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

by Michael Moorcock

  When I finished talking he was frowning but seemed impressed. ‘Let me get this right,’ he said. ‘You can start an engine, for instance. Okay? Without keys?’

  ‘Of course. That would be easy.’ I could not quite follow his reasoning.

  He shrugged and poured me another McCoy. ‘Always a good talent. But what was your main racket? In the old country, I mean. With Annibale, you must have been selling and buying, you know. That’s what he does mainly.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘So you were in Paris. What was your line there?’

  ‘Aeroplanes, chiefly.’ I did not want to raise the matter of the airship company scandal.

  At this, to my surprise, he began to grin. ‘Jesus Christ! How the hell do you get rid of a hot Curtiss? No, don’t tell me. Over there, sure, it’s all governments and revolutions and what not. Like in Mexico and down in South America generally. Okay, I should tell you, the rum-running business is small bananas in comparison, though I will admit it gets competitive. We’ve got a pretty large territory to protect.’ He displayed mild, friendly puzzlement. ‘What can I say to you? A job? You could always have a job. But I don’t want to insult you. We got boats and cars need fixing, sure, but there’s plenty of mechanics. Start as a driver. You’re welcome. But you don’t want that. Another year, we could offer better for someone like yourself. I’m expanding, going into legitimate business. Now, short of starting a war with Panama, I can’t see how else I can help you out.’

  I reassured him before he became even more apologetic. I could easily find work. What I really needed was a new identity, a passport, preferably as an American citizen. He brightened at this. He was a warm hearted man and felt obliged to be useful to his cousin’s friend. He could not put me into a job worthy of my skills, because it would offend other employees, but he dearly wanted to show his concern in a practical way. ‘That’s no big deal. You got a name you want? Or do you care? A few photos and we’ll give you a whole new history.’

  I told him I was currently using the pseudonym Michael Fitzpatrick. He seemed surprised by my choice of an Irish name. After some consideration, he said: ‘You don’t think maybe that’s stacking the odds just a little against yourself?’ I took his meaning. I, of all people, should know the suspicion with which Tammany was viewed. ‘What about Manny Pashkowitz?’ he said. ‘I used to know a Manny Pashkowitz who passed on recently. That would be useful in itself, since he copped a John Doe tag in the morgue.’

  ‘I would prefer something a little less Jewish.’

  ‘I understand.’ He hummed to himself, staring off into space. ‘Then how does Pallenberg sound? Matt Pallenberg, a Swede. Nobody hates the Swedes, except maybe Finns and Danes. But who cares what they think? A nice name. He lost an argument with a Customs cutter near the Santa Barbara islands a couple of months back. I know for sure he never had no ID on him when he checked out. He’d be about the same age. Born in Stockholm, I think. Came over with his folks twenty years ago. A piece of cake. What could be neater?’

  ‘I’m very grateful, Mr Potter.’

  ’Don’t mention it. A pleasure. Stay in touch. We’re sure to have openings soon for an educated person like yourself. Some day we’ll do business, I’m certain. Now, is there anything else?’

  I asked if he would mind my having mail sent to me care of his restaurant in North Beach. He said it would delight him. With the joviality of the embarrassed host to the untimely guest, Vince Potecci slapped me on the back, insisting I take one of his Havana Corona Coronas before he returned me into the keeping of Harry Galiano who chatted nostalgically on growing up in Toledo as he drove rapidly to catch the last ferry back to San Francisco. It was only as we arrived outside Goldberg’s I realised he had been referring to Toledo, Ohio. Harry promised to come the next evening and collect my photographs. He assured me, it would be three days at most before I was completely fixed up. I asked him how he would get back to Oakland with the ferries shut down for the night. He laughed. He looked after the North Beach businesses, he said. It was five minutes to home. His parting words were significant. ‘Take care. Best to keep yourself to yourself until I get back to you. In this town you have to be careful. Never believe anyone’s who they say they are until you’ve checked them out.’ I think he knew Brodmann was looking for me. It was possible he had even heard something about Callahan, the Federal agent. Without wishing to alarm me, he was trying to warn me to be wary of them.

  In my bedroom I settled down to think. I could again begin to make plans for the future. I found Mrs Cornelius’s suggestion by far the best, of course, but remained uneasy about cashing a check. Shortly, it was true, I should soon be leaving San Francisco behind me and with it my old Peterson persona. Nonetheless, it was scarcely sensible to give my pursuers an idea of which coast I was on, let alone which city. Without the ‘float’ Beauties from Blighty would almost certainly collapse, leaving Mrs Cornelius and her friends destitute. With a few hundred dollars, there was a strong chance of going from strength to strength and, moreover, making my living in a reasonable way. The chief attraction was that I would earn my old friend’s gratitude (after all, how many times had she saved me from death, let alone discomfort?) and be close to one of my two enduring loves. That alone, surely, was worth the risk?

