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

by Michael Moorcock

  It was not long before the train began to near Washington and Jimmy led me back to where Lucius Mortimer lay curled in sleep across three seats. He woke up suddenly, glaring at Jimmy as if we had attacked him, then as he recognised us he began to smile. Upon our enquiring after his health, he said he felt much better. We prepared to disembark.

  Since our carriages had been cooled by fans, I was not ready for the heat. It struck me the moment I stepped onto the platform. I had thought, since New York had been so warm, I was suitably dressed for Washington, but the humidity here was profound. One waded in it as if eye deep in a lake, constantly struggling for breath. I was aware of nothing else until we had entered the cab taking us to our hotel. I sank back, gasping, while Jimmy and Lucius laughed at my discomfort. They had known what to expect and were used to it. I asked what kind of person would site the centre of government in the middle of what was plainly a tropical swamp. For a moment, through the windows, I saw nothing but confirming greenery, but this gave way to lawns, brick and stone buildings spaced so far apart I felt almost uneasy, for I had become used to the dense concentration of New York. Indeed, I had a desire to pull down the cab’s blinds until we reached our hotel. It was close to dusk, yet the air was still hot and damp, and to me the city seemed virtually deserted; hardly a city at all. ‘You’ll either learn to take it easy here,’ Jimmy explained sympathetically, ‘or the weather’ll kill you.’ Now there were vague glimpses of wide, tree-lined streets, large white buildings, a few illuminated signs. The buildings came closer together and grew a little taller by the time we stopped, but I still felt uncomfortable, physically and psychically, as we entered the dim lobby of the old-fashioned hotel my friends had selected. It was called Wormley’s and was apparently very respectable. We seemed the youngest guests by twenty years. In contrast to the world outside, the hotel seemed unusually cramped and everything in it crowded together. My room was small. Its wallpaper displayed a succession of golden eagles. It had a large fan on the ceiling and this cooled the air enough for me to recover, wash, and dress for dinner. Jimmy and Lucius had already arranged to meet their political friends, so I wished to look my best.

  By the time we went out again, the city was dark. The streets were well lit, though unnaturally wide, and the electrics glinted off the thick foliage of oaks, chestnuts and cherries. Washington gave the impression of being half town, half forest. Again I felt extremely uneasy, as if foolishly I had allowed myself to be lured out of an environment where I could trust my judgement and into one where it would be impossible for me to make well calculated decisions. There was something at once artificial and rural about the place. It was even less of a ‘natural’ capital than St Petersburg. Perhaps its only industry was politics? I suggested this to my companions and they were amused. ‘Its main products are hot air and niggers,’ said Jimmy, ‘and you can’t see much of either in the dark.’

  Pennsylvania Avenue was as wide and tree-lined as the other streets I had so far seen. Set back from the road was the Colonial (what the English tend to call ‘Georgian’) neo-Graecian structure known as the Restaurant Pocock. Inside was all the atmosphere associated with the best sort of London club. Women were not allowed there and the main rooms were filled with well to do, self-confident men, most of whom evidently knew one another. Again, the three of us were the youngest guests. I assumed most of the restaurant’s clients were in politics. They carried themselves with the amiable assurance of men used to authority. There was a preponderance of grey hair and white whiskers, large cigars and quiet, private humour. I could not remember ever before visiting an establishment which had, down to the pattern on the carpet, such an impervious ambience. One could be certain that every single individual in the place was a true born American. I think this added to my own sense of relaxation. As our trio (‘the Three Musketeers’, Jimmy called us) entered we were greeted by a deferential negro who showed us to a table already occupied by two older men. The table was in an alcove made invisible from the street by lace curtains and heavy drapes. Arranged about the Restaurant Pocock’s walls glass cases contained old books, ornaments, a variety of bric-à-brac. All of these, Jimmy assured me, had historical importance. This was my first real encounter with the American obsession for honouring almost any artefact older than twenty years as an antique. He apologised for arranging the meeting at Pocock’s which he thought stuffy and ‘dry’. It was almost impossible to get a drink in Washington unless you were at someone’s private house. We should have to go through the dinner on grape juice and pop. I am still more amused than upset by this state of affairs, though wine had become commonplace to me, but it was a source of permanent anger to many Americans.

