The Other Side (5 page)

The bustle increased. Departure time was approaching. At the rear huge bales of silk were being loaded. Every time one was lifted there was a funny word which sounded like ‘Quack’ to me. A handsome man in Circassian uniform–presumably an officer–was saying goodbye to his friends. He got into the neighbouring compartment. All of this, and more, was highlighted in the darkness by the station lamps. Decidedly a picturesque scene.

Our train set off. At the back of the concourse I just caught sight of a pile of barrels. I had been familiar with them since Baku, they had stunk the boat out.

‘Do you like it, dear?’ a voice asked.

‘Just checking the accuracy of travel literature’, I replied in a matter-of-fact voice.

II

I didn’t feel too good that night. In those days I adored the idea of an adventure, but it had to be something out of the ordinary, not some cliche. Of course, ten days of unbroken travel had taken its toll. I felt wretched! I tossed and turned on my apology for a bed and moaned and groaned.

‘This Dream state’s just a hoax, you’ll see’, I said to my wife. ‘We’ll be carted off to some more or less inaccessible hole where we’ll be expected to admire Patera and all his rubbish, just because he’s rich. A rich man doesn’t impress me just because he’s rich. And the money won’t last long, either, I can see that coming already. They’ll charge outrageous prices and take it all back from us.’

I was in a bad mood, full of a deep sense of disappointment and pessimism. We were still traveling eastwards and, despite its oriental appearance, everything looked just the way you would imagine it at home. ‘And what will we find at the end of all this?’ I mused. ‘A few houses of various sizes, an enclave of foreigners, a park. I’m letting myself be shaken half to death by the train just for that?’

My wife tried her best to comfort me. ‘If we don’t like it, we’ll just go back home again’, she said. ‘So far there’s been nothing to justify such a black mood.’

‘That agent was a sly customer. He should never have been let past the door. Why didn’t you warn me?’

‘And the money?’ she asked with a smile.

‘Please don’t mention that money again. If you’re as rich as Patera you can easily afford to splash out the odd million if you fancy some decent company.’

With a yawn I turned my back on my wife. Women never understand us men. I was already half asleep when I heard her say, ‘Don’t you think you’re perhaps over-estimating the value of our company?’ Wisely, I refrained from replying.

The clatter of someone alighting told me that we had arrived in Bokhara. The clear light of early dawn. From my pillow I could see turbans and astrakhan hats. Now the train seemed to be going appreciably faster. Some carriages must have been taken off, or a new engine attached. We were due to arrive in Samarkand in the afternoon.

I stood up, bright and cheerful. The view outside was magnificent. The desert, of which I had seen more than enough, had given way to lush green pasture. Even though it was November it was only just cool. Herds of horses and camels with their skittish young brought movement to the landscape. The thought that I was close to the cradle of humanity kept going through my mind. You could see actual examples of perhaps fifty races, even if not always of the purest extraction. The great trade routes of the ancient world passed through here. Alexander the Great … But that’s enough, I’ve no intention of writing a travel book.

The excitement brought a flush to my cheeks. Fascinated, I kept leaning out of the window, now on one side, now on the other. And, yes, there! Something was emerging in the distance. A line of buildings stretching along the horizon, minarets, churches–Samarkand! Samarkand! The green and blue glazed tiles threw back the sunlight in a glitter of colour which only intensified the closer we approached. Although I would not admit it openly, I was exhilarated, drunk almost, even if the feeling was still tinged with doubt. Where would the disappointments lie? After all, we were heading into the unknown.

When the train reached Samarkand I began to sober up. As we alighted and looked round, a man came up to us. A cross between an Armenian and an East Prussian, I would have said.

‘Welcome sir–madam. Herr Gautsch advised us of your arrival.’ Accompanied by a bow. His German was fluent.

‘Where are we to go?’ I asked, keeping somewhat aloof.

