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

by Michael Moorcock

  Through Fiorello we met the young man who was to prove a great benefactor in the years to come. Bazzanno’s cousin, he lived and worked primarily in Milan but travelled frequently to all parts of Italy and many European cities. He was as handsome and as well-formed as his cousin was misshapen. Fond of severe tailored suits, he liked to show, as we used to say, a lot of cuff. His shirts were always apparently brand new and his silk ties impeccably knotted. His manicured hands were heavy with gold and his white teeth were also occasionally punctuated with gold. His name was Annibale Santucci. This flamboyant dandy was three or four years older than me. He had what in Kiev we called a ‘Black Sea taste’ for white suits, black and white shoes and lavender ties; though he could also dress more conventionally when the mood or the occasion demanded. Walking past the fountain in the Piazza di Santa Maria one misty morning we first saw him: or rather we saw his car. It roared into the square, a huge blue and red Lancia booming and yelling, filling the whole quarter with shocking echoes. Fiorello was with us. He turned to snarl at the car until with a cry of glee he recognised the driver.

  ‘Balo! Balo!’ he shouted, and was rewarded with a dove-grey salute before the car changed gear and went bellowing down an alley scarcely wide enough to accommodate it. Fiorello capered with pleasure, twirling his stick and throwing up his hat, but Laura did not seem so delighted. Esmé was merely puzzled. She returned immediately to telling Laura about a dress one of her friends had been given soon after she went to work for Mrs Unal. I had tried to check her, but it was useless. She was oblivious; so I shrugged and let things take their course. It was not particularly important what Laura Fischetti believed about us. We arrived at the Cafe Montenero and took our usual places. The little old man, who was the only waiter, emerged to wipe an already clean table for us and bring coffee and rolls. Fiorello was babbling on about his cousin. ‘He’ll have presents. He always has presents. You must meet him, Max. He loves the English. He did a lot of business with them during the War. And the Russians, too.’ (He had made up his own version of our origins, which he retailed to everyone, and it suited me to humour him in this.) ‘I wonder where he was off to.’ His face dropped, then brightened swiftly. ‘He’s bound to look us up before he leaves Rome. He’s an utter bastard. A complete crook. A monster. Laura disapproves of him. He is the epitome of the capitalist disease, she thinks. But she can’t resist him either, can you, Laura?’

  Laura shrugged. ‘He’s got a coarse sort of charm, if that’s what you’re saying.’ She smiled then, mocking herself. At that moment the whole square seemed to vibrate and the howling, the vital whine, the blustering, joyful roar approached from somewhere within the maze, as if a pack of drunken baboons had invaded a Trappist retreat. The red and blue Lancia sprang clear of an alley, skidded in a turn which threatened to bring the rear of the monster crashing into our little enclosure, and stopped. Out of the huge front seat rose Santucci, peeling off his kids and his calf-hides, smoothing back his hair and replacing his helmet with a grey fedora. He pulled his camel-hair overcoat over his shoulders. He dragged his wide brim down over one eye. He touched his lips with a silver cigarette holder, kissed the silver head of his perfect stick and sprang like a demigod to the pavement. He was splendidly unashamedly, vulgarly romantic; enjoying his own antics as much as he knew we must enjoy them. He was the perfect foil to the equally grandiose but tiny Bazzanno who, with monkey-like agility, leapt to balance on the rail, then bounded to the street to embrace his cousin. Almost six feet tall, Annibale Santucci possessed the rather crude good looks of a music-hall juvenile. He would have been a perfect film star. He shook hands with me, kissed the tips of Esmé’s fingers, made a number of general compliments which came automatically to his tongue and immediately ordered us wine and more food against our insistence that we had already eaten enough and it was too early for alcohol.

  ‘Never say “too early”,’ he cautioned dramatically. ‘For you will quickly find it has become “too late” if you do.’ This, too, had the sound of an aphorism he had frequently found convenient, likely to impress the cautious. Indeed, it impressed Esmé. She laughed loudly and received, for a moment, his lordly attention. Then he drew up a chair and proceeded to tell us about Naples. He had had business on Ischia, the island beyond Capri in the Bay, where his mother and father now lived. There had been a boatmen’s strike and it had cost him a fortune to find some means of reaching Ischia: ‘A sailing boat. A prototype for the Ark!’ Then coming back he had been unable to get benzene for his car because of the strike at filling stations. He laughed. ‘This is the prelude to a true anarchism, when every individual is forced to fend for himself. We’ll have our own petrol pumps, our individual water supply, our own cow, repair shop. Unless we check this trend, we shall soon know utter boredom, with time only to maintain ourselves and our machines. Fiorello! Laura!’ An elaborate flourish and he produced from the inner pocket of the camel-hair coat two black velvet cases, handing one to each. Within were matching diamond-studded wrist watches, a man’s and a woman’s. ‘My friend from Marseilles was grateful. He said to give these to my mother and father!’