  At the table I was introduced to Mr Charles Roffy and Mr Richard Gilpin who received me with exquisite and elaborate manners. They said they were glad to know me. ‘Delighted to welcome such a distinguished visitor to our capital,’ said Mr Roffy. I was to call them Charlie and Dick. I said I also was glad to know them and would be flattered if they would address me as Max. They smiled and laughed and patted my arm saying they were easy-going people down here and not given to a whole lot of formality. They were pleased I found their rough country ways acceptable. This self-deprecating style was, I knew, a feature of genuinely good breeding in America. Charlie Roffy was a tall man whose large, comfortable belly threatened the buttons of his waistcoat. He breathed heavily, as fat men sometimes do, and the redness of his face served to emphasise his slate-coloured eyes, a shock of fading sandy hair and greying moustache. He had heard my mother was English. His own ancestors were from Yorkshire. Did I know Yorkshire? I said I had rarely been North of the Border, save as a boy. This evidently satisfied Jimmy Rembrandt who glanced at Lucius Mortimer with the air of a teacher observing a favourite student. Dick Gilpin, older, with that stern, military face once identified with Victorian generals, a thick white walrus moustache and snow-white hair worn rather long, was the epitome of the distinguished statesman. He looked me over shrewdly even as he joked that his own forefathers had been somewhat more cautious in describing their exact origins. He believed some to have been cattle thieves in Kent. Quite possibly my ancestors had hanged some of his. This was another feature of the American aristocrat, they frequently claimed wild antecedents in a vaguely located past. I was a little confused by the statement. Later I would meet men who boasted romantically of their Indian blood while their grandfathers, who had been settlers, cheerfully described how they had almost single-handedly wiped out an entire aboriginal nation. Moreover nothing had really prepared me for the dry humour, subtlety and breeding of these two Southern diplomats. Russia had always identified Americans as rough, naïve characters wearing shaggy buckskins or vulgar checks, eating raw buffalo meat, loudly bullying waiters with demands for ‘pie’. These called me ‘my dear sir’ and discussed with some regret the decline in the cuisine at Delmonico’s.

  The two charming gentlemen won me over at once. They led me into a world I had never thought to experience, a fresh dream of Southern elegance and power, so potent it almost compensated me for my temporary loss of Esmé. Charlie Roffy told me they were both from Memphis. Their money was in cotton which was presently booming. They foresaw however an ultimate decline in the cotton trade. Memphis needed new money. That meant Memphis had to have industry. The river had always done well for the cotton trade; perhaps it would continue to do well for some other enterprises, but he and his partner were thinking in terms of speed. Since the War, he was convinced the future lay in aviation. Dick Gilpin agreed enthusiastically. Both men feared that unless investment were swiftly found for an indigenous Southern aviation industry, the North would, as he put it, once again beat them to the draw where commercial plane services were concerned. A completely Southern aircraft industry was needed, with its own brand of machines, its own aerodromes, its own power structure. Hundreds of flyers returning from Europe were Southerners. In that respect, at any rate, the expertise was available. He knew a number of politicians close to the Hard
ing administration who were of like mind and could help push through government funds. ‘What we have to come up with first, Max, is a better plane, together with some solid designs for the ‘drome. Then we can discuss the various services we’ll provide. What’s most important is that the machines be built in Tennessee. Only solid manufacturing will make us secure. We have to stop thinking of ourselves as farmers. We must put our profits into factory plants while we still have profits. Money isn’t stocks and shares, it’s bricks and mortar. We hope you’ll be able to help us realise that dream, sir.’

  I was pleased with his directness. I already had some experience running factories abroad, I said, and, of course, I had the most advanced designs available for aircraft, both of the lighter-than-and heavier-than-air varieties.

  ‘We need to convince government departments of that, you understand,’ said Dick Gilpin. ‘Look good as well as do good, if you follow me. We have plenty of competitors in this town, as you can guess.’

