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

by Michael Moorcock

  Not knowing when I could get to my money, I was preserving my small store of cash. I resisted hailing a taxi. I put the yellow peril behind me by as many blocks as possible. By then I was utterly exhausted and running a fever. I decided I must try to find accommodation in the first low-priced hotel I came to. The district here was lively but somewhat squalid, a lower class restaurant and entertainment area, advertising cheap meals, burlesque shows, movies and dance halls. Many of the women already on the late afternoon streets were evidently harlots. I had no prejudice against them. Indeed I felt immediately comforted by their familiarity. In this district I could relax and recover myself. I climbed the dilapidated steps of a five-storey redbrick building called Goldberg’s Hotel Berlin on Kearny Street. The desk was at the far end of a short, unlit passage. I could hardly see the swarthy individual dozing on the other side. He grunted at me. They had rooms. I registered under the name of Michael Fitzgerald, sure that my accent would easily be taken for the rich, rolling brogue of the Emerald Isle. I went so far as to let the desk clerk know I had until recently been with a Catholic mission in Harben, China and what a pleasure it was to speak English again, after so many years. For the moment I felt safe. I had gained time to think and rest. I would remain in San Francisco as long as possible. At least there were ships here to take me to any part of the Pacific world or the great harbour cities of the continental American coast. South and North. I had heard that Argentina was a progressive nation, anxious to experiment. In Buenos Aires they had a branch of Harrods! My room was decorated from floor to ceiling in dull orange paint. The furniture was the same colour. Grey sheets and chipped washing facilities stood out in almost brilliant contrast. I put my suitcase under the bed and went to the nearest grocery to buy a few necessities, things I could easily drink and eat through swollen lips. My face had begun to throb as the effects of the cocaine wore off. The rest of my body was a single rising wave of pain. I bought a newspaper at the corner stand when I saw the headlines.

  The paper was delirious with delight over the ‘K-K-KRACK UP!’, the division in Klan ranks. A certain obscure Texas dentist, Hiram Evans, proclaimed himself, the paper said, Imperial Wizard, and announced his intention of ridding the Klan of its traitors, people of loose moral character, of doubtful loyalty. Minutes after the successful putsch Eddy Clarke had been indicted under both the Volsted and Mann acts for licentious and vicious behaviour, which they claimed had occurred some years earlier. Mrs Mawgan was described as a woman of doubtful virtue, mistress of a Jew speculator. Colonel Simmons was in open conflict with Evans. Major Sinclair was not mentioned. I wondered if he, like me, had been beaten up, or even killed. According to the reporter, Klankrest had become as sinister as Caligula’s court, with plotters and assassins skulking in every corridor. The entire Klan seemed on the point of falling apart. I took with a pinch of salt much of what I read (‘Knives Out For Klan Renegades’, ‘Death Threats For Clarke and Supporters’) but it was clear I had no friends left in Atlanta.

  The Justice Department’s investigation of me could be part of a general attack on Klan members. Doubtless traitors within the ranks were giving information (much of it highly coloured or simply false) to the Federal men in the hope of charges being dropped. That was why Callahan was hounding me. And Brodmann, of course, posing as a White policeman, could be helping him while telling lies about me to the Klan. Things became clearer. Anyone associated with Clarke, Mawgan or even Simmons was ‘fair game’ for a witch hunt. The Klan itself, split by factions, could no longer help. Mrs Mawgan had been thrown to the wolves. She, in turn, had given them my hide. It would be sheer insanity to try to claim my money from where it had been deposited. If I were to cash a check, very likely Callahan would soon know and quickly trace me. If he was indeed working with Brodmann, my nemesis was bound to try to stir up further Klan hatred against me. Perhaps I should try to reach Canada, and from there head for England.

