The Laughter of Carthage: Pyat Quartet

by Michael Moorcock

  I had been less than a week at the Pera Palas and was returning up the Grande Rue one morning, pushing my way through touts and hucksters, European officials in top hats and frock-coats, soldiers and sailors and women of quality, and feeling more than a little exhausted, when I heard my name called. Peering across the street I saw Major Nye, in khaki, standing on the corner waving to me with his swagger-stick. Behind him, in a leopard-skin coat and matching hat, stood Mrs Cornelius. An omnibus moved between us, a Turkish boy with a long cane clearing the way ahead, and I almost ran into it, my weariness forgotten, as I rushed over to them, shook the major’s hand and kissed Mrs Cornelius on both cheeks. The major was smiling. ‘We were wondering what had happened to you, old boy.’ But Mrs Cornelius was in poor humour. Her usual genial manner was strained. She wore more cosmetics than normal. ‘Have you been ill?’ I asked her. ‘Well, I’m not me usual chipper self, I must admit, Ivan.’ She spoke in what she called her ‘posh’ voice, which she affected sometimes in the company of certain types of Briton. ‘How have yer bin?’

  ‘I’ve managed to hold back the anxiety,’ I said. ‘I’ve been so worried about you.’

  She did not soften. Major Nye explained they were about to have a drink before lunch and with his stick indicated the doors of a little bar. ‘This suits you, old man?’ We strolled into the semi-darkness as happily I told her of my discovery that Kolya was still alive. I was longing to get to London. From there I would locate him easily and let him know my whereabouts. She grew a little gloomier at this last remark of mine, ‘It’s not gonna be that simple, Ivan, I’m afraid. A couple of days ago I found art I’m a rotten Russian subject. Officially, any’ow. On account o’ that bleedin’ - dashed - certificate. I’m your wife. ‘Cause that’s ‘ow we registered on the ship.’

  ‘But we were never really married. What does it mean?’

  She fell silent and made an effort to smile at the major. He was ordering our drinks. Her voice lowered for my benefit, she glared. ‘I’m bloody well stuck ‘ere, that’s wot!’ Then she added in a peeved tone, ‘I’ve been fuckin’ lookin’ fer ya orl over! Wot the ‘ell ya bin up ter? I’m now dependent on you gettin’ a visa for both of us. Fat bloody chance, eh?’

  Major Nye turned back to us. ‘Mrs Pyatnitski has explained your difficulties. It’s a vile position. I’m trying to contact the appropriate authorities and clear the matter up. But everyone’s so overworked.’

  I told him I understood. I had after all been an Intelligence Officer in Odessa, with similar duties and identical problems. One did one’s best to retain one’s humanity, but there were so many needy cases.

  ‘Perhaps we could get you an exit visa if a high-ranking Russian officer vouched for you?’ he suggested. We sat in a row on the bar stools and looked out into the turbulent street.

  ‘My superiors are all dead,’ I explained. ‘Had it not been for Mrs Cornelius - Pyatnitski - I should have shared their fate. There’s Captain Wallace, an Australian Tank Commander I worked with last year. My C.O. was Major Perezharoff when I acted as a liaison officer between the Volunteers and the Allied Expeditionary Forces.’

  Major Nye sighed. ‘There’s too few records and too much confusion. I’ll do what I can. Perhaps a wire to Perezharoff, wherever he might be. But the powers above have to contend with French, Italian, American and Greek opposite numbers. The Russian Army chaps also want their say. The paperwork alone is wretched. Nonetheless, sometimes these things go far smoother than you expect.’

  Now there was the faintest hope of a solution, Mrs Cornelius soon recovered her usual spirits. ‘Marry hin ‘aste an’ repent at leasure, eh, major? Chin, chin.’ And she finished her drink. ‘By the by, Ivan. Thet Baroness’s bin eskin’ orfter yer.’

  ‘I offered her my help, as a Russian gentleman. It appears now that I need help myself.’ I smiled wistfully.

  ‘Certainly looks like it. You bin up orl night?’ She placed demure lips upon the rim of her glass.

