The Laughter of Carthage: The Second Volume of the Colonel Pyat Quartet (Colonel Pyat Quartet Series Book 2)

by Michael Moorcock

  I held my tongue.

  ‘He was acquainted with my late husband. They occasionally had business in common. He was then very powerful. A financier. He still has considerable interests abroad. Perhaps he could be helpful, when your mission is over, in backing some of your inventions.’ She arranged her plaid rug over her knees, her hand lingering in her lap.

  I could not believe she did not know what Jewish money meant: it corrupted; the best of mankind’s motives were twisted by it and always utilised to the benefit of Zion. How could she have witnessed the descent of Russia into Chaos and barbarism and still not understand the chief cause? Like many women she was moved too much by a personal liking for individuals. Probably the Hernikof who charmed her was in himself no villain. But he represented the forces which most threatened our Christian civilisation. I saw no point in mindlessly attacking such a man. I never approved of concentration camps and pogroms: yet there were sound reasons for these things. And there were reasons for being suspicious of any smiling Jew who held out his bag of silver to you. Where did he acquire that silver? Ask Judas. Would the truth come cheerfully and spontaneously to his lips? Would it to any man’s who had done what he had done?

  ‘I have no desire,’ I said to Leda, ‘to be rude. All I meant to say was that I’ve little in common with him and have no intention of becoming his closest friend!’

  ‘You’re as much a snob as the rest,’ she said. ‘It’s incredible.’

  I refused to answer at first. Then it occurred to me to tell her how I had been betrayed by a Jew; how I had almost lost my life. I turned to speak.

  She smiled at me. ‘Well,’ she said, ending the matter, ‘he’s a decent, kindly man. How lovely a little sunshine is after all that dreadful greyness.’ She touched my arm, careless of the stares of the two little old monkey-sisters as they passed us. She put her face close to mine. ‘I think sexual frustration is ruining your temper.’

  I made an effort to seem cheerful. I smiled. The sun caught the waves for a second and turned them to silver. ‘It’s hard to live this ridiculous charade.’

  ‘And your Mrs Cornelius? Has she complained?’ The warmth of her voice was at odds with the nature of her question.

  ‘She knows nothing.’

  ‘I doubt that. Still, young Mr Bragg takes up most of her attention.’

  A little offended, I bridled. ‘She finds him amusing company, no more.’ I had told her of the bargain between myself and Mrs Cornelius, how my companion intended to see her Frenchman as soon as we reached Constantinople. I suspected the Baroness of jealousy. She had somehow guessed, as women will, my feelings towards Mrs Cornelius and she was sounding me out, I knew. I remained on guard, even when she responded mysteriously: ‘Then you have a wonderful means of avoiding certain evidence, my dear, for you are not a total innocent. I bow to the power of your imagination.’

  This puzzled me. ‘I fail to see the connection between my imagination, which many have praised, and my innocence, which few have remarked upon since I was sixteen.’

  I could not understand why she was close to laughter, though I was relieved that she was not pursuing the matter of Mrs Cornelius. ‘Oh, I know you have seen much more of life than I.’ She made an exaggerated gesture of obeisance. ‘And you are much better educated in almost every respect. Indeed, your only disadvantage in life, as far as I can see, is that you are male.’

  That was my cue to dismiss her mysteries. Whenever a woman begins to speak cryptically of secret, female knowledge it is always best to ignore her. She is murmuring a spell which has meaning only to herself (if it has meaning at all). What a woman cannot verbalise she will classify, with superb pretence at authority, under the general heading of ‘what a woman knows’. Thus, in argument, she baffles her male opponent, gaining the advantage while he wonders what it is his poor, insensitive masculine brain cannot comprehend. Frequently my confidence has been threatened by this trick. I have only recovered by virtue of my superior intelligence and perception. Why else would so many women have loved and admired me in my lifetime? They soon learn respect for someone who refuses to be drawn into their little traps. Life is in many ways an ongoing contest (which is possibly what Hernikof meant). We must forever be alert, particularly against those who claim they have our best interests at heart. None respects female intuition more than I, but sometimes women will read far too much into a simple situation. So it was with my Baroness. Infatuated with me, she presumed therefore that all women must be desperate to lure me to their beds. I was amused by her curiosity, but remained anxious lest it turn into that crazed feminine jealousy which is, at very least, inconvenient and often very dangerous. In the afternoon we made love as usual, drenched in our mutual fluids until we stank, as she put it, ‘like cats on heat’. By now I was halfway to promising her a few days at least in Constantinople and she was growing excited in her anticipation, ‘If only it could be sooner than that.’ My hands were full of her flesh; of her breasts, her thighs and her buttocks and for a third time in succession I enjoyed the huge warmth of her magnificent cunt. She was like a Grecian goddess, and a welcome change from the young girls I usually chose. I felt I could disappear into her forever and remain safe from all the world’s vicissitudes. In a woman like my Baroness it was possible to escape and explore simultaneously. As the dinner bell sounded I was still inside her. It was with considerable reluctance that we parted, washed as best we could, and emerged, reasonably well-groomed, to face the expressionless stare of Marusya Veranovna, the excited cries of young Kitty, full of the day’s adventures.