With another bow, and one to my wife as well, he introduced himself. ‘Kuno Eberhard Teretatian, agent. Have you something to show me?’

I gave my instinct for race a silent pat on the back and handed the half-caste the case with Patera’s picture. I had been holding it clasped in my hand for the last half hour.

‘Thank you. That is sufficient. You have three hours, sir–madam. It is two o’clock now, the convoy starts at five. If I might make the suggestion, you could rest in my apartment and recover from the journey.’

In the meantime, at a wave several porters, strong as oxen, had loaded our luggage onto a handcart and disappeared with it. We went with Herr Teretatian. He tried to usher us into a carriage, but we refused.

‘We’d rather go on foot. How far is it to your apartment?’

‘A good half hour, sir.’

‘Well let’s get on with it, then.’

III

I assume you know what oriental cities look like. Just the same as at home, only oriental. We went this way and that, along streets and across squares, and everywhere we had to push our way through scenes out of the Arabian Nights. After half an hour of this it grew quieter, we seemed to have reached the edge of the city. Our guide stopped outside a house and said, ‘Here we are.’

He showed us into a room on the ground floor. Our luggage was already there, I could see it in the courtyard. An excellent light meal taken sitting on the thickly carpeted floor of this cheerful room inclined me to a somewhat more favourable view of our host. This second agent of Patera’s was even more polite than the first, almost obsequious.

‘Well then, what’s new in the Dream state, Herr Teretatian?’ I inquired good-humouredly from among the figs and grapes.

‘Nothing at all. Well, nothing much. The theatre, perhaps, but you’ll have already heard about that, sir, I assume?’

‘I most certainly have not. I’ve not heard a thing’, I cried, eager to hear anything connected with the Dream Realm.

‘A new idea of the Master’s! The building’s been up for a month now. Only last week a cartload of flats, backdrops and old wigs caused me all sorts of problems when I was sending it on.–I’m afraid you’ll have to leave that here, madam’, he went on, pointing to the gleaming alcohol stove my wife was just carrying in from outside. She didn’t hear this as she was engrossed in watching a child playing in the courtyard.

‘What on earth do you mean?’ I cried, giving my wife a nudge.

‘I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done about it’, he replied. ‘Only recently there was an opera singer who was quite furious when I laid an embargo on her wardrobe. Take my advice and you’ll save yourself a lot of unnecessary bother.’

I stared, speechless, as I listened to the fellow. ‘But I need my things’, I said indignantly.

‘But you are surely aware, sir, that there is no cause for concern. You will not be deprived of anything, will not want for anything. You can be assured of that.’

My wife turned to me. ‘Perhaps we could leave our things in safe keeping here? For a few days we can manage with the bare necessities and then your friend will have our trunks sent on.

The agent exploited this alliance to press home his argument. ‘The opera singer’s quite happy now, too. You’re not setting off into the wilderness, sir. In two days you’ll be in Pearl where you can find everything you need.’

‘What’s this? Two days did you say? From the map I thought it would take at least a week.’ I was astounded.

‘In that case you can’t be quite clear about the route’, said our half-Armenian mongrel with a discreet smile. ‘Even with frequent rests it wouldn’t take more than three days at most.’

My wife broke in. ‘What may we take with us, then?’

‘Our Bavarian agent must have mentioned it already, madam. The rule is that only used goods are allowed through the gate.’

This was too much for me. ‘It’s not junk we’ve brought with us!’

‘I said “used”, sir, not “worn-out”.’

‘There’s no need to take that tone, dear. Perhaps this gentleman would be good enough to check our luggage.