  The major insisted we take another drink. I could not count much on his assistance. I was merely an acquaintance, one of half-a-million voices lifted in the desperate babble filling the entire embassy district. Privately I pinned my hopes on Mrs Cornelius’s ingenuity. The boat to Venice had also become worth our consideration. Still speaking in an undertone, she told me to calm down. ‘Ya look a bleedin’ wreck. Yer inter the snuff agin?’ I assured her my consumption remained moderate. She would do what she could, she said, but I would have to stay in touch. We might need to move rapidly and at short notice. I said how sorry I was I had become a burden to her, yet she was my only certain means of reaching London and my money. I could not act on my own, much as I felt I should. Our lunch became a rather forced affair. The major did his best to lift the mood. He told amusing anecdotes of Turkish duplicity, Greek recklessness, French pigheadedness, American naïveté and British disquiet. He mentioned Mustafa Kemal and problems with the nationalists. He had also heard the Reds were making solid gains now in Ukraine. These stories served to decrease my hopes of making an early departure, particularly since I had tasted most of Constantinople’s pleasures and was quite ready to move on to England. A deep weariness began to return, even as I did my best to respond with interest to the major’s stories. That afternoon I would visit my Baroness, to spend at least one night with her. After my recent exertions it would seem sedate and restful. As lunch ended, Mrs Cornelius adjusted her leopard pillbox with its miniature veil and said she had arrangements to make. She told me to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

  I returned to the hotel desk where the quasi-Frenchman handed me notes from Mrs Cornelius and Leda. There and then, on the hotel’s stationery, I wrote a short letter to the Baroness, telling her to meet me at Tokatlian’s that evening, whereupon I went straight up to bed for two hours, to sleep off the worst of my worries. On awakening, my improved mental state was consolidated with the help of the good new cocaine I had obtained through Mercy. It was six o’clock by the time I had bathed and dressed, so I decided to go for a drink at La Rotonde and say farewell to my agreeable little girls. With the exception of Betty and Mercy I had been seeing rather too much of them for my own good. It was time to take stock of myself, to pull back, to arrange, at very least, a change of companion for the next few days. It might even be wiser to employ only the Baroness as the object of my lust. Entering the green haze of the café I sought out my chief friends. Betty and Mercy always sat at the same table during this slow part of the day, but at present they were gone. I assumed they had found an early customer. However, when I asked the grotesque Syrian when they would be back he seemed deliberately vague, scratching at his warts and frowning. They were probably working in Stamboul, he said. They had not been around for a couple of days. He scuttled off to his quarters. One of Mercy’s closest friends, a slender blonde Armenian known as Sonia, had overheard us. As soon as the Syrian was out of earshot she came, with a rustle of muslim, to sit at my table. ‘He’s lying,’ she said in Russian (she was a Christian) and she glared into the smoke which clung to the ceiling. ‘I knew Betty and Mercy hadn’t seen you recently. You were with Fatima and that lot, weren’t you?’ I agreed. Sonia went on: ‘The Syrian told us they’d gone abroad with you. He didn’t want a fuss. But why should he say that?’ She pursed flamingo-pink lips, ‘I think they probably did go over to Stamboul for a night. There’s an old woman there, a rich widow, who likes to play games with them. Nothing much. But they were always back at the house by morning. Simka, dear, my guess is they’ve been kidnapped.’

  I knew the average whore’s delight in sensationalism, so I smiled indulgently. Certainly kidnappings were common enough in Constantinople. ‘But who would pay a ransom?’ I asked reasonably.

  ‘Nobody,’ said Sonia. ‘Their parents died in prison. I’d guess they’ve been sold by now. The Macedonian buyer came in a couple of days ago. They were almost certainly on his shopping-list. I saw him make a note. I warned Mercy at the time, but she thought I was joking. The Syria
n had something to do with it. He must have.’

  ‘But where would they be sold? Not in Stamboul?’

  Sonia glanced down at her glowing nails. It was now obvious that she was close to tears. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly. ‘Egypt? Somewhere like that. Jedah? There’s lots of places. There’s brothels in Europe, too. Berlin, in particular. But if they made too much of a stink, they might even have taken the Sultan’s Road.’ She meant they had been thrown, weighted, alive into the Bosphorus. I was upset. I was in no position to try to find them. I knew the Turkish authorities were not in the least interested in such commonplace problems, while the British were in the main powerless. I told Sonia to get in touch with me if she heard anything else, good or bad, and I gave her a couple of American dollars to buy herself a drink. Then I went out of the café and crossed the street to Tokatlian’s.