  Leda did not seem especially concerned, yet I had begun to resent the servant’s unspoken criticism of us. And I hated the circumstances which made us end our love-making sharp at six o’clock, no matter what we were doing. Constantinople seemed a year away.

  At dinner, Mrs Cornelius said to me across the table: ‘Yore lookin’ worn art, Ivan. Did I keep yer up larst night? Sorry abart bein’ sick.’

  I waved a careless hand. She appeared not to remember the rest of the encounter and I was grateful for that. Attacking her meat-pudding with panache, she smiled around at the officers as if to include them in her apology. Captain Monier-Williams joined us. He looked proudly down at his own piece of pudding before beginning to eat. He often remarked how well his ship was feeding everyone. ‘A good bit of duff keeps your strength up a treat.’ He had heard we should be able to approach Batoum without danger. ‘And probably dock in the harbour, thank goodness. They’ve had very little trouble so far.’ He uttered a small sigh of satisfaction. ‘After Batoum, well be heading back in the right direction. I suppose you’ll both be pleased to get to Constantinople.’

  ‘As punch,’ said Mrs Cornelius. ‘Though I can’t say this ’asn’t bin a nice trip.’

  The captain picked up his knife and fork, staring purposefully at his dinner. ‘Only a few more days, then. After that, it’s home and Blighty!’ He ended this conversation by placing a large piece of grey meat into his mouth and chewing slowly. He dearly wished to be back in Dorset where he had lately bought a small house for his retirement, but had gone through the whole war as a volunteer troopship commander. All his male relatives had served either in the Royal Navy or the Merchant Marine and he spoke frequently of sons and nephews who had sailed with this ship or that. He was luckier than most, he told us, and had lost only two. He knew of whole family names which had been extinguished between 1914 and 1918.

  As he ate I said to him, ‘I agree with Mrs Cornelius. This has been, all things considered, a wonderful voyage. The Russian people will forever be grateful to you. There are some aboard who already think you little short of a saint.’

  This brought a response. He swallowed his food and smiled. ‘I’m doing my duty, Mr Pyatnitski. It’s the British taxpayer they should canonise.’

  ‘For my part, that debt shall be settled soon, sir. I suspect that when the Reds have reduced my country to total chaos a reasonable government will be called back. Only at that time shall I c
onsider going home. By then I shall have passed on one or two ideas to your people which I’m sure they’ll find useful. There’s a strong chance I shall be a member of the future Russian government. In that case, England shall have a friend in me.’

  He shook his head at this. ‘If it happens I’ll be the first to cheer. But my experience, old chap, is once a country embarks on a course of bloody uprisings and counter-coups there’s no restoring possible. Look how China is fragmenting. The pattern’s already set.’

  ‘Russia is not China, captain. Nor is she Indo-China, ruled over by a dozen contentious rajahs.’ I was gentle but direct. ‘She is a great imperial nation. Order must eventually prevail. The Russian people already cry out for a new Tsar.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure they’ll get one,’ he said. ‘Of some sort.’ And he remarked on the excellent suet in his mouth.

  At that time I was upset by his apparent cynicism, but he was over sixty years old and I not yet twenty. His prediction proved, of course, to be completely accurate. I could not have afforded to believe it then, however, and retained my sanity.