  ‘You are a dutiful son,’ said Laura sardonically, putting the watch upon her muscular wrist and admiring it.

  ‘What use would they have for these? To tick away their autumn hours? Pointless!’ He turned, all contriteness, to us. ‘Please, please forgive my rudeness!’

  Esmé and I would have forgiven him anything. His smile was calculated to disarm, and did not fail him. Fiorello told him we were planning to head for Paris but were a little short of money for the ticket. Did his cousin know of any engineering work available?

  Santucci became matter of fact. He presented his open palm to the sky. He spoke casually. ‘But you will come with me. Keep me company, eh? I can be there in not much more than a day.’

  I mentioned our large amount of luggage, but I was greedy for the Lancia. I began to feel the tiny shivers of pleasure with which I always anticipated the Escape of Motoring.

  Santucci shrugged this off. ‘My car is of infinite volume. She has been designed by my kinsman Bazzanno to conquer the ordinary limitations of space. Did he not tell you?’

  I looked towards the car, almost believing him. Fiorello smiled and was unable to answer.

  ‘He is too modest!’ Annibale clapped his cousin on the back. ‘This ugly little dwarf is the greatest metaphysical inventor in Italy.’

  Laura kissed him on the cheek. ‘You are addressing a real scientist, Balo. Signor Cornelius has designed and flown his own planes. He invented the Death Ray used against the Whites at Kiev! You read about it, surely, in the newspapers.’

  Annibale bowed from his chair. ‘Then you must certainly come with me to Paris. I’ll milk your brains on the way!’

  I accepted. A perfect opportunity, it solved several problems for us at once and meant we should probably have far less trouble at the border. I recognised a man who was used to living on his wits, who was familiar with the situations we were likely to face. Expecting only a vague reply, I asked him what his business was. I said he seemed very successful.

  ‘I buy and sell. I travel. I am in the right place at the right time. Just like now! I buy cheap ewes in Tuscany and sell them dear in Sicily where with my profits I buy wine and sell it for a fortune in Berlin. But it is all on paper, Signor Cornelius. I scarcely ever see the commodities themselves.’ He extended his manicured hands for my inspection. ‘Not a spec of grime, eh? Not a callous. I am an entrepreneur. I learned, in the War, the secret of being a good general. Never get to know the troops. Keep everything as abstract as possible. I, myself, was a driver. I drove trucks and armoured cars. There were, of course, business opportunities attached to my trade. After the War I simply kept on driving. Wherever I stopped I did some buying and selling. Now I have no money to speak of, but I have good suits, a wonderful car, and plenty of girls. I am not respectable—but I am respected. Better, I am needed. I have a flat in Milan I hardly ever see. Otherwise I do not
even have to pay rent on a permanent office. There is my office!’ And he pointed to his Lancia. Lines of heat rose from her bonnet; her scintillating enamel glowed from under a coating of fine dust.

  Laura said with a small twist of her lips, a kind of smile, ‘He’s telling you he’s a gangster. In Ischia he was probably selling his mother and father.’

  ‘What can you get for an old man and an old woman these days? They’re out of fashion. I am a common gangster, if you like. But as an artist I am unique. Vouch for me, Fiorello!’

  Laura nodded vigorously. ‘You’re certainly unique, my darling.’ Fiorello insisted his cousin was the finest artist to emerge from the War. ‘Art is action. Action is Art. The logic’s simple.’

  ‘And like most simple logic it’s ridiculous.’ But Laura was laughing now.

  ‘I wish I could come to Paris with you.’ Fiorello looked disgustedly about him. ‘Rome’s a stale cake. Bite her and she’ll break your teeth. Too little’s happening. She needs to be softened up. With dynamite. I blame the government.’

  ‘The government,’ Santucci winked at a passing tom, ‘is doing its best.’

  ‘Too tolerant! We need bloodshed in the streets!’ And Fiorello was off on his favourite horse, galloping and whooping. ‘Where are the Cossacks! Signor Cornelius has fought in Russia. He’s half Russian. Or is it half Jewish? He’s half something. He knows the wonderful sport true tyranny provides. Where are our own tyrants, this country which once provided the world with its finest despots? Are they too timid to come out of hiding? I’ll accompany you to Paris and discover a genuine Napoleon. Nicht wahr? ‘

  ‘Then be ready by next Wednesday. That’s when I leave.’ Santucci threw some bank notes on the table. He said he would pick us up at our hotel. We would travel via Milan and through Switzerland. Did we know the Alps? It would be a wonderful experience. ‘There is a truly stale cake. But the frosting is magnificent.’ The weather was perfect for motoring.

