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

by Michael Moorcock

  Next morning, profoundly relaxed, I decided to breakfast in my room, congratulating myself that my luck had turned at last. My cocaine protected me from most venereal dangers and Mercy had told me where I might obtain fresh supplies. Neither child was a stranger to the drug. They had, moreover, information where to sell gold at top prices, where to buy a cripple if I should ever desire one, what the best private lodgings were. A friendly whore is one’s best source of knowledge in any large town. She moves in a wide social sphere and hears everything. True she has a penchant for sensational gossip, mystery, conspiracy and romantic mysticism, but that can be discounted. In a single night I learned of bordellos staffed entirely by young Circassian boys, of women who made and sold absinthe, of ‘dealers’ from Trieste and Marseilles who continued an age-old white slave trade to markets in Syria, Egypt and Anatolia. I now knew of an Athenian who would sell me a modern revolver and ammunition. If I left the hotel and walked for three minutes towards Galata I should find someone to prepare me a fresh passport in another name. Had I needed to live on my wits, as in Kiev and Odessa, it would have taken me two days to make all the appropriate contacts. The Pera bohemians prided themselves on their city’s reputation, just as my old Moldavanka friends spoke warmly of local gang leaders and madames as others spoke of film stars. In refusing to judge such people I was quite unconsciously following the edicts of Nietzsche and formulating my own morality which, in time, would be stronger than anything I could have learned in a comfortable and conventional life. Without that background, it is unlikely I should have survived at all.

  Lifting myself on my sweet-smelling pillows, I pressed the bell beside my bed. A waiter answered almost at once and I ordered the small breakfast, an English newspaper, some hot water. He returned with my tray and a note from Leda Nicolayevna. Jack Bragg had told her where I was staying. She suggested lunch at Tokatlian’s. She would arrive at twelve-thirty and would wait until two. Sentimentally, full of languid love for the world at large, I decided to keep the appointment. My evening was already planned (I would spend it with Mercy and two of her friends. Betty had a previous engagement), but it would be unwise to snub the Baroness altogether. There was nothing to be gained by hurting her feelings. Moreover I was now in a position to help her get to Venice, should she wish to go. Betty had told me of a man who earned his living illegally ferrying refugees to Italy. The fare was very high, of course. I would offer to pay it.

  Dressed in my dark green Irish twill I arrived at Tokatlian’s by one. The restaurant occupied the lower part of a private hotel (Mercy had spoke of its doubtful reputation) and had recently been modernised in the Persian style, with a preponderance of green, yellow and red mosaics. I never discovered if an Armenian called Tokatlian still owned the place. The manager was Dutch. Mr Olmejer had committed some crime, or offended some institution, in the East Indies and could not return to Holland. The restaurant’s huge plate-glass windows revealed a crowd of Levantine businessmen, Allied service officers, diplomats, journalists, many apparently well-to-do Russian émigrés. A tango orchestra played softly on the far side behind potted palms. I would be reminded later of those elaborate cinema foyers we used to have, when films were worth watching, told the truth and were therefore still popular. A tail-coated head waiter bowed and asked if I had made a reservation. I was meeting the Baroness von Ruckstühl I murmured, peering through the ferns and palms to glimpse her at a table in the second gallery, overhead. The waiter bowed again, offered to lead me to her, but I thanked him and made my own way through the restaurant. Her magnificent head tilted back as she talked to the tall man dressed formally in frockcoat and dark trousers who stood smiling beside her chair. He had conventional good looks and was obviously army-trained. I was almost glad to feel a pang of jealousy. It made me realise I retained feeling for her. The meeting would not therefore be as difficult as I had feared. Her brown velvet luncheon frock and a torque of pheasant feathers gave her a pleasantly pastoral look; an eighteenth-century aristocratic shepherdess. As I mounted the half-spiral of the stairs she saw me and waved a gloved, animated hand. She introduced me to her companion. Count Siniutkin seemed a shade embarrassed. I suspected he had wanted to leave before I arrived. ‘But perhaps you already know each other?’ she said. ‘From Moscow?’ I said I had never visited Moscow, but he seemed slightly familiar, and I, he said, to him. His expression was pleasant and open, unspoiled by a scar running from the right-hand corner of his lip to his jawbone. Indeed, the scar enhanced what would otherwise have been unremarkable good looks. His manner was self-effacing, his voice soft and a little sad. I found him attractive. My jealousy disappeared. I apologised to the Baroness for failing to contact her the previous evening. (‘A meeting with some British military people.’) I invited the Count to join us. He hesitated. ‘Oh, for a few minutes, you must!’ The Baroness spoke from generous good manners. Plainly she preferred to be alone with me.

