Jerusalem Commands

NINE

LITERACY IS OUR most valuable gift, the source of memory and enduring myth; the wellspring of all we now call civilised and the means by which we pool our commonwise. Communicating thus from Past to Present we improve our understanding of the world and our universe. Here in the Mediterranean (where a few years earlier I had been reborn) on December 18, 1925, barely a month before I began my second quarter-century, I came to understand the true value of literacy when I tried to imagine the emotions of the first man realising one day the potential of a written language!

Rising early, a little impatient with Esmé’s groans from the other side of a door she insisted on locking (‘in case you see me puking. I should hate that’), I begin to feel a certain pleasant excitement as I grasp the sparkling brass rails and ascend the companionway. Everyone has assembled on the boat deck. The sea is an uneasy blue and the clouds are turning to white and from white to wisps of vanishing mist while the black hull of the Hope Dempsey breaks up yellow spray. We are not yet in Paradise but we are passing at last through the gateway between Gibraltar to port and Morocco to starboard, with a great golden sun rising like a fortunate omen on our forward bow to release, it seems to me, an army of golden beings so brilliant as to be intolerable to the naked human eye, to drive the cold Atlantic back and lift up all our spirits so even the laskars wail what is clearly some native triumph as they go about their work. From his cabin, shaving, Captain Quelch stands up to chant a dirge, antique and monkish, in time to his open door’s creaking.

That was a subject dear to my own heart, and singularly apt as we sailed not three miles from the ghost of old Carthage. Hindsight says Carthage’s ghost was grinning at my back even as we glimpsed the white and green terraces of the great port which, three thousand years earlier and before their pagan empire was crushed by vengeful Rome, the Phoenicians named Tingis. Now it seemed to me to symbolise the very best of the ancient world combined with the finest of the new. At this distance Tangier was the perfect image of the modern, civilised city. Now you will say Tangier was an illusion, but I would prefer to call what I saw a vision. That the reality would prove both sordid and terrifying I was not to know for some time. Just then I relaxed in the presence of a silvery perfection, a city framed in the foliage of cypresses, poplars and palms, her terraces occasionally broken by the golden dome of a mosque or the vivid blue of some caïd’s summer home, the dignified green of Royalty, and this all festooned with natural draperies of violet, scarlet and deep ultramarine, of vivid ferns and vines, shrubs, grasses and brilliant pines, all ranked above us on seven hills, a Roman’s dream of tranquillity, a Christian’s dream of heaven, the promise of a new world order.

As the province of France, England and Spain, Tangier could well have become one day the thing I first imagined. The Hope Dempsey steams through the glowing mist of the morning to drop anchor in the offing where the dirty brown and orange motor launches rush back and forth between the steamers and the wharf.

A pleasure ship disembarks her white froth of passengers into more of these boats (the only means of reaching the shore) while a boat which follows is loaded with nothing but cabin-trunks and suitcases, and is rapidly followed by a further wave of white cotton and peach lace as a party of German ladies, each with her pink-trimmed parasol and crocheted gloves, flies in on the foam to flirt for a week or two with the exotic. Through Captain Quelch’s glasses I watch other tourists disembark on the quay to entrain directly for Fez and Rabat while soldiers, primarily of the Spanish Foreign Legion, ensure their safety, though not, I imagined, their complete peace of mind. Nothing protects them from the hordes of little boys, the trinket-sellers, the carpet-merchants, the grinning purveyors of moist and mysterious sweets protected from the sun by a solid covering of black bugs I mistake at first for raisins, until they move.

‘Odi profanum vulgus et arceo.’ Captain Quelch joins me, taking the glasses to scan the port. ‘Still, it’s our last chance to restock our supplies.’ We have rather overindulged in le poudre during the last several nights.

‘I’ve ‘ad four ‘arf-pints at the Magpie an’ Stump, an’ two goes o’ rum jes ter keep up me sperits, me mince pies are waterin’ jes like a pump, and they’re red as a ferrit’s. ‘Cos why? ‘Tain’t the missis nor kids wot I’ve lost. But one wot I care-ful-lie doctored and fed, the nussin’ an’ watching’ ‘as turned art a frost, the Jeerusalem’s dead!’ Considerably more cheerful, Mrs Cornelius comes strolling along the deck, singing with sturdy professionalism the song she always uses to get herself on top, as she puts it, of her blue devils, and jerks a thumb towards the donkeys on the dock.