  Meanwhile, Mrs Cornelius took no interest in our conversation. She remained discreetly silent while Captain Monier-Williams discussed the characters of Trotski and Lenin as if he knew them personally. She had, of course, indeed known Trotski intimately and Lenin pretty well, and sometimes I detected amusement in her glance when the captain or one of his officers spoke authoritatively about Trotski’s motives.

  Jack Bragg, being something of a Red sympathiser, professed admiration for the Russian people. He admitted respect for Kerenski. At this I could not keep my peace. ‘Lenin might be the chief villain now,’ I said, ‘but Kerenski’s irresponsible and euphoric liberalism led to the present crisis. If Kerenski had been stronger he would have kept Russia in the War and we should have won. Constantinople would now be unequivocally Russian, as has always been agreed with the Allies. Rather than losing territory almost daily to our former subjects, we’d be reaping the benefits of victory. Kerenski sold us to Lenin and Lenin sold us to the Germans and the Jews. Soon Russia will have no more of a “homeland” than the Ottomans now possess. She will merely be Muscovy again. A shrunken Muscovy at that. As a result, every Western border will be overrun. Can’t you see? We have held back the barbarian from Europe for a thousand years. Now Tatars will reclaim their old Empire. They will league with Turkey to establish the most powerful Moslem domain the world has seen! The Allies must remain firm and destroy Lenin. Russia must have more help, or civilisation itself will die. Christianity will be crushed.’ I addressed this last remark directly to Captain Monier-Williams who shook his head. ‘I can’t see it, old man. I suppose you can hope a more moderate leader will emerge, but God knows what “moderate” means in this context.’

  I could scarcely keep from weeping. His boyish features red with embarrassment, Jack Bragg put an understanding hand on my arm. ‘You’ll be back before you know it, Mr Pyatnitski. The Allies are bound to send more help. Then all this beastliness will be over.’

  I made a small gesture of thanks. As he turned away I noticed a tear or two in his own honest blue eyes. He seemed so young, yet he was probably two or three years older than I. His was genuine sympathy, however, for he had known the horrors of sea-warfare and better than most was able to imagine my ordeal. A little in my cups by now, I spoke of all I had lost: the mellow glories of Kiev, the wide steppe, the rich mingling of cultures in old Odessa, the cool beauty of Petersburg, the comradeship of my fellow students, the charm of Kolya and his bohemian friends. Sometimes I could feel almost nostalgic for my months with the anarchist Makhno! I spoke of Yermeloff the Cossack who, in his way, had befriended me and had been killed as a result. But it was a mistake to resurrect such memories, for next I began to speak of Esmé. I checked myself and left the company as soon as dinner was over. Passing a small table near the door, where four passengers sat, I saw with some distaste that Hernikof had somehow managed to place himself opposite my Baroness and actually had his hand on Kitty’s arm! In further confusion I went directly out on deck, into a cold wind, a curtain of drizzle.

  Leda joined me almost at once. I said nothing about Hernikof, for I knew what her answer would be. ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked. She began to guide me into the darkness, avoiding the ship’s lights and stopping at last in the shadow of the afterdeck. I listened to the screw turning through the water. I heard the movement of our pistons. I knew our machinery almost as well as Mr Thompson. I recovered myself and kissed her gently on the cheek. ‘These English people mean well,’ I said, ‘but they occasionally revive memories which are best left to die.’

  She understood. She stroked my face with her soft, loving hand. ‘That is why we learn the habit of never asking questions,’ she said. ‘Of waiting until we are told.’

  I looked at her a little sharply, wondering if there were anything more in what she said. But she seemed sincere. She did not have quite the same ability as Mrs Cornelius to make me relax, but she was calming me now. I sighed and from its case took one of my last papyrussa. Using a brass ‘everlasting match’ which someone had given me as part payment for passport work, I lit the cigarette with care. She leaned against me, chiefly to shelter herself from the cold wind which blew now from the North East. ‘It is so hard to imagine the future,’ she said.

  ‘You mean in your personal life?’

  She smiled. ‘You, of course, have a very good idea of what the future should be like, even if your dream never comes true. That must give your life the momentum which mine, for instance, lacks. All I have is Kitty. She’s my only reason for going to Berlin, where I may find some security, a good school. Yet I’m dependent on the kindness of distant relatives. My destiny is in their hands.’