  Hoping it was not untoward, I took the liberty of showing them some of my press cuttings. They were my affidavits, after all. I also produced my diploma from the St Petersburg Academy, various letters, and all the documents I had carefully brought out of Russia. Of course, they were in foreign languages, apart from the ship’s newspaper report, but the two men seemed satisfied. Only the Russian papers disturbed them. In my anxiety to impress I had made a stupid mistake. ‘What language would this be, son?’ asked Charlie Roffy, stroking his pepper and salt moustache.

  It was Rembrandt who saved me. That’s Greek. A whole lot of those European universities still write their diplomas in it, sir, as you know.’

  Dick Gilpin was relieved. ‘So long as it ain’t Russian! I’d hate to discover you were a Bolshevist, boy!’

  I could not avoid a serious response. ‘I am dedicated to the destruction of Bolshevism in any form.’

  They in turn were comforted and approving. Dick Gilpin raised a hand, nodding rapidly, his chin on his chest, his lips thrust out. ‘You’ve been in Europe and seen what they can do to a country. Forgive our bad taste, sir.’

  Jimmy Rembrandt said he would have the diplomas translated and a general list of my ‘credits’ typed up by tomorrow. Meanwhile, some of my plans were already before the Secretary of the Interior and at the Patent Office. This, too, enthused our hosts, though they were puzzled as to why I had sent patents to the Department of the Interior. I said I had believed it the best place for them. My inventions ranged, after all, from planes to ploughs.

  ‘We’ve plenty of good friends in that department.’ Dick Gilpin lit a cigar. ‘If we can be of use to you please let us know.’

  We agreed to meet in a day or so. Then we might discuss future plans in greater detail. The older men regretted they had business commitments and could not spend the entire evening with us. They insisted on paying the whole bill before saying goodbye. They left us with our coffee. Captain Rembrandt was delighted. ‘You’ve made a hit,’ he said. ‘Those two codgers are amongst the cunningest old foxes in Washington. They know everybody and can get almost anything they want. They’ll be checking on you now, Max. But don’t worry, they won’t look in the foreign papers.’ I was a little surprised by this apparent cynicism, yet he spoke of Roffy and Gilpin most admiringly. He said it was not cynicism. ‘It’s realism. Max. This here’s a political city. They have to be as sure of you as they can be.’

  ‘I’m still not clear what it is they want.’

  ‘Expertise,’ said Lucius Mortimer. ‘Authenticity. They need at least one genuine scientist, a real authority to develop and project their plans, if they are to get government backing. They mean to have the first licences to operate commercial flights out of Memphis. Gilpin didn’t mention it, but his son was a pilot. The boy never made it back from France. He’d talk of a time when passenger planes would replace trains. That’s why Gilpin wants to get in early. Look at the fortunes made in railroads. And Ford with his automobiles. The next real killing must be in the air.’

  I said it was rare to encounter such vision. But I could not determine why they should want a new plane.

  ‘Roffy believes the man who controls plane manufacturing also ultimately controls the air roads, Max.’ Mortimer warmed a fresh cigar. ‘J.P. Morgan didn’t just own the rolling stock. He bought the factories which made the locomotives. Roffy’s a man dedicated to pulling the South out of her industrial decline. You’ve spoke often of Birth of a Nation, so you know what I mean. While she remains mainly a crop economy, Dixie’ll never have the power to challenge the big Northern financial interests. Roffy gets a lot of resistance from the more old-fashioned people in Memphis, but he knows exactly what he’s about. His great-uncle was a steamboat owner in the days when Mississippi water could hardly be seen for river traffic all the way down to New Orleans. But Memphis has relied on the river and cotton too long. Gilpin sees it ending. Not in ten years, maybe. But twenty. In the meantime, you could say, they’re buying themselves insurance.’

  ‘You said he was cunning.’ I was cautious, not completely satisfied everything was as it should be. ‘I don’t want Gilpin to involve me in another swindle.’

  ‘This isn’t a swindle, old man, it’s a symphony,’ said Lucius Mortimer.

  ‘He means it’s an idealistic venture as much as a financial one. It will bring something good to everyone associated with it.’ Jimmy Rembrandt had noticed my puzzlement. I was never wholly able to master American slang, though my proficiency would, of course, increase, and when they spoke together they remained hard to follow.