‘Albert Chevalier’s one of my favourites!’ Captain Quelch lifts his cap in salute. He is wearing an old-fashioned bow-cravat, a smart ‘bum-freezer’ white jacket and tight blue trousers. He is every inch a gentleman of the sea. ‘Funny without being vulgar, eh, dear lady?’ He fingers some slight cut on his jowl.

Mrs Cornelius is always unrelenting and will not be drawn. ‘Actcherly,’ she says in her best accents, ‘I’m more partial to Gus Elen meself.’

Up comes the Swede, disconcerted to find such a party already here, for he is usually the only one of us to exercise before breakfast, and turns a surly colour when he sees his paramour, the star of his movie play, staring eagerly towards the shore as if trying to catch a glimpse of a friend. He tries to turn, to go back, but Captain Quelch takes him by the arm. ‘Tell me, old boy, wouldn’t this do for Babylon?’

‘We are not doing Babylon, Captain Quelch. Nor are we doing Sodom, nor, indeed, Gomorrah. There are no records, I’m afraid, of Egyptian orgies.’

‘I thought one of Mr G’s wires specifically mentioned an orgy. And my brother says they couldn’t stop themselves, though it was religious, I gather.’ Captain Quelch has a habit of goading the Swede, whose lack of humour is notorious.

‘And the next wire completely contradicted that,’ says Seaman, shrugging free of the captain’s hand. ‘I intend to make my original picture, my friend, come hell, high water or Samuel Goldfish! That will fulfil my contract. Then I shall return to Sweden.’

‘I can’t say I blame you, old boy. They’ll be missing you, I should think. Absens haeres non erit, don’t you know.’

To which the Swede replies, with unnecessary venom: ‘Magna est Veritas et praevalebit!’ But, refusing to expand, he wrenches his awkward limbs through our company, and descends.

‘ ‘E’s bin orf-colour fer days,’ says Mrs Cornelius by way of vague apology. ‘ ‘E ain’t wot y’d corl a natchral Vikin’.’ And she roars with her old good humour, though her manner still grants no special intimacy to me and I understand I am not entirely forgiven for my non-existent crime.

There comes a half-subdued shout or two from below, as if lovers quarrel, but it is only Esmé passing Wolf Seaman who, for some reason, has tried to hamper her, and here she comes up in ruddy disarray, to join in the viewing of ‘the white city of the seven hills’ as Pierre Loti called it in one of those pieces of erotic trash he wrote in later years in order to maintain his exotic lifestyle. (There indeed was a man thoroughly infected by the poison of what the British used to call ‘Arabitis’, who did more to distort and romanticise the Oriental East than Ned Buntline the American West. Yet posterity will doubtless prefer his lies to mine, for the myths of Saladin, El Cid or Buffalo Bill endure beyond any commonplace reality, while the beau monde, of course, changes only its clothes, never its character.)

‘O, elle est très jolie,’ exclaims my little lady in her prettiest French. And she claps her hands, a noise which brings a frown from Mrs C., a smile from Quelch and me, a sudden excessive wailing from the town as the dawn muezzim begin noisy admonitions to their grim old God. At which Captain Quelch turns from the rail with the news that he intends to order from the galley a decent English breakfast. ‘Sometimes it’s the only reminder of who and where you are.’ ‘That,’ says Mrs Cornelius in full approval, ‘an’ a reelly ‘earty cup o’ tea.’ With this she links her delicious pink arm in his, the other in mine, and we are forgiven. Only Esmé elects to remain. To let the air, she says, dispel the last traces of her mal-de-mer. We bump into Seaman coming towards us as we make for the dining-saloon. Pressing back to let us pass, he glares at us but will not say a word. ‘Wot’s the matter, Wolfy?’ calls Mrs Cornelius over her shoulder, ‘orl the free luv gettin’ too much fer yer?’ This is a somewhat cruel reference to the Swede’s joyless pantheism, a creed which has replaced religion for so many socialist Scandinavians. Some of them must surely long for the days when Thor could coax at least an occasional lusty laugh from even the Lord of Gloom, the brooding Odin? Months of sunlessness have made that people suspicious of spontaneity, I think. Even Scandinavian hearths are designed to discourage any random flame.