We went out to have our baggage examined. For safety’s sake I immediately seized my tobacco cushion. One after the other our cases were opened and the contents subjected to a strange inspection: a camera with all its accessories was immediately put on one side, to be followed by an excellent pair of binoculars; when he saw my patent razor the fellow exclaimed, ‘For heaven’s sake!’ My wife’s vanity case was gone through in detail. He seemed to be in some doubt about our clothes. When he came to my beautiful overcoat in the latest fashion–an item I was very proud of–he said, ‘I’m sure you’ll have that altered, sir. A gentleman doesn’t want to attract attention.’ However when we reached my wife’s lingerie and the idiot was going to check that too, I broke in. ‘That stays. None of that’s being removed!’ The books were also scrutinised, but I was allowed to keep my fine old editions.

‘Sir and madam will lack for nothing … for nothing’, Herr Teretatian kept repeating mechanically. At the same time not the least trifle escaped his scrutiny.

‘Everything is in order now, sir.’ He made a low bow. By this time it was four o’clock.

In the hour we had left in Samarkand I bought some things to replace those that had been confiscated, so to speak. I acquired a magnificent old samovar, not as practical as our alcohol stove, but much more beautiful. When I returned to Herr Teretatian’s, two roomy carts with huge wheels were standing outside, each with a camel harnessed in front. I gave these sorry-looking vehicles a rather dubious look.

‘Sir and madam will have a comfortable journey, we’ve spread blankets over the seats. The guide is reliable and has been instructed to comply with your wishes.’ Noticing a couple of well-filled baskets of provisions as we climbed in, I was immediately mollified. I thanked our host and shook him by the hand.

The procession was led by our guide, a small Kirghiz on a long-maned horse. There was a man beside every cart, at the rear two servants with yellow caps and dark kaftans.

We set off. I had my adventure.

IV

Long after the city had disappeared we could still see the grave of Tamburlane, a violet dome rising up against a lurid sunset. My wife beside me looked like a package with a head appearing on one side. She was almost asleep and only replied in an indistinct mumble so that I soon gave up talking to her. It was dark under the roof of our cart. The landscape was growing bleaker, stonier, everything around us submerged in a cold green. I was gradually overcome with a tiredness which even a new surge of regret at the gamble we were taking could not dispel. We were both extremely exhausted.

Outside, bare trees, cacti and salt-bushes floated past in a monochrome green twilight. The cart rocked in an even rhythm. From the head of the convoy came a long-drawn-out, mournful melody. ‘That can only be produced by some small instrument …’ was my last thought as I fell asleep.

We are all wanderers, all of us without exception. It has been so as long as there have been people, and so it will remain. From the earliest nomads to the most modern tourist, from rape and pillage to recent journeys of exploration, however much the motives may change, the wandering remains. Foot, horseback, wheel, steam, electricity, petrol and anything else that will come–the means of locomotion is unimportant, the wandering remains. Whether I go down to the inn or all round the world, I am a wanderer, and with me all animals, here, there, everywhere. And the earth leads by example. It is in the blood, a law of nature. However tired you may be, you feel the compulsion to keep going, on and on … We only enjoy real peace when our wandering is at an end. And we are all secretly looking forward to that, only we refuse to admit it to ourselves. Many don’t even know it. There are some who have already travelled far and want to stop wandering, or they are ill and bed-ridden and cannot wander, yet they still journey on in their mind, in their imagination, often travelling far, far … but to stand still, no, that’s impossible.

Once during the night I woke up for a moment. Outside was bright moonlight. We had stopped at a well and I could hear the animals being watered. My wife had her eyes tight shut and a serious expression on her face.

‘It’s good that you’re sleeping’, I thought, ‘you’ll be fresh tomorrow.’

We seemed to be in the mountains. As the cart rumbled on, I returned to my slumber, heading for the Dream Realm. I had not finished my sleep yet, not by a long chalk …

Suddenly I had the feeling something was happening. The wheels had stopped turning.

‘We’re there. You’ve had a long sleep.’ Someone was tapping me on the leg, but I wasn’t interested. I was still very sleepy and lay there, not saying a word. My wife was wide awake and called out to me in her most seductive voice, ‘Get up. We’re in the Dream Realm.’