  So the three of us sat in a semi-circle round the marble table and ordered complicated American cocktails. We were all very mystified by the odd names and bizarre combinations. Then the young Count suddenly smiled, then said hesitantly, ‘I believe we met at Agnids once. In Petrograd.’ This placed him as one of Kerenski’s young liberal supporters. He had doubtless been acquainted with my friend Kolya. ‘Of course you knew Petroff?’ I was always happy to speak of Kolya.

  ‘Very well indeed. We served together in the same department.’ He became animated. ‘When Lenin started taking over, Kolya advised me to leave Petrograd. He could read the signs so well.’

  ‘He and I shared an interest in the future,’ I said. ‘Did you by any chance hear how he died?’

  Siniutkin was surprised. ‘Who on earth told you he was dead?’

  ‘His cousin Alexei. We flew together. He was very bitter about it.’

  ‘After the October counter-coup, Kolya went to ground. He hid with me in Stryelna for a couple of months. Then his sisters joined him and they all got to Sweden by boat. I had a letter from him not much more than a month ago. He’s alive, Mr Pyatnitski.’

  For an instance I honestly believed this whole episode, the city, its pleasures, my Baroness, was part of an elaborate fever-fantasy, surely I was actually still aboard the Rio Cruz! Then I became almost hysterical with joyful disbelief. I had mourned Prince Nicholai Feodorovitch Petroff since his cousin had drunkenly crashed us in the sea off Arcadia. Had I not been in a state of shock at the news of Kolya’s death, I should probably never have boarded the plane at all. Slowly the reality impinged on me. My beloved friend was safe. Somewhere he still made his usual ironic jokes and enjoyed life as he had always done. ‘That’s wonderful! Do you know where he is now?’

  ‘He was in Berlin, but he talked about going to Paris or perhaps New York. The idea of a “government in exile” was an over-familiar farce. He wrote that he had played in one too many such farces. Perhaps it was a joke, but he said he planned to emigrate. To teach Russian to Jewish radicals in America.’

  The Baroness laughed heartily. She put her hand on mine, ‘I’ve never seen you so cheerful, Maxim Arturovitch. Aren’t you pleased I introduced you?’

  ‘I’m eternally grateful!’ To celebrate, I ordered three more cocktails. ‘You can’t possibly know, my dear Count, how much your news means to me.’

  ‘I’m so pleased. Kolya’s a splendid chap. Tremendously amusing no matter what happens to him. You could probably get in touch through an expatriate society, you know. But I’ll gladly find that last address for you.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’ I remembered my manners. ‘And what brings you to Constantinople, sir?’

  ‘A little of this and a little of that. Intelligence work, of sorts. Some interpreting. Luckily the Turkish I learned as a cadet has proven useful. My own escape was eventually made through Anatolia, after I had been drafted by the Reds, who were short of officers.’

  ‘You plan to move on again?’

  ‘I must see how things go. There’s pressure, of course, to join the Volu
nteers, but sadly I’ve no faith in our present leaders or their politics. I backed Kerenski. I remain a republican. Maybe I’ll go back when Lenin and Trotski calm down.’ He shrugged and pretended to study his fruit-filled glass as the waiter set it carefully before him. I think Siniutkin had been embarrassed by my question.