Much as I find their English ritual reassuring, so self-confident is it, I am forced to decline the pans of greasy bacon, eggs, tomatoes and fried bread with which the co-nationalists celebrate their arrival in the Mediterranean. Contenting myself with some bread and a little marmalade, I watch through the portholes the scheduled tourists, many of them day-trippers from France, Spain and Gibraltar. I doubt if tourism has changed much. A quick rush around the main points of interest - sometimes infrequent or pathetic - thirty minutes to see the souk, to savour the squalor and filth of foreign parts and shudder with pleasure at a fleeting whiff of Africa before being steered back to the security and comfort of their P&O or French Line cabins. Whereupon another parlour in Toulouse acquires a camel saddle or a brass hookah and some Guildford sitting-room shall soon sport a set of shoddy Bedouin flintlocks. They brought them in to me in bushels when I still dealt in general goods, before this present interest in old clothes enabled me to become an antiquarian costumier and exploit, I will admit, that folie de nostalgie which reflects youth’s unadmitted yearning for the spiritual values of their forefathers. They think that by wearing those clothes they will somehow restore the Golden Age. I say I would like to see this Golden Age of theirs. I point out into Portobello Road where the chip papers and the Wimpy boxes lie trapped in rotten fruit and animal droppings. Is it here? Or where? Firt mick tsu ahin, ikh bet aykh! I tell them clearly both who and what is to blame - and they laugh at me or swear or even threaten now I am too old to fight. There is nothing wrong with the Old Testament. I know what it is to be a Jeremiah. It is not an insult. They call me ‘anti-Semite’. I tell them they are ignorant fools. Our whole civilisation is Semitic. What is civilised about us is Semitic. Are these the statements of an anti-Semite? You will never hear me say anything against those great Semitic founders of our civilisation who brought about the Golden Ages, the real Golden Ages, of Sumeria, Babylon and, yes, Ancient Israel. But, at some point in the life of their race, noble Semites fell to internal warring and from there, exhausted, slipped into despondent slavery whereupon, for the price of their immortal souls, they bought from Satan a kind of freedom. And still today they fight, this Jew-and-Arab, Arab-and-Jew. As a united people they were great and noble, producers of monumental architecture, sculpture, painting, decoration, literature, philosophy and science. It is as if God punishes them. As if God keeps them perpetually on the very edge of Heaven and is forever devising new means by which to divert them and thwart them from building and keeping for themselves the earthly Paradise He placed around the Middle Sea so that they learned to treasure, not destroy, His gifts to us.

It is not the Semite I fear. It is the ‘Jew’ and the ‘Arab’. All that is barbaric, decadent, immoral, everything which engulfed and drowned that great civilisation as surely as it were Atlantis, can be explained in those two words. They are the creeds of the barbarians who overran Semitic Africa and Mesopotamia, challenging the sublime justice of those Greeks who were themselves the inheritors of the ancient world’s best. And I do not say this Semitic decline was consistent. Until idolatry and war finally divided it, there were times when it seemed halted, when the sanity of the Phoenicians still mediated the lust for conquest best symbolised by haughty Carthage. There were periods when the ages of Solomon and David and Haroun al-Raschid seemed to have come again, before that bizarre will for self-destruction overtook them in quarrels and warfare, even to this very day, where Egypt sides with Syria and Libya sides with Algeria and Algeria sides with Syria against Egypt and Libya or Iraq or Jordan and even the time-bomb that is Israel cannot unite them or, the thought is impossible, persuade them to consider uniting with their fellow Semites to found a common state where religion becomes a matter of spiritual choice, not of politics or of life, or of death. This is the ‘principle’ they would export to the West, to match Voltaire’s or Tom Paine’s? But they have won, anyway. It is no longer even permitted to voice such warnings any more, let alone represent, them in Parliament. More and more we descend to imitating them, our old principles and virtues forgotten. Certainly allow these people to bring back blood-war and the feudal system! They have that ambition in common, at least, with Comrade Stalin. (Nobody in Russia was surprised by this. They know their Georgians. Those people are themselves scarcely a footstep away from Allah.) I am not, you must realise, saying we should do away with those hopeless millions, but at least we might encourage some form of sterilisation? Or, at the minimum, maintain the system which worked so well for everybody in Ukraine, before the Bolsheviks, before the Babi Gorge was anything more than the background of my first great triumph as I ascended into the purity and freedom of the skies. Now infamous smoke obscures that vision, that wonderful memory; yet no single one of us, I think, is to blame for that. If we conspired, we conspired in ignorance. If we all colluded, it was in our determination to believe that there were simple political answers to our ills, in our clinging to old simple virtues, to old securities, as a falling man will innocently cling to a rotten limb, believing himself saved.

