I claim only novelty as the explanation for any success we achieved on the Pacific Coast. Mrs Cornelius had a real show business talent which she owed chiefly to her exuberant vitality. She herself would always admit she had no outstanding gifts. Because I was more comfortable there (having made few public appearances in the State) most of the bookings I organised were in California. We became innocent again; Wandervögel, moving from town to town. This had definite advantages for our theatrical troupe. If you remain only briefly in a place and then swiftly travel on, your ability is rarely questioned while your novelty frequently passes for talent. Most of our audiences were grateful for any entertainment and we were able to satisfy them reasonably well. We toured regularly from the vicinity of Crescent City on the Oregon border all the way down to the San Diego region. We were tempted to cross into Mexico, but thought it unwise, given the problems we were likely to encounter with immigration. We were rarely the only feature on the bill. Sometimes, to fill in for a late or missing act, I even resumed my old role, lecturing to miners on the wonders of the future, or talking to fishermen about the perils of foreign Communism. We also performed our little musical play. It was of my own concoction. Wearing Don Cossack uniform and brandishing Georgian pistols, I played a Russian prince in love with Mrs Cornelius’s Bolshevik commissar. She elects, at the end, to go with me into exile. I called it White Knight and Red Queen. I was rather flattered when this proved to be our most popular act, frequently drawing more applause than cinema films shown before and after the performance. We had become Limeys in Limelight and Mrs Cornelius had chosen the stage name of Charlene Chaplin. I was most frequently billed as Barry More. Most employers believed such names attracted custom. Privately I felt this deceptive association with the famous was likely to confuse and annoy audiences led to believe their film favourites were taking the plank stage of a tent theatre in Redondo Beach.
I became adept at securing cheap lodgings and bargaining with the proprietors of carnivals, opera houses (saloons before prohibition) and ramshackle movie theatres. Our van proved a sound investment. It often served as shelter. The gypsy life was not unhealthy and indeed we all benefited. Though frequently tired and short of money we were rarely downhearted. A good climate makes an enormous difference to one’s spirits. Sunshine is an antidote to almost any ills. English people appreciate it almost as much as Russians. The other two girls were Mabel Church and Ethel Embsay. They were usually known as Gloria de Courcey and Constance Buckingham-Fairbank. Both were plain, cheerful creatures whose popularity had much to do with a fairly indiscriminate dispensation of off-stage favours. We acquired a drunken juggler-cum-comedian called Harold Hope: he drew more applause for his lack of dexterity than for any intrinsic skill with the Indian Clubs. For a while we also had a young black-face minstrel, Will Olsen. He left us outside Monterey after attempting to force himself on Mrs Cornelius. Next we employed Chief Buffalo Nose, a fire-eater from Brooklyn. His tribe was closer to the Plattfussindianern (as the joke went in Germany during the 30s) than it was to the Schwarzefussindianern. He rarely needed artificial help in lighting his breath. What always astonished me was how he kept his stomach from igniting.
These were idyllic days. I had women almost always to hand, friendship and common sense from Mrs Cornelius, little thought for the future and less for the past. The small California towns were generally welcoming. They also possessed an innocence missed by modern Americans. Here were settlements unsullied by coloured invaders; unthreatened by godless ideologies. The soda fountain, the drugstore and the barbershop were the local meeting-places and the saloon, when it existed, was as sombre and peaceful, as respectable, as any church. I have seen the Disneyland brochures. But you cannot create Main Street as a nostalgic sideshow in a fun fair run by Mormons dressed as cartoon mice. Devo tornare indietro?
America forfeited Main Street when she turned her back on Europe, leaving us to struggle alone against Carthage. She looked inward at the moment her power and idealism reached zenith. If she had looked outward, she would still have everything she yearns for now. I was there. America was euphorically taking the path to self-defeat. She suffered the perpetual delusion of the rich: that their wealth is the reward for some inherent moral superiority. I, who shared the benefits of California’s irresponsible youth, saw no better than did they the end to the privileged golden years, the gaiety and extravagance. But my time as an actor was not wasted. I learned much about ordinary people living on slender means, experiencing the daily realities of a world many Europeans still insist is wholly glamorous, naïve or spoiled. My disappointment with America was to come later when I realised she refused her proper role of leader merely because she would rather be liked than respected. In the twenties she still had self-respect. That was why you could safely walk down Main Street, smelling sodas, malts, coffee and syrup in towns where only a generation or two earlier men had killed for a nugget of gold, a parcel of dirt.