  I was cheered by the dark, glowing colours of the place. The obvious wealth of the clients, the Persian décor, helped ease my anxieties. On the little stage, lit by amber and emerald-green, a negro trumpeter was squawking some Mississippi slave lament. Weakly the rest of the orchestra attempted to accompany him. They were all Jewish and would have been far happier playing Hungarian polkas or Austrian waltzes. The long bar was crowded with a group of Italian soldiers celebrating a comrade’s birthday. One of these was trying to sing a lugubrious aria against the caterwauling from the stage. I glimpsed Count Siniutkin, seemingly a permanent resident, as he got up from his table and disappeared into a back room. Private apartments, behind and above the restaurant, were frequently used for assignations. A tap on my shoulder announced the Baroness. She wore a new red evening dress which did not much suit her, though it emphasized her heavy, well-proportioned figure. I still found her attractive, particularly as a substitute for Mrs Cornelius. Both were of the old-fashioned kind of beauty which I appreciated as much as the boyish flappers who were then beginning to emerge. I pride myself I have catholic sexual tastes. Kolya always insisted this was the mark of a humane personality. I kissed my Leda’s hand. I was almost passionate. I felt her stiffen with hope. With some difficulty we passed through the crowd to our table. A word with Mijneer Olmejer and we were assured of a room overhead when we were ready. The Baroness regarded me through sleepy, passionate eyes as I deliberately forced myself to relax and concentrate on this luscious epitome of Slavic womanhood. The little whores were just two amongst thousands, after all. It would be stupidly sentimental to feel overly anxious about Betty and Mercy. They could easily be enjoying a life of unheard-of luxury. Such girls took certain risks. I should be worrying about how Mrs Cornelius and I were to escape this increasingly sinister city. But even that was put to the back of my mind as I used all my charm to prepare the Baroness von Ruckstühl for the ravishment she so clearly craved. Both she and I ate sparingly, drank fairly heavily, and then discreetly, by means of the stairs leading from the toilet vestibule, repaired to the black plush and mirrored panels of a Tokatlian guestroom. Even as I stripped off her dress she seized my penis and began to press it with her fingers, forcing me to calm her down with the offer of some cocaine. She had been starved of both my cock and my drugs for so long, she said, that she had gone half-mad. She had quarrelled with her child’s nurse and generally behaved very badly. I was not interested in her domestic confessions and silenced her by drawing her head down to my unbuttoned fly while I prepared the cocaine on the surface of a little marble table. I had become used to my responsive whores and she was a little surprised by my unromantic gesture, but she did not resist the budding, circumcised instrument of pleasure which was both my own joy and my shame, for in his insane revolutionary embracing of modernism, my father had unwittingly given apparent substance to the ghastly rumours of Jewishness which have so frequently led me into social embarrassment and even, on occasions, grave danger. By offering me up to that foolishly enlightened surgeon, he had placed upon me the mark of Abraham. Now, when almost every boy is divested of his foreskin at birth, it means nothing; but in my day it was a badge of race and religion, calculated to horrify unsuspecting women and to determine certain men in their decision whether one should live or die. Not that this was true of the Baroness von Ruckstühl as she applied her greedy teeth, tongue and lips to the object of her near-mindless lust and so allowed me to escape from the worries of the day, for her very inexperience was in itself relaxing. There is much to be said in favour of the forceful love-making of a mature, determined woman when one has problems to avoid. I gave myself up to it. At the Pera Palas a bribed waiter would relay any news from Mrs Cornelius so I did not need to feel uneasy on that score. Through a long, unhurried night I enjoyed the intensity of Leda’s lust, satisfying her desire while at the same time restoring her confidence in my affection for her (if not in my fidelity, which she questioned several times, though without rancour). I revelled, too, I must admit, in the knowledge that this beautiful Russian aristocrat was absolutely in my power, and I began to consider the possibility of introducing her to my ‘harem’ of little whores.

  By morning, when we parted, there was no message for me at the hotel. Neither Major Nye nor Mrs Cornelius was anywhere to be found. My messenger had not seen them since they had dined together the previous evening. I was glad she continued to cultivate the British officer. She knew exactly whom to seek out when an emergency arose. She had an unerring nose for power, even when it was in the least obvious guise. I was confident we must soon be on our way to London.