Captain Quelch has some business ashore but none of the rest of us wish to go through the complications of passports and bargaining involved in landing so, after we both receive the captain’s assurance that he will enquire for news at the local police station, Mrs Cornelius and I return to our former closeness around the phonograph, singing snatches from the latest records. ‘I’m tellin’ the birds, tellin’ the trees . . .’ murmurs Whispering Jack Smith to Mrs Cornelius’s rudimentary soft-shoe shuffle, while I pretend that my plate is a ukelele. ‘You can bring Pearl, she’s a darned nice girl. . .’

‘I miss my Swiss . . .’

‘I’m the Sheikh of Araby, as all the world can see!’

As we try out the Charleston to the music of the Savoy Orpheans, Esmé enters the saloon and stands at a critical distance until we stop. Mrs Cornelius has the giggles.

I gasp, ‘What is it, my dearest?’

‘I was hoping to go ashore,’ Esmé says. ‘To do some shopping. I need proper clothes. And other things. For women.’

‘No need ter worry there, dear,’ says Mrs C. ‘I’ve a bloody suitcase full o’ stuff. Yer carn’t be too bloody careful in these parts. I know to me corst.’

‘I wish my own.’ Esmé mutters this last in English, staring at the floor.

‘Suit yerself.’ Mrs Cornelius shakes her head and collapses into a cane armchair. My girl receives from me a glance of admonition for rejecting a friendly gesture. I remain mysteriously awkward when both women are present. Perhaps I make them jealous.

‘We shall be disembarking in a few days now.’ I hope to placate her. ‘In Alexandria. Where they have English shops. They have a Whiteley’s, so I’ve heard.’

‘There are French shops in Tangier,’ she declares. ‘There is a Samaritain and a Bazar Nürnberg.’

‘Wot yer want wiv Kraut knickers?’ Mrs Cornelius has risen to change the record. It is noon, now, and seems warmer than the barometer’s guide.

‘I fear that one pair will not last me an entire journey.’ Esmé is sharp but no match for my old friend.

‘I wouldn’ve thort you’ve ‘ad ‘em on for more’n a minnit.’

This bickering was not confined to the women. Virtually everyone aboard not from the South China Seas was suddenly at odds with everyone else. I would be relieved to reach Alexandria where the confines of the ship would no longer force so many temperamental human beings into over-frequent contact. O.K. Radonic, of such usually placid temper, was refusing to take his meals with the rest of the film crew, Chief Kramp had become gloomily reclusive, while Grace had fallen in love with a laskar and was no longer as attentive to Esmé as he had been. Only myself and Captain Quelch, perhaps because we still discovered so much in common, were content. I wished, indeed, that I could please my girl, but most of the time she had little need of what I could offer. The friction between me and Mrs C. at least was over, though she made one or two jibes, demanding to know how much Quelch and I had got for ‘the big buck’. I longed for a telegram from Captain Fromental to say that Mr Mix was safe and sound. I longed still more to hear that my reels were recovered! Recently the Second Officer, Bolsover, had begun to make notes, in an extremely small hand, on a pocket-sized pad of the kind carried by a police constable. He seemed to be starting some sort of account. I had watched him in the evenings when the rest of us were entertaining ourselves. Seated in a corner he wrote down the number of gins the captain had taken with the passengers, how many whiskies the barman had donated to his favoured customers. I think he had some idea of reporting Quelch and the rest of us to the owner, but I was not sure even Goldfish would concern himself with such pettiness. After all, our little picture was not costing a fraction of what had been spent on Ben Hur before the whole thing was recalled to Hollywood and built again in Burbank. Since we were most of us under contract, very little money was being wasted at all, and if the movie play were a success it might compensate for some of the more costly failures at that time alarming the cinema world. Temptress of the Pyramids, as we currently called it, would not merely be a popular success, it would positively impress the jaded critics. Wolf Seaman was, I guessed, staking his future reputation on it. His brand of ‘jazz-baby satire’ had worn a little thin and historical spectacle, especially associated with the Orient, was the taste of the day. In this, at least, we were secure. Goldfish wanted his ship as far from American waters as possible and I think he felt much the same about Seaman, just one more foreign embarrassment like Maurice Maeterlinck. Indeed, it was almost impossible for anyone to like the Swede. He combined Scandinavian high-mindedness with a Teutonic aggressiveness, a blend which no doubt made Catherine the Great the woman she was. Unfortunately he had neither that lady’s looks nor her charm.

I had no trouble in stealing Bolsover’s notebook for a few hours and sharing its contents with Captain Quelch. That astonishing list of crimes even suggested unnatural acts amongst the laskars and members of the film crew - something which I knew Quelch had carefully discouraged. (‘A buggered laskar is a lazy laskar,’ was his familiar motto.)

