of a goat, all just slaughtered. I was revolted. Hassan, on the other hand, was ecstatically grateful.

The bandit left, displaying amusement as always, and a few moments later I heard him yelling to his men. There was that disturbingly familiar sound of rapid hoofbeats, followed by an equally familiar pall of silence; whereupon the wailing began.

Not much later, my spirits improved considerably, for it had struck me suddenly and with some irony, that for all his cunning Çerkes Ethem had not allowed for a simple fact: Once I built my plane I could fly clear of his disgusting horsemen and their rifles, rise as magically as any Thief of Baghdad into the clouds, mocking all below, and be in Constantinople within a matter of hours! This cheerful notion set me to working with much greater confidence and enthusiasm; no longer was I building a war-machine for Islam: I was constructing the means of my own salvation.

Over the next two days, supplied by what was left of the cocaine, I worked virtually without sleep. Hassan proved himself a conscientious if rather clumsy assistant. Trembling wood-carvers and carpenters were brought to me by the guards Ethem had left behind. I had seamstresses. The whole town (or at least its survivors) was at my disposal and as a result it was not long before almost every piece of equipment was assembled. Parts which could not be found or adapted were forged in the crucible. The propeller, of some local hardwood, was turned and polished to perfection, exactly as I had specified; the wings would have made Daedalus himself envious. It was remarkable how those townspeople lent themselves to the work (especially the Greeks and Armenians); it was as if some dim racial memory drove them to their task of aiding me in my escape from that modern equivalent of the Cretan monster. I became impressed by the correspondences as I worked, thinking that whereas Daedalus had built Minos a labyrinth, the maze I built my captors was one of illusion and abstraction in which they themselves might with chance become lost.

I now realised I might easily be ready to escape before the bandit chief returned. The machine, almost the cause of my destruction, was to become my salvation. I would certainly demonstrate its efficiency! With Ethem’s gold in my pockets, I would not only soar away from this desolate place but would arrive back to amaze Constantinople’s entire population! I would glide between the minarets of Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque; I would alight on the Galata Tower, on Leander’s Tower, on all the towers of Byzantium and the air would be filled with the murmur of their wondering voices, the hum of my glittering screw. I would receive so much publicity I would never need more. When I offered my valuable information to the British I should have an open visa to any country in Europe. It would give me intense personal satisfaction to denounce Count Siniutkin for the traitor and spy he was.

By the morning of the third day there was no news of Ethem’s return. The hush of hopelessness which had fallen over the town was gradually changing to the ordinary sounds of domestic life, though the faces of the population remained utterly expressionless, reminding me of masks in some old Attic tragedy. Carefully, I tested each part of the machine. Then I assembled it on the bench and had Hassan pour in a little fuel. The engine turned sweetly; the propeller whirled as smooth as steel through oil. I had the wings strapped on to me, as well as the frame which would take engine and blade. I ensured I would be able to direct myself wherever I wished to go. I had made some important modifications. What had happened to me in Babi Yar would not happen in Turkey. When I was satisfied, I ordered a party of local men to carry my equipment carefully to the nearby wool exchange overlooking the fountain and the Greek church, this being the tallest and most substantial building still in one piece.

I could not believe my good fortune! As we reached the wide, flat roof which looked out over the rest of the town towards the featureless Anatolian plain, I barely stopped myself from revealing my glee to Hassan and the other bandits. The boy and the men helped strap the engine onto my shoulders. The propeller of this machine was mounted higher than on my previous design so I could be confident I should suffer no concussion this time. The wings of this model were a little larger; but essentially it was the same plane I had tested in Kiev. It was, of course, fifty years ahead of its time. Today the powered hang-glider is only a slight modification of my original specifications (but predictably I receive no credit, the conspiracy of silence is complete). I thought how privileged this little group of bandits and Turkish townspeople were. They were witnessing the first flight of its kind outside Russia. I steadied myself beneath the weight of the machine. This weight would effectively decrease, of course, once I was airborne, but it was fairly difficult to stand up on the ground. Now I was prepared to take to the skies and show my enemies what foolish, ignorant men they truly were!

I had not allowed, of course, for the profound cunning of the Turkish mind. When I had taken up my position, ready to run the length of the roof before I launched myself into the air, I told Hassan to spin the propeller. There came nothing but a coughing sound from the engine overhead. I ordered him to spin it again. I was beginning to run with sweat as the sun climbed higher.

‘Hassan, you little fool! What’s wrong?’

He shook his head and put all his power into another pull on the propeller, nearly overbalancing me altogether. The remaining men muttered amongst themselves and chuckled. I ordered them dismissed. Reluctantly they climbed back down through the door in the roof. Now I was alone with Hassan who stood mutely by, his brown eyes round and blank.

‘Again!’

This time the propeller turned twice. I started to run, but had hardly moved a yard or so before the engine died once more.

I was baffled. Everything had tested perfectly. I asked Hassan if he had put more petrol in the tank.

At this the boy let his jaw fall and he shrugged, as if I had said something amazing to him. ‘Of course not, master!’

I swore at him. ‘You’re a cretin. Get the can.’

He shook his head rapidly, wringing his hands, his eyes shifting in every direction, ‘I cannot.’

‘It’s back in the shop. You know where!’ I was exasperated. ‘Hurry, boy!’

‘It’s all gone, effendi.’ He turned his eyes away. He looked towards the railway line. There was smoke on the horizon. He frowned.

The sun was burning my head and the engine, which should by now have lifted me into the air, was making my back ache horribly. I almost fainted as I stumbled towards the boy, begging him to fetch the petrol, threatening him with a thousand punishments, screaming at him that he would roast in Hell. But nothing moved him. All he did was stay just out of my reach, shake his head and say occasionally, ‘It is all gone!’