We travelled in the footsteps of Lola Montez, who had danced her way through the lumber camps and tent towns seventy years before. From the wooden metropolises of Lost Hill to the new, brick-built dignity of Calaveras County, through the great deserts and redwood forests, over mountain ranges and between steep hills, from gold to silver to oil, we sang our songs and declaimed our lines. In cities whose boardwalks protected our feet from mud we could turn a corner and find a full-sized oil well erected in the middle of the street. The great Mother Lode, which had brought San Francisco one of her richest and wildest periods, was played out, yet the hills remained full of prospectors. We drove through the shimmering passes of the High Sierras and the vast San Joaquin Valley when the plum blossom was at its fullest, through fields of cotton, across irrigated plains with lines of eucalyptus as far as the eye could see. We rested and breathed the almost narcotic scent of orange groves, plucked fresh peaches from the tree, feasted on trout caught from cool rivers. We performed in barns, tents and the public rooms of dilapidated hotels. We travelled as far as Flagstaff, Arizona, and one night made camp close to the rim of the Grand Canyon. That primeval vastness can only be experienced, never conveyed by word or picture. We drove our old ambulance through the Painted Desert. In Monument Valley the Indians’ eyes stared upon the death of all dreams. Navajo children had the trancelike expressions I already knew from Galata and, before that, the steppe-shtetls of Ukraine. They had been born into a century which had no place for them. Their rituals and traditions had lost function and reason. Now, through no fault of their own, these Indians could never be anything but outcasts. They were parasites in their own land, like the conquered Armenians, the Palestinian Jews and Russian kulaks. They had become Musselmanisch, as they said in Buchenwald. They had, in essence, ceased to live, these exemplary citizens of Carthage.
Occasionally our tours would take us to larger cities, or at least their suburbs. It was in Auburn, a peaceful Northern Californian town, where the telegraph poles were still taller than most buildings, that I saw Brodmann again. I was crossing from a café called Rattlesnake Dick’s to the local post office. The only moving traffic on the wide steep street was a horse-buggy and two or three bicycles. The afternoon was sleepy and sunny. Auburn seemed to be enjoying a siesta. I had in my hand a note to Esmé and a postcard to Kolya. As usual I was begging for news, praying that soon one of my letters must reach them, wherever they were. I refused to consider the possibility they had been kidnapped back to Russia. Brodmann was standing on the wooden balcony of the old Freeman Hotel, at the very top of the hill. I could make out his figure clearly. Before disappearing back into the darkness of his room he waved once. I was fairly sure the gesture was simply a mocking one, but he might have been signalling to someone. I became very wary after that and insisted on leaving Auburn, to Mrs Cornelius’s annoyance since we had originally planned to spend the night there. For the next week I had difficulty playing my parts but saw no point in alarming anyone else with my knowledge. I still had no clear notion of Brodmann’s intentions. I was glad, however
, when we began to move back towards the South.
We played fairs and carnivals, wooden booths and magnificent theatres usually built for populations which had failed to materialise and which were slowly falling into decay. We played seaside resorts on piers and boardwalks, local fairs, fruit and flower festivals. We had become gypsies and were content enough, even if we sometimes dreamed of the moment when Florence Ziegfeld or Cecil B. DeMille would see us and put us under contract. We knew in our hearts it would never happen. The nearest we came at that time to someone of means taking us up was in San Luis Obispo when we heard one of William Randolph Hearst’s lieutenants was in the audience. Apparently he had been told by his boss to find some local entertainment for a party at Hearst’s ranch in the hills above the little town. I gathered we were unsuitable. No contract was offered.