  I slept until noon, then went to La Rotonde for lunch. I was curious to see if Sonia’s speculations had proven groundless and I planned to meet one of my new friends, a Bulgarian engraver specialising in visas. At that moment I felt wonderfully content, in perfect control of myself and my world. I remember whistling Marching Through Georgia (Jack Bragg’s sole contribution to my repertoire) as I swung my cane and moved on light feet down the Grande Rue towards La Rotonde. Mind and emotions were thoroughly balanced; my sense of proportion had never been better, and my perspective on life was excellent. I was a man at one with himself and knew no hint of care.

  It remains, therefore, a source of profound puzzlement to me how it was possible, only a few hours later, to find myself inescapably in the power of an all-consuming obsession; an obsession which would dominate the rest of my life and determine almost every aspect of my destiny. I do not regret what happened; I simply do not understand how I could become the victim of such an impossible coincidence. I sometimes look to ancient Greek mythology and see myself as some doomed hero upon whom Zeus has placed a curse and thus began a remorseless chain of consequences which must decide the ultimate fate of gods and mortals alike.

  Wheldrake, greatest and most neglected of Victoria’s poets, speaks for me in English far more eloquent than mine (but then he also knew the dreadful suffering and humiliation which compulsion can bring to a man):

  O, Prometheus, by what subtle glamour

  Was thy power constrain’d?

  * * * *

  SIX

  I AM A RATIONALIST. I have always been a rationalist. I believe in the power of the human imagination, in scientific investigation, analysis and description, in the Christian philosophy of humane tolerance and self-discipline. Other more obscure forms of mysticism are to me at once foolish and deeply misanthropic. It is true I have always had a greater capacity to love the world than to love most of the individuals in it; but I am not like these hippies who worship gods from Space and tell you they were Sir William Scott in a previous life; neither will I listen to silly girls who talk of poltergeists, hauntings and psychic perception. Yet I probably possess a greater accumulation of evidence for the belief in reincarnation (or even less likely phenomena) than anyone alive. My experience in Constantinople might have shaken a man with less character and unbalanced him for the rest of his days. Only an overriding, saving sanity, an improving understanding of the meaning and power of prayer, has helped me maintain my reason. It would be self-deceptive, at very least, for me to claim I was always so stabl
e. The shock of a new country and culture, my youth, my realisation that I was both an exile and an unwelcome guest, must all have contributed to my state of mind. I was well-educated. I knew many languages. I had mastered the power of flight; but I was also something of a hothouse plant. I received a diploma from the St Petersburg Institute by the time I was sixteen. I was, at twenty, both a Master of Science and a Colonel in the Volunteer Army. My brain, as we used to say, had grown faster than my soul. They took you, Esmé, in your youth and in your innocence. They took you away from me. They transformed you into a whore and gave you a hard, grinning mask. You became a bandit’s camp-follower, an anarchist, you who had lived only to serve the sick and needy; you became a cynic who saw love as the arch-folly and the past as a stupid illusion. Yet did we not smell the lilacs together in the old parks above Kirilovskaya, as the sonorous bells of St Andrew’s pealed the Easter jubilation? Can you deny we ran bare-legged, hand in hand, through the grassy gorges of Kiev while the sun made all her buildings soft and golden? We sat under autumn oaks, did we not, and let the red leaves cover us? Was all that an illusion, Esmé? Or must it be called one now, because it cannot be reclaimed? Wann werde ich sie wieder sehen? You were fucked so much you had callouses on your cunt. But you came back to me. Perhaps God sent you. You came back disguised as a harlot and were transformed into the tender, loving child who had admired and supported me in my youthful idealism. You were restored, purified, made whole; and it was granted to me that I should be the medium of your salvation. Esmé, my aspiration, my angel! My muse! God grants few of us the opportunity to relive the past, redeem our mistakes, take advantage of a happiness we usually only value when we have lost it. I am not ungrateful, God. I thank You and am repentant that I thought in those days You played a trick on me. I thought You unjust to bestow such a gift, then take it away again, dooming me to a lifetime of miserable disappointment, a hopeless Quest, to change my whole perspective of life. Is it my punishment, to suffer for all of them? Is that my punishment, God? I have wandered the Earth praying for an answer. Wie lange mtissen wir warten? They accused me of so many crimes. They whipped me with their Cossack quirts. They humiliated and tortured me. They imprisoned me. They mocked me. They called me such terrible names. They cannot understand.