  Later that night we drove out of the city towards Arlington. Jimmy and Lucius said we should celebrate. Our rented car was one of the better types of Ford, though unremarkable compared to what I was used to. Steering by moonlight we eventually turned off the main road and rolled slowly up a wooded track, into the driveway of a large house. It resembled an old Southern mansion, with a stone verandah and marble pillars, though most of it was of red brick, with white shutters. Here, my two friends said, we would be able to get a decent drink.

  The house turned out to be a kind of discreet club, evidently suited to the needs of the wealthy. Save for the foyer, there were no public rooms. We were ushered, by a conservatively dressed middle-aged lady, to a suite of chambers furnished in red velvet and dark pine. ‘It’s on the expenses,’ Jimmy told me mysteriously. ‘You can order whatever you like.’

  Once again that evening I found myself embarrassed, having no clear idea of his meaning. The room was beautifully decorated in a style reminiscent of French Empire. There were two or three small anterooms leading off the main one, together with a marble bathroom and toilet. The windows were closed to the world outside so the whole atmosphere was hushed and still. I remained hesitant and baffled. It evidently suited my friends to keep the secret for a while, for I was sure they could tell my state of mind.

  ‘I think we should have some champagne.’ Lucius loosened his tie. ‘Even if it’s a little premature. What would you say to some peachy female company, Max? Only the best. We’re privileged to be here, you know. Normally you have to be at least sixty and a Senator or an Admiral to get through those doors.’

  It dawned on me at last that the house was actually an exclusive bordello. I had heard that they existed in America; places where men of affairs could come without fear of interference or scandal. The discretion and sophistication of modern Americans continued to astonish me. There were subtleties to the culture which could never be guessed at unless one was exposed to them.

  I spent my first night in the American capital sniffing excellent ‘snow’ and sharing a bottle of mediocre sparkling wine with a luscious flapper. She was a strawberry blonde in a green satin shift who called me ‘handsome’ and said I was ‘simply cute’. The girls of New York had been nothing more than ordinary harlots one found in any big city. These Washington whores were the playthings of generals and congressmen. They were on a higher level completely. An oysnam fun der velt! I have never enjoyed my
self so thoroughly at a brothel. Next morning Jimmy Rembrandt asked me if I had been satisfied with the girls. Sind die Russen und Polen Freunde? I had tasted the rewards awaiting success in America. This helped relieve me of my burden of melancholy. I could scarcely bear to think of Esmé or the difficulties poor Kolya must be encountering in Paris where he must still desperately be working to clear my name. But no good could be served by brooding. The better the distraction the more effective I could be when the time came for our reuniting.

  There is a price to be paid for this method of survival.

  Ich habe es dreifach bezahlt.

  FIFTEEN

  THERE IS A WIND from Tatary which blows the spoors of decadence across the world. In palaces ferociously isolated from reality languid Sultans conjure wicked and fantastic abstractions affecting the concrete destinies of millions. Trained houris, forever nibbling and sucking at their masters’ private parts, confirm them in their illusion of absolute authority. Many who inhale this Oriental wind are immediately drugged; its perfumed currents permeate the world’s richest merchant cities, making men believe they have only to speak of fortunes to become immediately wealthy, only to invent fanciful plots to be themselves at once possessed of political power. Hundreds of others can be convinced by these fantasies; thus providing spurious confirmation of authenticity. In Washington I began to walk on air.

  Jimmy Rembrandt and Lucius Mortimer were themselves some feet above the ground, so made no attempt to hold me down. Even Charlie Roffy and Dick Gilpin encouraged me to talk first in thousands, then in millions, then in billions. Bills were either ‘on expenses’ or ‘on the house’. My money, they would tell me frequently, was no good. It was in Washington, a place so unreal as to seem hardly a city at all, I learned that the ‘grand’ had become a unit of currency; one always referred to so many ‘grands’ and ‘half grands’. The grand is beyond money. It is used in the purchase of dreams and to impress others with the glory of those dreams. So common was this currency it seemed almost vulgar to think in terms of ordinary dollars and cents. As an official of the Mississippi & Tennessee Cotton Consortium I was given my own bank account, but did not have any immediate use for it: almost everything was done on someone else’s credit.