  The following evening Mrs Cornelius invited me to her rooming house to ‘talk things over’. Having given my photographs to Harry Galiano, I felt somewhat more relaxed as I entered a building which made Goldberg’s seem like the Ritz. It was disgusting that so fine a woman as she, who had been the intimate of princes and world leaders, should be reduced to this roach-infested hovel! No wonder she needed financial reinforcement! It was morally wrong. A woman of her sensitivity and breeding, talent and beauty, should not have to concern herself with keeping the bedding as far away from the floor as possible in order to reduce the number of verminous creatures running over her body at night. ‘Oh,’ she said courageously, ‘I’ve known a lot worse, Ive. Still, I must say, ther wages might not be much bigger over ‘ere, but the bleedin’ insects certinly are!’ And she laughed, offering me some gin she had bought for the occasion. She asked if I had given any further thought to becoming ‘chief share’older an’ manager of our littel troupe’. I refused to burden her with my own problems. I merely said I was waiting to hear from my accountant. ‘Better make up yer mind soon, Ivan,’ she said, ‘or I’ll ‘ave ter look up ther nearest nunnery an’ take ther vow!’

  I was horrified at the notion of her becoming enslaved by the Church. I asked if there were alternatives. ‘It’s gettin’ darn ter ‘awkin’ me ‘a’penny,’ she said ambiguously, ‘or bein’ picked up on wot I gather they corl in these parts a “vag rap”. Ter vamp or ter vag, thass ther question, Ive!’

  There was desperation, I was sure, beneath her light-hearted words. I was the only one who could save her. She said as much to me that night as she kissed me on the cheek and waved me good night.

  A little drunk, doing everything I could to disguise the fact, I made my way up steep, unfamiliar streets in the small hours of the morning. Somehow I found myself on Stockton, in the no man’s land between Little Italy and Chinatown, foolishly wondering whether to go North or South when, had I considered the problem sensibly for a moment, I should have gone East. At last I got my bearings, thankfully recognising a late-night drugstore on Dupont. This part of the city was virtually deserted. It was three o’clock. A light drizzle had begun to fill the air and the street lights shivered and grew dim. I wore no topcoat or hat, so turned up my jacket collar and pressed on until I could round the corner into Kearny Street. My head was down. I did not look up until I was less than a block from Goldberg’s. As I raised my eyes I recognised a figure, in heavy leather coat and wide-brimmed hat, who moved abruptly from the yellow circle of gaslight and walked with unnatural speed towards Broadway. It was as if I had disturbed a thief. Then, as the figure pressed on, labouring through the rain until it was out of sight, I knew I had seen Brodmann! He had b
een watching the hotel and had not expected me to surprise him from the rear!

  Closing Goldberg’s street door and moving carefully across the ragged linoleum in the gloom, I considered this new factor. If Brodmann were working on his own (or with his Chekist comrades) I might have a little time; if he was in league with the Justice Department or the Klan, I would be wise to leave the city immediately. Whichever was the case, I now had relatively little to lose by obtaining the ‘float’ for Mrs Cornelius. I grinned carelessly to myself. I would give them the slip again. I was to become an actor-manager. A Sir William Shakespeare. A miniature Flo Ziegfeld. A travelling player in the footsteps of Dickens and Oscar Wilde! And the wonderful, the eternally feminine Mrs Cornelius was to be Juliet to my Romeo, Frankie to my Johnny!

  The following afternoon I went round to Stranoff’s to tell her of my decision. She need no longer feel torn between Skid Row and the Little Sisters of St Francis. A living death in the service of the Pope would never be her lot while I could still draw breath. She was overjoyed, like Lillian Gish saved at the last minute from the clutches of the evil mulatto, and she hugged me, telling me I was ‘a brick’ and ‘a godsend’. She immediately began to make plans and suggest suitable locations for our future performances. I offered her $500, saying she could invest it in whatever she believed was of paramount importance to the continuing existence of Beauties From Blighty. ‘Well,’ she said, almost skipping with delight, ‘number one’s gotta be a decent motor! Don’t worry, Ive. Ya won’t regret this, I promise.’