  The Baroness broke the silence. ‘Well, one of you gentlemen must find me new accommodation. The family I’m living with is extremely German. Not at all pro-Russian. They spent the last twenty-four hours complaining bitterly about the new Sultan. Apparently Abdul Hamid was a saint in comparison, even if he did throw the odd houri into the Bosphorus. Germans have an uncanny ability to distinguish fine differences in tyrants. A sixth-sense not permitted the rest of us. They are boring me, Maxim Arturovitch. I must be rescued as soon as possible.’ She was ill-practised as a coquette. She had chosen an unlikely mask for her anxiety and despair. Obviously Count Siniutkin was as little deceived as I. ‘I’m sure one of us can find you a decent hotel.’ He blushed, as if he had let slip an obscenity, and brought a genuine smile to her lips. She said, ‘As soon as possible, my dear.’

  Finishing his drink quickly the Count said he looked forward to seeing us again, then went downstairs to join two French officers at the long black and gold bar. Leda touched her knee to mine under the table. I was a little repelled by the urgency of her passion. ‘I have not forgotten you,’ I said. ‘I’m doing everything possible.’

  ‘Can’t we meet tonight?’ She flushed in mixed lust and humiliation. ‘I’m longing to make love. I can invent an excuse to the family. I’ll agree to any plan.’

  ‘I share your desire, my darling. But there’s so much to be arranged here.’

  ‘You won’t abandon me?’

  I found myself automatically reassuring her, insisting my duties presently took up most of my time. ‘The military people keep irregular hours, you see. I must work on their terms. They have the power.’

  She straightened her shoulders as she plucked up a menu. ‘And Mrs Cornelius? How is she?’

  ‘I haven’t seen her. I understand she left the city. I’ve no idea when she’ll return. Leda Nicolayevna, there’s a chance I can get you and Kitty to Venice. From Italy it will be much easier to reach Berlin. I didn’t want to say too much about this until I had concrete information.’

  ‘That isn’t the immediate worry, my dear.’ With a gloved hand she fingered her lips. ‘Apparently the British authorities are herding Russians of all classes onto some desert island. Is it true?’

  The infamous Lemnos camp was at the other end of the Dardanelles. I sympathised with her fear. There were dreadful rumours of overcrowding and near-starvation. People apparently paid hundreds of thousands of roubles for a passage back to Constantinople rather than stay there. Visas were impossible to obtain. There was disease, insufficient medicine, needless death. Again I reassured her as best I could. I explained I only stayed on in the city for her sake. She said I must be resentful. I denied it. ‘I’m worried and rather overworked.’ She melted and asked me to forgive her. ‘You understand I’m so terrified for Kitty. And I couldn’t bear to lose you. I’m not asking for all your time.’

  ‘Of course. Give me your address. I’ll drop you a note in a day or so. There’s a chance I’ll have good news.’