In November 1923, at Huntington Beach, we were doing our Russian playlet, a couple of sketches and a song medley, filling a bill with two ‘movie-dramas’ and four other acts at Maddison’s, a little beachfront vaudeville theatre on the fringes of the ‘entertainment strip’. Like several ocean-front villages in Southern California, Huntington Beach had become part resort, with the usual small hotels, fairgrounds, boardwalk sideshows, and part oil town. Very noticeable amongst the mixture of family groups, inebriated oil-riggers, bored-looking old people and other seaside regulars, an expensively dressed but untidy man sat in the front row, transfixed by Mrs Cornelius. I admit I felt some jealousy. Ethel guessed he was a theatrical agent when he sat through both that day’s performances but when he appeared backstage with a bunch of flowers I found vulgar in both colour and size, I remembered him. He, however, did not know me, perhaps because of my makeup. I was able to block his way before he got into our dressing-room. He was apologetic, even humble. His huge greying bulk (he was not yet forty) trembled in its loose suit as he blubbered how he would dearly love to make the acquaintance of Mrs Cornelius and express his sincere admiration for her acting. I had met him in Atlanta, at the Klankrest party. John ‘Mucker’ Hever, the oil engineer, sweating a little in the heat, somewhat fatter than before, would probably not have recalled me in any event. His eyes were full of Mrs Cornelius. His mouth was full of her. He was completely smitten. I did my best to get rid of him as quickly as I could. The last thing I wanted was for my alias and whereabouts to be passed on to the Klan. I was equally frightened that the Klan’s enemies might find me. Furthermore I did not think he was an appropriate suitor for Mrs Cornelius. I took his bouquet and his card and sent him away. I gave the flowers to Mrs Cornelius, but I kept the card. I told her I had no idea who they were from. Next day, however, he was back again, with roses and gardenias, more demands for an introduction. To my dismay I had to cope with him each evening for an entire week. At least I protected Mrs Cornelius from him. I was relieved when we were on the road again, moving down the coast to San Diego. The huge white-topped breakers of the Pacific, the palms and the yellow beaches soon took my mind off ‘Mucker’, his ludicrous passion and my dismay at encountering this unexpected reviver of my previous persona.
While we played the little mock-Spanish theatres near the border, life became increasingly easy. We even had a few dollars in our cash box. I often wondered what it would have been like for me had I chosen to remain an actor. Probably I should have soon grown restless, like John Wayne or Frank Sinatra, and returned to politics. It is fashionable these days to mock Governor Reagan’s ambitions, but who can say if his natural talents would have been allowed to develop had he not taken his opportunities where he could, donning the stetson and six-gun as a champion of old virtue? He was a successful actor because he believed in his lines. Surely that is also the mark of a successful politician? The point, I would think, is not that you play a part, but that you choose which part you want.
Through the rest of 1923 and into 1924 we continually found enough work to keep body and soul together. We became polished enough to refuse the poorer bookings. Now we appeared only in permanent theatre buildings, and once or twice reached the top of the bill. Life was good. We did not overly mourn Warren Harding when he died (another victim of the Black Pope). Calvin Coolidge seemed a man of great commonsense. Our circumstances remained unchanged. For a short while the news of Lenin’s death in January 1924 brought a mild hope I might see my mother again. Nothing improved. In England the Bolsheviks increased their influence when the socialists under Ramsay MacDonald seized power. Carthage was making steady gains, but I could not see it. I scarcely cared. I agreed with Mrs Cornelius who said one morning after reading the item about Hitler’s Munich failure, ‘we’re well art of it orl, if yer arsk me, Ivan!’