  I was already relishing the prospect of travelling again, especially with Santucci. I have always loved large, expensive cars; to enter one is to forget every care. The few problems I still had would be left behind once the Lancia was moving. Even if I had not originally planned to go to Paris I would probably have accepted the lift, just for the experience of being in the car. Esmé, too, was excited, although she had grown attached to Rome, her cats and her coffee shops. ‘Will Paris be as wonderful?’ she asked. I promised her it would be. Fiorello bent over us, neighing with pleasure. ‘Ah, my dears. Tonight, by way of celebration, I shall take us all to the Caffé Greco in Via Condotti. You shall meet new friends. Everyone at the Greco is both foreign and an artist, so you will feel at home. Then we shall go to the cinema. Are you familiar with Fairbanks? A marvellous comedian. And Chaplin? And Fantomas? They’re all together tonight! Then tomorrow we’ll borrow a car, or a horse and trap, and spend the day at Tivoli. I intend to make sure that you see everything so that you’ll want to come back to us as soon as possible!’

  ‘But you’re going with us, Fiorello,’ said Esmé.

  He bared his yellow teeth in a grin. ‘My dear little girl. My cousin knows me. I cannot live without the air of Rome. She and I are of the same stuff. We are symbiotic. Beyond Tivoli I begin to dissipate. If I went as far as Milan, now, I should fade to nothing. But you will go to Paris for me. I shall think of you there. And you must write, so that I can enjoy the experience through you.’

  He was a bizarre little creature. I was almost inclined to believe he spoke the truth.

  That evening at the cinema I got up between films to visit the lavatory. As I came back to my seat in the semi-darkness I saw a squat, familiar-looking figure sitting in the secondiposti section near the front. I was convinced it was Brodmann. I spent the rest of the programme glancing in his direction, hoping he would turn so that I could see his face. I became afraid. Next I thought I saw Bimbashi Hakir, and Yermeloff. I knew for certain that Yermeloff was dead. I felt the agony of the Cossack whip. I was pursued by vengeful Jews. Carthage schemed against me. I was glad when we all rose and shuffled out into the warm, brilliant air of the Roman night. Soon we were sweating with the effort of eating huge plates of fettuccine and fritters at the Pastarellaro in Via San Grisogono, not far from the Piazza di Santa Maria.

  I think we remained drunk the whole of the rest of our time in Rome. On our last night, Fiorello embraced me with regretful affection. ‘You must return to us next year, Max. Italy needs you. Laura and I need you. In Rome you will find exactly the resources you require. Believe me. Come back to us!’

  ‘As soon as my affairs are settled in England,’ I promised.

  We parted sadly and more than a little unsteadily.

  In the morning Esmé was up before me. I was yawning and groaning alternately. She parted the curtains, leaning over the little wrought-iron balcony, waving into the street. ‘Look, Maxim, darling. He’s here!’

  Santucci had kept his promise and had come in a huge, glistening new car to meet us; only it was not the Lancia. From somewhere he had provided himself with an American Cunningham almost the size of a truck. It was an outrageous green with brass trim. Its horn was loud enough to herald the Day of Judgement and its throbbing engine was of the very latest design, producing over 100 hp. Santucci sat at the wheel smoking his cigarette, chatting amiably to a horde of ecstatic little boys. Other vehicles in the street slowed down to look at the Cunningham. He was in danger of creating a traffic jam. When he saw us on our balcony he beckoned for us to join him. Our luggage was ready, and we dressed rapidly while porters took our trunks, loading them in the back of the car. We discovered the bill had been paid, presumably by our flamboyant benefactor. All I had to do was tip the porters. We both climbed into the front seat, with Esmé in the middle, as Santucci opened the car’s throttle, let go the clutch and steered his vast machine between the gaping drivers, almost comically pleased with the attention he received. Since he gave no explanation for his change of cars, I felt it tactless to press him for one. We were soon passing through Tivoli again, where he stopped for a few minutes outside a little brown house and went inside, then re-emerged with an expression of satisfaction. (Tivoli was the scene of an important moment for me when I returned to Italy at the Duce’s own request. I had originally been so naïve I had thought it a beer-garden, like the ones I had known as a boy in Arcadia).