  Meanwhile, as long as I was reasonably careful, San Francisco, in spite of her capacity to revive unwanted memories, was ideal for my needs. Her busy slopes were filled to extravagance with the nations of the world, with the very rich and the horribly poor, with eccentrics, madmen, cripples, beggars and every kind of criminal. Her slums lacked the worst miseries of Galata, her mansions were marginally less opulent than Stamboul’s, but she was otherwise that city’s equal in vulgar variety. I stayed in my room, bathing my wounds in witchhazel and antiseptic, waiting for the bruising to subside so I would be at least unremarkable, if not presentable. I decided to seek the help of Santucci’s cousin, Vince Potecci, at the Ristorante Venezia. I checked the map I had bought and found the address was not very far away on Taylor Street. I could get there easily by streetcar. Since Major Sinclair and The Knight Hawk had vanished (I learned some time ago he had escaped in his ship to Mexico and ended his life giving joy rides to dagoes) Mr Potecci was my only safe contact in America. I was willing, until matters settled a little, to return to my old trade of jobbing mechanic, but I hoped to be offered a loan. I would throw myself as much as I dared upon the mercy of Santucci’s cousin.

  As soon as my face and hands only marginally betrayed the signs of my beating, I set off for Taylor Street, near fishing quays where the rigging of little crab boats cross-hatched the spaces between the houses. There was a mouth-watering smell of fresh seafood and cooked lobster. Clouds of gulls hung over the wharves, wheeling and shrieking, fighting for scraps. I found the restaurant, left my message with a sleepy old woman who held the envelope carefully in both hands. She yawned, assuring me it would be safely delivered. Then I strolled back. In a typical San Franciscan morning, foggy and damp, thin sunshine was breaking through. I decided to explore the city, as was my habit. I had become stiff from spending so long in bed. I needed exercise. Trudging through little streets and alleys in the general direction of my hotel I came eventually into a slum favoured by hop-heads and winos. Occasionally I was whispered at from a doorway, but was not otherwise disturbed. I turned into Clay Street, glancing at a small, sleazy theatre and found myself staring in astonishment at the smiling face of Mrs Cornelius. She was one of three girls in a photograph, part of a chorus line, advertising a show called Beauties From Blighty. The Latest Concert Party Sensation From England. I burst out laughing at my own surprise. So close was the threat of the engulfing nightmare I was sure I had begun to indulge in wishful hallucinations. I forced myself to go on a few feet and peered into the cluttered window of a faded delicatessen while I collected my wits. I returned slowly. Like most of the places in this area the theatre was run-down, an edifice of damp, flaking brick and peeling red and white paint, called for some reason Stranoff’s Russian Commedia. It advertised ‘movies’ as well as ‘live-shows’. It occurred to me, cautiously, that Mrs Cornelius’s film contacts had paid off: she was not physically in San Francisco, but was appearing in a kino play. I tried the doors. The place was locked, back and front. The Matinee began at 2:30 pm. In a daze, I returned to Goldberg’s hotel and sat down on my narrow bed to write another note. I would assume Mrs Cornelius to be working at the theatre. If they would not allow me through the stage door she would at least read my note and have me admitted or send word when she had finished her turn. Once again I congratulated myself on the saving instinct which led me always to large cities where such coincidences were the stuff of ordinary experience. Mrs Cornelius, my guardian angel, might again be able to save me. The hope revived that my present circumstances were merely a minor setback in a career which, with a tiny amount of good fortune, could only prosper.

  As it happened, when at two o’clock I arrived at the stage door, there was no one to stop me. I was able to wander freely through a mysterious succession of musty tiled corridors until I found the dressing-rooms. There were only three. One was marked Actors, one Actresses and the third, cryptically. Others. I knocked on the ladies’ door and heard familiar English giggles and shrieks. A voice shouted for me to enter. I turned the handle and was immersed suddenly in a confusion o
f tinsel and cheap brightly coloured fabric, the smell of sweat, paint and strong perfume. Smoking and still wearing her street clothes (a gorgeous pink frock with green trim) Mrs Cornelius stood leaning against an unplastered wall. Her blonde hair was fashionably waved. She wore bright red lipstick. With her emphatic mascara and rouge, she looked even lovelier than when I had last seen her in Constantinople.