  ‘It was once the same for me.’ I drew carefully on the papyrussa. The tobacco was too dry and the whole thing threatened to fall from its paper tube. ‘It’s terrible to be made a child again. And all for the sake of a real child, too. Is there no work you could do?’

  She held out her hand to take the cigarette from me. She puffed at it once or twice, then gave it back. ‘I was trained to be the wife of an eminent industrialist. Nothing else. The likes of me, my dear, are a glut on the market. There are thousands of us all over the world and only a handful of eminent industrialists! Some of us try to poach from those who have one; others become lost in a kind of mental haze. I even heard of one or two who took up with completely unsuitable young men.’ Though she joked I became again suspicious. Did she now have it in mind to turn me into the creature she would best like to marry?

  ‘You are intelligent and personable,’ I told her. ‘You have a little capital in Germany, eh? You should think of going into business. Become an eminent industrialist in your own right! Go to Paris. All the best Russians are in Paris. Found a Fashion Salon. Or a secretarial agency.’ My imagination failed me.

  ‘I would rather,’ she teased, ‘become an international adventuress and bring down kings and emperors.’

  ‘But this is the age of republics and democracies. It is so much harder to seduce and ruin a committee.’

  She laughed at this. ‘Maxim Arturovitch, you are insufficiently romantic tonight. It’s my function to be the realist, yours to be the dreamer. Would you rob me of my only portion?’

  I forced myself to dismiss my suspicions. ‘Very well, I shall continue to dream for you. And you may continue to be a sceptic. But I assure you the future I plan is very practical. A scientist makes it his business to know how things work, to be aware of the proper place of every nut and bolt.’

  We parted at her cabin door. ‘Until tomorrow,’ she said, and then: ‘We shall be able to be together in Constantinople at least for a while I hope.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  She said hastily, ‘Batoum is safe. Couldn’t we go ashore there?’

  I agreed to consider the idea, which had not occurred to me. While I would be glad to break the journey I remained wary of our intimacy deepening, part
icularly at an earlier stage than I had planned. I returned to my cabin. As usual when Mrs Cornelius was absent, I indulged myself in a larger than usual sniff of cocaine for, by all accounts, Constantinople had become the capital of the drug world and I would be in no danger of running out of that particular means of moral support. I have never been addicted to anything in my life. I smoke and drink and take cocaine from choice; they give me pleasure. The mild effects of deprivation from cigarettes or from ‘neige’ are hardly noticeable when I am busy. Anyway, I would not buy what today’s hairy children call ‘cocaine’. It is no more than a mixture of household powders touched up with a taste or two of quinine or procaine to numb the lips and a dash of amphetamine to simulate the euphoric effect. One might as well mix ginger beer with dish-washing liquid and call it champagne!

  They think they are so modern and daring with their ‘narcotics’. They soften their brains with marijuana and sleeping pills to the point where they cannot tell one drug from another. I despise them, in their leather jackets; they look the same as those barbarians who swaggered through the Winter Palace in 1917, thinking they knew everything when all they had was a monumental arrogance born of stupidity. I see them every day, across the street, in Finch’s pub. They whisper together and pass little paper packets back and forth and every so often the police come, bored and irritable, to perform some ritual search and take one or two of them away. They toady to negroes. The police merely restore the belief of these louts in their ‘outlaw pride’. There is nothing different about them. No wonder the use of cocaine is frowned upon these days. In my youth it was the drug of the aristocrat, the artist, the scientist, the doctor. Ask anyone. Even Freud. And I have made no secret of my dislike for his views. (The Triumvirate which destroyed our civilisation is Marx, Freud, Einstein. It will be remembered in a million years as the greatest enemy of mankind. Marx attacked the basic foundations of Christian society. Freud attacked our minds so we doubted every opinion. Einstein attacked the very substance of the universe. And they say Goebbels was a Master of Lies! He was an ingénu. How that Triumvirate must laugh as it pushes down fragile walls and monuments, tramples the ikons, stands, with hands on hips, amongst the rubble of the world’s greatness while rivers of blood wash its feet and Hope and Humanity are defeated, dying in flames whose light casts a monstrous shadow over the world; the shadow of the Beast, the three-headed symbol of Death.)