  Next day my new identity had arrived, more detailed and more convincing than any previous one. Still making sure Brodmann had not returned to ‘shadow’ me, I hurried to the Nob Hill branch of my California bank. There I presented a legitimate check for $750 made out to Matt Pallenberg and signed ‘Max Peterson’. At least nobody would automatically guess we were the same man. A check to cash would have made it immediately clear I was in San Francisco. I must admit I was a little clammy as the clerk, learning I had been mailed the check from Milwaukee (a further obfuscation), significantly recruited advice from hushed nether regions, bore the check to invisible arbitration, conferred in pious murmurs with various other officiates, then eventually returned, inspected my identification (even the address was in Albany), found it satisfactory and at last briskly demanded my choice of denominations as if I had handed him the check only a second or two before. I asked for $500 in large bills. This I would hand immediately to Mrs Cornelius for our Company. The rest I had in ones, fives and tens, for various emergencies, including the purchase from a source in Chinatown of high quality cocaine. The money made me substantial again and gave me the feeling of controlling my own fate. I was no longer a foreigner with suspicious Romantic blood but a Nordic descendant of Vikings (like, indeed, all the old families of Kiev), that hardy, adventurous race who, discovering America long before the Spanish Jew Columbus, had carved their runes on the sea-battered cliffs of Long Island and Nantucket, claiming the land for their wholesome, self-sufficient deities Odin, Freya and Thor; far more practical gods to rule a vital subcontinent than that repressive Jehovah of palefaced, constipated puritanism.

  I put the Ku Klux Klan behind me. Those fools had missed their chance of greatness by petty internal bickering, by turning on their best friends. They would destroy, through further stupidity and quarrelling, everything they had gained. For a while Indiana might have been the first Klan state, but another scandal ended that dream. Colonel Simmons, Eddy Clarke, even Major Sinclair and myself, were martyrs, destroyed by small-minded, cautious people or by treacherous friends like Mrs Mawgan. My own gifts, so cynically abused by money-grubbing politicians of the kind who destroyed idealists like Roffy and Gilpin, could still make America the world leader of technological innovation. If they wanted me in the future, they would have to crawl and beg. I was determined to renounce the false lures of their world and devote myself to play acting and private scientific speculation. I would not let them hound me. I would choose for myself when and where I left America, when to reveal my true identity. How astonished they would be! How I would laugh at them as my efficient steam-powered airship, my own refinement of the Avitor Hermes Jr which had flown from San Francisco in 1869, swam through the skies above the Golden Gate, outsped the great locomotives of the Southern Pacific. When the fiery cross next burned, a thousand feet high, on Mount Shasta, it would be the signal to all that the Invisible Empire was purified and ready to ride out once more on its holy purpose, to free America from the Orient’s envious chains! But this time I would be at the head.

  We should ride in machines of gold and brass and blinding silver and our enemies would know the helpless thrill of absolute terror. We should take our vengeance, but we should take it honourably. Wake up, America! Your skies fill with an avenging army and only the just shall survive! The first phase of my Kampfzeit had drawn to a close. The second would soon begin. Meanwhile, as a simple, strolling player, I would mingle with the ordinary people, drawing my strength from the grassroots, the backbone of America. I had flown too high, too soon, through no fault of my own. Now I must restore myself, plant my boots firmly on the ground and begin again. You would not hear my voice whining Amerika! Twoje dzielo. Our little band would grow, but not by many, and I would continue to remain true to my ideals. For a while, however, they would have to be adapted to the requirements of the musical comedy. Erst waren es Sieben. Sie kämpften und blutetan für Amerikas Freiheit.

  Mrs Cornelius had bought an old Cadillac ambulance for a song. Slightly refitted, with the name of our Company painted in the latest modernistic lettering on her sides, the machine was a bargain. Mrs Cornelius and the other two girls were all that remained of the original troupe, but she was confident we should swell the ranks back to seven by recruiting as we travelled. They had bought material and made new costumes, some of which would be for the new sketch I had outlined to Mrs Cornelius as my first contribution. Within a very short time we were ready to begin our northward journey along the Pacific Coast. I was excited, of course, but also more than usually nervous, uncertain of my abilities as an actor-manager. Mrs Cornelius constantly reassured me that it was ‘a piece of cake’ and ‘far easier than it looks’. Nonetheless, I twice came close to giving the idea up and taking the first tramp to Tahiti.

  Eventually I rallied. I wrote further letters to Esmé, to Kolya and one to Santucci, thanking him for his help. I told them all I could be reached in care of the Ristorante Venezia, Taylor Street. I had given up politics because I was disgusted with the corruption I had discovered. Eventually I planned to resume my scientific career.