  She recognised me. At first she was expressionless, shaking her head. ‘Bloody ’ell,’ she said. ‘Wotcher, Ivan.’ She began to chuckle. ‘It’s abart time ya turned up. Yore lookin’ the toff orl right. So yore doin’ as well as yer said, eh! ’Ave yer come ter take me orf ter ’Ollywood?’

  I moved forward uncertainly between the clutter and the two other young women, oblivious of them. I took her hand and kissed it. ‘You remain the most beautiful creature in the world!’ I was entranced, as always. I could not disguise my ecstatic emotion. Behind me the skinny little girls giggled and whispered. Mrs Cornelius leaned forward to kiss me on the cheek. Her fragrance was intoxicating. ‘Come orf it, Ive. We ain’t on stage fer anuvver ten minutes! Still, I carn’t say I’m not pleased ter see yer, ’cause I am. Wot yer bin up ter?’

  It was my turn to smile. ‘Oh, all kinds of things. In the past year I’ve been on tour.’

  ‘Wot? Actin’?’

  ‘You could say so. They call it lecturing. How long have you been here?’

  She had arrived in New York the previous summer. The show had been booked by an agency which led them to believe they would be appearing in major theatres. ‘Instead we come on between ther bloody flickers while they’re changin’ the effin’ reels. Ter keep ther bleedin’ customers from tearin’ up ther rotten seats!’ She shrugged, dismissing a wealth and variety of disappointments with her usual good humour. ‘But at least we’re workin’. An’ ther Yanks ain’t bad audiences, mostly. This is ther biggest bookin’ we’ve ’ad since Phily-bloody-delphia. We got anuvver week, then it’s renewable. Dunno wot we’ll do if they don’t bleedin’ renew. Ther bloke managin’ us run off ter Brazil in February, wiv ther juvenile lead, littel effin’ poof.’

  As she talked she began, with unconscious grace, to change into her costume. ‘Wot woz yore management like?’

  ‘I’m in a similar predicament. A change of directors. No further bookings. I’m currently at a loose end.’

  She looked back at me, cigarette in the corner of her mouth, a small frown in her eyes. ‘Ya bin duffed up, ain’t yer? ’Oo dun it, Ive?’

  ‘Cowboys,’ I said. ‘My last appearance wasn’t received too well. One of those Western towns.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she agreed, ‘they let yer know when yer ain’t goin’ over too well. So yore art o’ work, eh? Ya c’d orlways come in wiv us. Ya couldn’t do worse’n ther larst bloke. Managin’, I mean.’ She made small, dainty adjustments to her tights and spangled bodice. The costume matched those her friends were wearing.

  I had nothing else to do. I would dearly love to be close to the woman who had been my most reliable friend. Yet I had no general experience of theatre work. I did not know what rates to charge or how to approach owners. There again I was sure to learn quickly. I said the idea had its attractions. She seemed pleasantly surprised. ‘Buy me some supper after ther show,’ she said as the distorted sounds of music came from the auditorium. ‘And we’ll tork abart it some more.’ She tripped towards the darkness.

  ‘Oh do, please do help us!’ whispered the last girl hastily, turning huge, vulnerable eyes on me. Then all three ran for the stage. The girl at the rear offered me a red grin.

  That night Mrs Cornelius and I ate at Hong Kong Willy’s on Grant Avenue. ‘It woz yore fault, reelly,’ she said. ‘Writin’ orl them bleedin’ letters sayin’ ‘ow great it woz ‘ere. So I jumped at ther chance, din’ I? Yer orta think it over, this opportunity I’m offerin’.’ She had already convinced me (as she would always convince me) that my ‘gift of the gab’ made me ideally suited to manage the Beauties from Blighty. ‘It only needs a few ‘undred dollars extra cash ter get us orf ther grahnd. An’ you’ve got that much easy, aincha? Give it a try, Ivan, since yer’ve nuffink else on. We got orl the leaflets an’ stuff. Ya could do it! A small stake an’ you own ther Beauties.’

