The Vengeance of Rome (5 page)

Entering the Straits I enjoyed the distant view of the Rif Mountains and below them, among cypresses and palms, the little white boxes, tall towers and red clay domes of villages, while on the other side lay the blue outline of the Spanish coast which for a while grew more distinctive and then, too, vanished as in open sea I put Africa behind me for ever. A day later our destination, that much disputed island paradise, rose up over a pale grey horizon, her lower slopes shrouded in bright, silvery mist and white, transparent clouds upon her peaks. Sunlight glinted on her limestone terraces, cast deep shadows into her evergreens and butter-coloured settlements, but for me the next sight was even more inspiring!

If you, too, are a believer you will understand the joy and relief I felt at seeing the cross of Christ lifted everywhere, on steeples, walls and banners. Majorca had defended her Christian honour against the Saracen for a thousand years or more. She had fallen long after the whole of Spain had fallen. Better than most, she knew the meaning and the value of Christ's cross.

Only then did I realise how much I had longed for the security which that cross represented to me. In Majorca I arrived as a respectable Spanish citizen, a Christian gentleman. In Morocco I had been suspected of being a Jew or a French spy, of being all the treacherous, nefarious things a Nazarene can be in the Arab's mind. For years, since setting foot in Egypt, my life had been under constant threat. No surprise, I thought, that the Jews elected to leave their native Palestine for the enlightened and humane Christian lands across the Mediterranean whose laws protected and even facilitated their natural proclivities. Offering a gentle transition from ancient Carthage, the dark heart of Oriental Africa, to modern Rome, the blazing light of European civilisation and justice, Majorca lay on the border between the two spheres.

Our yacht sailed slowly along the island's rocky coast. Very occasionally we sighted a small beach or a cove, but nothing good enough for landing until the boat turned a headland, entering the mouth of a long, narrow bay flanked by carob trees, pines and wild olives clinging to tall cliffs of pink
stone. In the wooded hills high above were the roofs and walls of large white houses, their balconies engulfed by bougainvillea and hibiscus, oleanders and geraniums, looking exactly as they might have done in Roman times.

Ahead of us was a little fishing harbour, with brightly painted hulls bobbing at the quayside, their red and yellow sails reefed, their prehistoric eyes winking in the sunlight. I would not have been surprised to see patricians in togas and sandals leaning out to look at the new arrival. Shura came to stand beside me and sniff, as if at the ozone. ‘Good, eh, Dimka? That's the smell of money, my dear! We are entering the Port of Andratx. Only the most exclusive people spend their summers here.' The harbour was indeed a mixture of disparate vessels, though workaday fishing ketches predominated, with magnificent private schooners taking second place in the magical tranquillity of the tiny bay.

Shura was pleased with my delight. ‘It's like Cassis, only better. Hardly anyone knows about it.'

We anchored offshore at the far western end of the harbour and rowed one of our boats up to the quay, whose cobbles smelled strongly of fish. I slipped in blood and innards as I stepped ashore and was caught from falling by a grinning ape with lively brown eyes who might have been a minor Tuscan deity. He shouted some amiable observation at me in what seemed a barbaric mixture of French, Italian, Spanish, Arabic and Portuguese and laughed enormously when I tried to thank him in Spanish. Shura took my arm and led me over the cobbles to the little road that led up into the town. ‘Come and meet some pals of mine. They'll love you. I know you'll take to them.' He nudged me in the ribs. His grin was full of its old charm. I remembered those wonderful first months in Odessa, when he had dragged me all over the Moldava Quarter, introducing me to the best circle of friends I have ever known. Through him I had gained my first sexual experiences, discovering the harsh realities of this world as well as her pleasures. If I had an opportunity to return to an almost perfect point in my past it would be to Odessa before the folly of World War engulfed us in the stink of fear and a taste for gunpowder. With her warm and welcoming streets Odessa was a breathing, brilliant entity. Jews, Moslems and Christians lived in wonderful harmony. Only rarely did the roar of Cossack cavalry echo through the streets. The stories have been much exaggerated. Odessa respected all faiths and all men of faith. She had no fear of the alien. She welcomed him. She had her mighty cathedral, her tolling bells, her confidence in the strength of Christ. She could afford to tolerate and even encourage a diversity of people. She was everything that was best in the Russian heart. The joyous writers
came from Odessa. Only when they went to live in Moscow did they grow gloomy. They tell you such lies about places. Odessa was, in comparison to most modern cities, a paradise of peace and cosmopolitanism. They make you think Belfast is nothing but bombs and gunplay, but everyone says it's the boredom that's the worst of it. I am always amused when Americans, who are used to living with thousands upon thousands of murders every year in their own country, become nervous of visiting a place where one or two minor outrages have been reported. If I could relive at this little Balearic port just a fraction of the happiness I had known in Odessa, I would be enduringly grateful both to friends and to God.