  I should not have delayed as long as I did. Coming out of Goldberg’s on my way to meet Mrs Cornelius, who already had my suitcase packed in the back of the van, I saw Brodmann—or rather his leather coat—slip from view round the corner of the bakery across the street. I ran after him but he was already flying down the pavement to disappear below the horizon. I could not decide why he should go to such pains to avoid recognition. There was no telling what complicated game he was playing with his allies as well as his quarry. Rather than go directly to where I had told Mrs Cornelius to pick me up, I took a series of sidetracks, moving in and out of alleys doubling back on myself, and so arrived outside the little Dupont Street drugstore rather later than I had said. Everyone else was ready in the van. The two girls sat behind while Mrs Cornelius, a little drunk, waited in the seat beside mine. The engine was started and we were, in her words, ‘ready to roll.’ With a great sigh of relief I let off the brake, engaged the gears and began the labouring journey towards Market Street. The van had an excellent engine for its age, but was somewhat overloaded. Mrs Cornelius was full of her old exuberance, leading the other girls and myself in the choruses of her favourite songs.

  By the time we were on the road to Salinas we had sung our way through most of her repertoire and I was teaching her My Old Kentucky Moon which I had learned only a month earlier from the treacherous Mrs Mawgan. Occasionall
y I would glance back the way we had come, but saw no driver resembling Brodmann. I was childishly happy to be with her again and travelling. Es dir oys s’harts! I could put the past entirely from my mind and concentrate cheerfully upon the future. I kissed her cheek affectionately.

  Mrs Cornelius giggled. ‘You’ll do, Ivan. We’re on our way ter Glory, mate!’ A moment later, with an astonished groan, she threw up in my lap.

  TWENTY

  I COULD NOT GO BACK to Odessa. Even if it were possible, what would I find? A rationalised corpse; a poor reproduction? Nothing is left of my cities. All that remained was a future; now even that is denied me, for Carthage laid waste its foundations. The present is obscene. What do they expect me to make of it? Those lost cities: those stillborn marvels! I offered the solution. They rejected it. Surely the Jew in Arcadia did not betray me? I loved him. The metal was introduced out there, while I lay helpless against their synagogue. I choose who is and who is not a Jew. I choose the way to a safer, ordered world. I choose to say what is fact and what is fiction. Dissatisfied with mere victory, Carthage made war on my dreams.

  Carthage came marching against Byzantium. I fought. I drove the enemy back. My dreams soared again. No little black hands clung to my anchor lines. No mocking nigger eyes traded on my guilt. What reason I should feel guilty? I have done something with myself. I am an engineer of long experience.

  For all that year and the one which followed Carthage hid her masts behind the horizon. How could I know she still pursued us? I journeyed into a world of illusions. I cannot say I regret it. Indeed, I would dearly love to see the fantasy restored. Reality is not in itself valuable. But I did not know that. Those Nazis were barbarians. Like the Bolsheviks before them, they were willing recruits in the infantry of Carthage. They called Hitler their ‘new Alexander’. What cities did they leave in their wake? What enduring monuments? Sachsenhausen? Buchenwald? Dachau? Twelve million slaughtered lagervolk (50% Jewish, 50% Slav); another twenty million miscellaneous cadavers and a crude rocket? What did Speer build which lasted just fifteen years? Even Turks showed respect for Constantinople, albeit by imitation. Carthage creates only ash and mud, mixes these together, moulds the result on frames of twisted barbed wire, then hails the result, these shambling grotesques, as the Obermenschen of their impoverished mythology. Today I have no time for self-professed enemies of Carthage. They are too easily seduced. My Baroness von Ruckstühl was killed in Berlin. That city was never the best refuge for a philosemitic Slav, yet it was a Russian bomb which took her life. Stalin’s answer to a problem was the simplest of all. If it could not be quickly solved, he destroyed it. Nit problem. This is fundamental to the philosophy of Carthage. I fail to understand this Liebschaft mit der Nazi. Er verfluchte die Zukunft. Er verlachte den Amerikaner. Er lachte laut! But was ist Amerika und seiner Venegurung in kontrast? Es ist komish! Der Nazi er eine Wille to self-destruction has in stronger form. Um so besser. Begreifen sie das Problem? These daytsh broynfel lombard-tseshterniks are no better than Bolsheviks, concerned with the same silly sport. Auschwitz? Treblinka? Babi Yar? I offered them a sky-borne Alexandria! Always in sunshine. Always warm.