  I was too embarrassed to tell her that my money was hard to liquidate. I promised her a decision as quickly as possible. I was certain I could manage the troupe. She had explained how the important trick was to keep the attention of theatre owners long enough to convince them of the value of the act. But money would be needed for improvements, to pay travel expenses for a while, and so on. It would mean that I should have to risk a visit to my bank. It was only on this point I hesitated.

  When I returned to Goldberg’s a youngish man was waiting for me in the alcove beside the desk. He was tall, fashionably dressed and courteous, carrying himself with a straight-shouldered stance suggesting a military or sporting background. I was sure he was from the Justice Department and was on the point of asking how he had traced me when he introduced himself as Harry Galiano and vigorously shook my hand. With relief I realized he was an emissary from Annibale Santucci’s cousin. My message had been received. ‘If you ain’t too busy, the boss could see you tonight.’ He spoke with grave politeness. I asked for a moment to go to my room. There I used some of Mrs Mawgan’s remaining ‘wings’ to ensure I had a few more hours of wakefulness. When I rejoined him he smiled suddenly, with the same cheerful insouciance as Santucci. He was quite as proud, when he escorted me round the corner into Broadway, of the large blue Packard parked there. ‘Be my guest,’ he said. With a flourish he opened the passenger door.

  For some time we drove in silence through the diffused, multicoloured night of downtown San Francisco. The fog was growing thicker. Harry was content to concentrate on steering his big machine through the confused traffic of Market, past the cable car terminus, and to the wharf, visible as a series of yellow lights barely piercing the fog. We were guided up the ramp by at least half a dozen shadowy men in blue overalls and then, with a moan, the ferry staggered in the water, lurched sluggishly from the dockside, settling down to a steady speed as she ploughed out into the unseen waters of the Bay. It was only then, as we stood smoking beside the shackled Packard, that Harry became talkative. He and Vince, he said, were ‘buddies from way back’, first in the hotel trade, as chefs, later as restaurant owners. These days his boss ran a select country-club out past Berkeley. That was where we were going. I would like the club. It was very European. Very high class.

  We drove off the ferry on the Oakland side. The dark water fell behind us; the steep town dwindled to isolated homes, then we were on a highway, running wide and straight between hilly woods. At last, turning into a shrub-bordered driveway, we approached a large building, three storeys high resembling a marble hacienda. It bore the illuminated legend Gold Nugget Road House. Clearly a fashionable restaurant, the place had at least twenty cars parked outside. Nothing could be seen through the thickly curtained windows from which music and laughter warmed the chill of the night. Harry parked the Packard at the rear, led me to a side door and knocked lightly. We were admitted by another Italian, lugubrious and thin in tight-fitting evening clothes, who said the boss was upstairs and expecting us. Two flights of concrete steps took us to the top of the building and through a fire door. Suddenly we had entered a passage expensively decorated in the latest somewhat jazzy fashion. I was reminded of Italy and her Futurists. We passed through several rooms, all in the same style. Everything was grey, blue or pink, including the glass tables and wall mirrors. Then, on the other side of a soft archway, a squat, swarthy man in middle years, also wearing a tuxedo, came forward to take my hand. ‘Mr Peters? I’m Vince Potter. What can I give you to drink? It’s all McCoy.’ Expansively, he opened the flap of a huge cocktail cabinet resembling one of the more elaborate cinema organs. ‘You do partake?’

  When I told him I did, he seemed to hesitate. Then he shrugged and poured me the McCoy. It tasted like scotch.

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nbsp; He was solicitous in a humorous, slightly bantering way. ‘So what happened to you? I get a wire from little Annibale in Rome to say to look out for you. Then nothing. We thought you was dead, you know? From where was it? Minnesota? St Paul? Now you need a job or what? You got experience? What experience?’

  ‘I’m fundamentally a scientist and engineer.’ I explained a little of my career, how I had run up against both the Ku Klux Klan and the Justice Department through no fault of my own. I needed employment under a fresh identity for a while. ‘I can work on planes, boats, cars. Anything mechanical.’ I thought it best to play down my lecturing career, seeing no point in offending an immigrant who had almost certainly been raised as a Catholic. Besides, it had no relevance to my current situation.