And so it was.

Shura's ‘pals' included many famous stars of literature and the entertainment business who chose what the natives called Port d'Andratx as the perfect location for their luxury hideaways. The little town built up above the quay was dominated by an eighteenth-century church of local stone, topped by a clock and a conventional angel, doubtless their domestic saint. The perfect whiteness of the houses was broken by oddly fashioned chimney pots and slates, their soft curving lines in gentle contrast to the ultra-modern vivid yellow and blue Egyptianate Hotel Bristol which was patronised chiefly by the yachting crowd. They had colonised the fishing port in recent years, bringing with them a glamorous lifestyle and easy habits of spending and were revered by all but the most committed socialist. On warm nights the Bristol's were usually the only lights still burning at dawn.

Andratx was the haunt of Continental film stars like Rose Blanche and Corinne Sweet, Pola Negri and Elfrieda Juergen, of politicians like Primo de Rivera and magnates like Vickers and Zaharoff, of international writers such as Felix Faust, E. Phillips Oppenheim, Lester Dent, G.H. Teed, W. Somerset Maugham, Dornford Yates, Romain Rolland, Anatole France, Erich Maria Remarque, Howard Marion Crawford and Charles Hamilton, most of whom had their own yachts. In those days the world valued its tale-spinners and rewarded them accordingly. Now, by virtue of a beneficent state rather than any honest work or public acclaim, only fawning lapdogs of the establishment can afford such pleasures. The predictable result of the so-called National Health Service.

We dined every evening in the harbour restaurant next to the Bristol. Shura, the debonair man of affairs, always knew at least half the people at the other tables. He was forever up and shaking hands with some fantastic
prima donna
, some painfully shy
écrivain
or distinguished member of the Fascist Legion who bore Mussolini's greatest honour on a discreet lapel.
Spanish officers, mostly of the aristocratic class, were as happy as anyone else to pass the time of day with Shura, introducing him as a close confidant of Stavisky, that ‘master rogue' as the papers would call him as soon as he was safely assassinated. They would enquire after Stavisky's business exploits and adventures as if they were following a popular serial.

Clearly Stavisky's power extended further than I had ever guessed. Shura's claims of watertight political connections (which he guaranteed he would employ to correct my record in France as soon as possible) were entirely authenticated. Through Shura I was privileged to join the inner entourage of a post-war prince, who comprised all the traditional virtues of a great Russian
seigneur
, an outlaw lord, a man of substance and influence. Stavisky's empire stretched from the Black Sea to the English Channel and beyond. His decisions determined the fate of small nations and large governments.

Shura was genuinely popular in the port. He never discussed his boss's affairs in front of me. He always took his colleagues aside for any business exchanges. I think he still felt protective and affectionately sheltered me from the sordid world of politics and commerce. For the moment I was content to rest under his brotherly concern and to indulge myself in his circle's singularly fine cocaine. As the Bedouin tribesmen had done in the desert, Shura treated me as a kind of mascot. He admired me as a dreamer and an artist. I am not even sure he really believed my stories of my life since I had last seen him, yet he was surprisingly familiar with my screen work and boasted to acquaintances how I had been a Hollywood star. He was, however, amiably reluctant to watch the films that were proof of this. He said he had enjoyed them when they first came out. In the end I would talk to him as one would talk to a cat, for relief and comfort and to sound out ideas, while he listened to me with abstracted good humour much as if a favourite pet made comforting, uninterpretable noises. Occasionally he grew mysteriously irritable with me.