Only in Italy was there any chance of political stability. In Russia, the Bolsheviks actually tightened their grip. It became clear that Lenin had been a restraining influence on the Oriental elements now apparently in power. In April 1924, at Mrs Cornelius’s insistence but against my better judgement (though I looked forward to city life again) we returned to Stranoff’s in San Francisco. They had offered us triple their old rate. We could not afford to refuse. The place was a little more decrepit but otherwise unchanged. Mrs Cornelius even found a piece of chewing-gum where she had stuck it on her last visit. We were doing White Knight and Red Queen as part of a bill including Douglas Fairbanks’s Mark ofZorro and Rudolf Valentino’s The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. On our second evening Harry Galiano arrived in my dressing-room. He was full of good cheer and with a broad grin pumped my hand. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘you’re doin’ great!’ He had brought me a letter. It had arrived earlier, in care of Mr Vince Potter at the North Beach address. ‘From Italy,’ said Harry. I reached out for it. I trembled. This letter was to bring a significant change in my life and remind me of my duty, my Lebensplan, my original course. Before I could open it Harry removed his hat somewhat awkwardly and told me with controlled sadness that Vince had been treacherously murdered about a week before the letter arrived. Harry knew Vince would have wanted to be sure I got it. I asked if he knew who killed his boss. Harry assured me with quiet confidence that justice would soon be done. He apologised for his poor manners. If there had been time to find me he would have invited me to the funeral, since I was ‘almost a relative’. I was surprised to hear Vince had followed my career with close interest. ‘We come to see you one night when you was outside Eureka some place. But we only caught half the show on account we was heading for Weaverville. We thought you was swell. Very classy. Vince was thinking about hiring you for the club. He was one of the sweetest guys in the world. But too soft, you know, for his own good. This letter come inside one from his cousin Annibale. I kept an eye on the posters, you know, and the Examiner, saw the show was in town. And here we are.’ The envelope was creased and crumpled, as if it had been thrown away and then recovered. I scarcely dared open it. Harry grinned. ‘That reminds me. You been writing bum checks, Matt?’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Maybe you heard of somebody called Callahan? He’s looking for you. Or, anyway, Pallenberg. It’s to do with a check. That’s all I know.’
‘You’ve seen Callahan?’
‘No. This came down the grapevine.’
‘He’s from the Justice Department.’
‘Bad hockey,’ said Harry. ‘There ain’t much you can do to a Fed.’
‘And you’ve heard nothing more?’
‘You think I should put the word out? Wise you to anything that comes in?’
‘It could do no harm, Harry.’
‘Sure.’ Harry gave my arm a friendly punch. ‘Stay in touch, eh? We got plans, same as Vince, to go into the entertainment side more. We’d rather give the work to an old friend.’
I thanked him, assuring him I would contact him again, even if I heard nothing more about Callahan. Although not handsome, Harry possessed the natural poise of a Renaissance Medici gallant. He was to put rum-running behind him in later years and turn, as he had predicted, to show business and leisure activities in Las Vegas. The last I he
ard, he was still alive and in excellent health.
The letter, of course, was from Esmé. I still have it, but if I did not I could quote it in full. Sie war es. Ich gebe all mein Weltstadten weg; aber ich gabe nicht alle meine Briefe. Her childish hand, her misspellings, her unconscious drifting from one language into another, revived all those profound feelings I had shut away when I left her in Paris. I had always known a reasonable explanation would emerge. At last I was to discover why she had failed to communicate or follow me to America. My shvester, mayn froy! She had only, she wrote, recently received any of my letters. Almost immediately after I left Paris she had decided to live alone since Kolya’s wife Anais seemed displeased by her presence. Kolya had kindly helped her find a flat. For a while she had worked as a receptionist in the office of one of Kolya’s business friends. Then something had cropped up. She was vague. ‘A stupid, pointless argument,’ she said. She left that job to work as a waitress in a nightclub. Then, unable to stand the advances of the customers, she had luckily bumped into Annibale Santucci one day. Santucci was sympathetic, offering his friendship and protection. Knowing she was my fiancée the Italian had behaved honourably and so she returned to Rome with him. There she lived with his cousin, a lady of Christian convictions, eventually finding a job as a hostess in a club. She worked and saved hard to get the fare to America. She had written me, but the letters were returned. Nobody knew my address. Unfortunately, just as she had enough money for a ticket, it had been stolen from her by the woman who shared her flat. As a consequence the police had arrested her for vagrancy (it was much harder nowadays to get along in Rome). Finally, meeting Annibale again, she had seen my last letters to him and at once wrote to this, my most recent address. She was longing to see me, was delighted I was doing well in America; she would be there with me now save for her lack of money. She had a genuine Italian passport, thanks to Annibale’s government friends, but to come to America she would need ‘dollars’ from me. Could I send word as soon as possible? She gave the address of an hotel near Tivoli where she was registered as Signora Sylvana Rastelli. This was also the name on her passport. She hoped I still wanted to get married. She had been a good girl. Mayn freydik, mayn gut bubeleh! She loved me faithfully and her heart had broken the moment we parted. Wann kommen Sie wieder?
The Laughter of Carthage: The Second Volume of the Colonel Pyat Quartet (Colonel Pyat Quartet Series Book 2) Page 66