  We ate a light meal. My mind was largely taken up with the wonderful news of Kolya’s ‘reincarnation’. His inspiration, his love had meant so much to me. Leda thought it was her company which made me so happy so she relaxed marvellously. We parted at the table. Again I spoke of my affection. I kissed her hand. It trembled. Count Siniutkin was still deep in conversation with the Frenchmen. I nodded to him on my way out. He looked a trifle startled, as if I had surprised him in some dishonourable transaction. From Tokatlian’s I went immediately to La Rotonde to forget the embarrassments of lunch and to celebrate Kolya’s return to my world. My celebration, as it happened, went on for longer than I had planned. Thanks to some unusual sexual invention, the extraordinarily high quality of the cocaine, the simple ambience of the city itself, Time began to pass at an accelerated rate. During the next three days I experienced one long, steady rise to increasing, undreamed of heights of pleasure: passion I had thought lost forever. When I remembered, I would check occasionally at the Pera Palas to see if Mrs Cornelius were back and would write a hasty, regretful note in reply to one of the many sent by my desperate Baroness. Twice I crossed the Golden Horn by the Galata Bridge, an excited whore on either arm, to taste the magic of Stamboul and her massive mosques. The old city still reeked of enormous power. Here the Sultanate seemed strong as ever. The power was of all kinds, spiritual and temporal, and not all benign. I had been unprepared for the scale of Stamboul’s palaces and monuments, her public squares and gardens. When I ventured, with Mercy and a little giggling thing called Fatima, into the Grand Bazaar it felt infinite: cavern after magical cavern twisting away into further mysterious labyrinths, selling the exotic bric-à-brac of two or three millennia. This astonishing market was the meeting place of the centuries. Timeless, it offered the impression of all human history somehow consolidating in this one gigantic warren whose shadowy roofs echoed to the cries of traders speaking every civilised tongue, ancient and modern: echoes of voices which had advertised these same wares a thousand years before. Unexpectedly, as you rounded a corner, a ray of golden light would break through some high, domed glass roof and pierce the antique dust; another window would materialise where no window should logically be and you knew if you looked through it you might see anything: a squadron of Roman gladiators, marching at double-time to the Circus, a Byzantine Court procession, the triumphant cavalry of Europe’s Crusading knights, an Osmanli harem’s scented opulence. Once within the Grand Bazaar I became afraid I should never leave, that it was a place without boundaries or familiar geometry. We bought drugs (opium, hashish, cocaine), confectionary and coffee; we sat on soft carpets and talked to merchants whose eyes were as old as creation, who smiled and offered us arcane blessings. We stared at brightly coloured captive birds, monkeys, peculiar, hybrid cats. Our senses were enraptured by the most delicate and powerful fragrances. And then, somehow, we were in Stamboul’s evening streets again, with the sun setting, the moon and early stars beginning to appear in a sky of dark blue crêpe-de-chine. Even here, the magnificent kiosks and mosques, with their marble and gold and mosaics, frequently stood only a short distance from tottering wooden tenements. As in Galata there were whole blocks desolated by fire; other parts had received heavy shell-attack and remained unrepaired. Nevertheless the pageant of our whole Western civilisation, as well as that of the parvenu East, was apparent in each broken stone and blackened timber. This filled me with a sense of purpose.

  After the Turks were gone it would be upon these ruins we would build. Equally elegant modern architecture would rival the old. The sky would fill with the shimmering wings of silent aircraft. Bearing the polished steel of gently murmuring motor-vehicles, silvery overhead roads would curve and sweep between spires and domes no longer mosques but churches dedicated to our own, Greek Christ. Here exemplary human aspiration and dignity would expand. Constantinople would be a synonym for enlightened moderation. Before the benevolent power of electricity, steam and oil poverty would vanish. To her courts would come Arab spice-sellers, Christian tycoons, great poets, engineers, musicians. All would live in marvellous harmony, each knowing his place in the scheme of things. And ruling our Emperor City, if my dreams were to be fully realised, would be a noble, tolerant, far-sighted Tsar. A Tsar of a united world: a Tsar with the joyous vision of a positive Future. In his justice and wisdom he would reign justly over all men. This wonderful place, half-metropolis, half-garden, would exist in eternal summer. By science her light and temperature would be controlled beneath a glowing, transparent dome radiating the rainbow colours of the sun; a dome as beautiful as the dome of Hagia Sophia herself. That great Cathedral, symbol of our endurance and our Faith, would continue to dominate the city’s seven hill
s. All religions would be tolerated, but the Christian religion would flourish supreme, exemplified by our Greek liturgy. This creation of a better world on Earth would be a sign of the world to come. She would serve as a model to which other cities and cultures might aspire. Finally, thanks to the construction of enormously powerful machinery below the foundations, she might herself ascend one day to the heavens.