As a matter of urgency my name had to be cleared in France. I must get to London to pick up the papers and money awaiting me with Mr Green, my Uncle Semyon's agent. Most importantly I must find a way to offer my skills to Mussolini, in whom all my idealism was invested. The newspapers confirmed everything I had guessed. Il Duce brought a dash of romance and tough common sense to politics. Steadfastly he refused to let the forces of international finance and communism dictate his policies as they dictated those of other modern governments. Since my arrival in Tangier, I had read all I could about the great dictator. I had seen him on the newsreels.
Enthusiastically I had followed his career, noting how he had healed political divisions in Italy, bringing together a confusion of disparate radical faiths. Socialist, Christian Democrat, nationalist, anarchist, communist, republican and monarchist were united under one coherent Fascist system, tempered in the fires of self-discipline and rigorous military training. What was more, he attracted the most original thinkers and artists of the day. Film-makers, engineers, scientists of every persuasion flocked to Il Duce's court. The
Novecenta
was famous as the mecca of modern art. Italian design and engineering presented a flair even the French could not match.

Miss von Bek had described this to me, of course, while crossing the Sahara. I wondered if she had succeeded in reaching Italy, piloting my
Bee
, taking news of me to her master even before I arrived?

When I spoke of these ambitions and ideals I was humoured by Shura. I began to feel a small frustration, even though I was still content to rest for a while and play the simple soul he wished me to be. Given that I needed to relax and restore myself, there was no better way than in an exclusive Mediterranean resort while Shura's business was conducted. I had the pick of the best Palma whores and was left to make friends of both sexes, indulging every desire.

For all my vast and varied experience, I was still a young man of thirty. Moreover, I had gained easy access to an inner brotherhood of power and lechery, in which the most refined sexual appetites were developed and satisfied. I found it difficult to resist these distractions. Consequently, I became well acquainted with a number of Spanish officers, two or three leading Italian Fascists, French entrepreneurs, American playboys. Among the female adventuresses inevitably attracted to this company was a Romanian woman whose willingness to experiment in every sexual variation became dangerous to us both. When I attempted to break off the relationship, she grew persistent in her demands, and when at last I refused, threatened to blackmail me. I confided my dilemma to my old friend, who told me to ignore the woman. She was no threat, he said. As it happened, a day or two later Shura needed me to go with him to Barcelona and keep an eye on the yacht there while he was ashore. When we got back to Andratx she had grown bored and left, we were told, for Marseilles. Only three weeks later she was found dead ‘of heart failure' on the promenade at St Malo, just across from the fortress. She had been attempting to watch the cricket match which the defiant British always played in full view of the French on the Jersey side. They found a telescope in her hand. There was some talk in the press of her being the employee of a foreign power.

What an exciting time in world politics! Shura told me that when people lost faith in their representatives and leaders they turned to the likes of his boss for some sort of certainty. Stavisky could act and not have to produce forty pages of double-talk first. That's what people liked about him, just as they liked Mussolini. He could get things done quickly without excessive publicity. ‘When governments need mercenaries to do their work it's clear to me that the world needs new governments,' said Boris our café friend. And Shura had winked at me.

For all his apparent cynicism, Shura was merely realistic. Stavisky was one of those concerned men of power prepared to stand up to the corrupt forces of big business. At the Bristol there was much talk of returning to old values by new, radical methods—of ‘thinking the unthinkable' as the phrase went in those days, ‘and forgiving the unforgivable'. Everywhere was chaos. Only ruthless, decisive action could restore society and return nations to their former pre-war stability and prosperity.

This heady talk, the intellectual cut and thrust, was a huge treat for me. In recent months, aside from brief meetings with Rosie von Bek, when we had little time for this sort of conversation, I had known only the pronouncements of a pagan prince and the opinions of an intelligent Negro, neither of whom had been exposed to the main streams of European politics.