There came a sudden scent of roses as Esmé flung herself from the saloon while Seaman stared gloomily out towards the bow. I thought to follow her to comfort her, for I knew my refusal to let her go ashore had upset her, but in such moods she preferred to be alone. Mrs Cornelius was singing a duet of Rose Marie with the wonderful Oscar Lavern record as she peered again through the porthole towards the tiered orderliness of distant Tangier and speculated if Captain Quelch had yet heard something about Mr Mix. Although reluctant to touch upon the subject at all, I was forced to disabuse her (for I knew the actual nature of Captain Quelch’s expedition, which was to replenish our supplies of shney). ‘He will not go immediately to police headquarters,’ I said.

‘Buyin’ ‘isself a bum-boy ‘is ‘e? Thass gonna send yer ter ther five-fingered squeezebox ain’t it, Ivan?’

To this day she refuses to tell me what she meant, but she shakes with laughter whenever I bring it up. It confuses me to find her so frank in so many ways, and so ambiguous in others. I think she believes she is saving my feelings, but she must know that I have always preferred the harsh facts to obfuscation, no matter how comforting. If it sometimes makes me less happy than many people, I am also more realistic.

In answer to my question at that moment, she pointed out of the window to a local launch, its varnish flaking like leprosy, which pushed through the busy water traffic towards the Hope Dempsey. At the tiller was the obvious owner, a native in filthy golfing pullover and battered fez, while Captain Quelch was seated amidships side by side with a younger man who wore the latest in exaggerated suit fashions, including a wide-brimmed cream-coloured hat, and had something odd about his left sleeve. Their backs were towards me. I was intrigued. Captain Quelch had said nothing of returning with a visitor.

I went on deck to greet them as they clambered up the side. The young man’s hat continued to obscure his face until he was actually standing beside me. He wore smoked glasses, which he removed and slipped into his pocket as he grinned at me, holding out a sun-tanned hand. He was as handsome and as full of himself as he had ever been, as large as life! I scarcely believed it. I burst into tears.

‘But your arm!’ I could not avoid noticing the empty sleeve. ‘What’s wrong?’

He knew a few seconds’ sadness. ‘There was shelling in Odessa. I was hit. Then I was shot trying to get to a ship. I’ll never know who got my arm - Reds or Whites! Maybe both.’ And he shrugged in that old insouciant style of his, bringing a flood of wonderful memories.

It was Shura, who they told me was dead, killed by the Red Cossacks. It was my cousin, my old mentor and playmate from Odessa with whom I had quarrelled over nothing more important than the affections of a common little Moldavenka whore. All that bitterness was long since vanished and my soul sang out with joy! I embraced him! Kissed him! Held his strong, arrogant body close to me and wept again! Shura restored to me! It was all I needed to bring my normal optimism flooding back. Shura, my childhood friend! I had such a story to tell him and such a story to hear! ‘How long can you stay?’

‘Until Tripoli!’ Shura was as moved as I. Tears ran down his cheeks and he dashed them from the corners of his full lips with his remaining arm while he laughed at my own tears. ‘Little Max the Hetman. You’re a film star now, I hear. Doing all kinds of wonderful things. You told us you’d be famous. We should have listened, eh? Le plus fameux des chics types! Wanda was your best friend, you know. She predicted a great future for you. You look well, mon joli bagage.’

Realising Captain Quelch had only a little Russian we both slipped into French, to inform him of our gratitude at this extraordinary reunion. ‘What a marvellous, unwitting catalyst you are, captain,’ I said.

‘I’m happy you approve, old boy. Actually Shura’s boss is an old business associate from the Marseilles days. I was hoping to do him a favour. Sure you don’t mind?’

Only Bolsover or Seaman would object to an unauthorised passenger, but Captain Quelch and I were already in the process of concocting a plan which would get Bolsover arrested as soon as we had berthed in Alexandria. Captain Quelch had purchased the necessary morphine when he picked up our sneg. Seaman would grumble. His film was paramount. In the saloon Mrs Cornelius was immediately charmed by Shura, who kissed her hand and introduced himself as my cousin and an old university comrade.

She was not deceived. ‘Yore one o’ them Slobodka mobsmen, ain’t yer? Ya ‘ad style, you fellers. It’s orl that French yer tork, innit?’ Shura was baffled by her English and delighted by her Russian, which he understood scarcely any better but he loved, he said, the melody of it. I was pleased that they got on so well at first meeting. Even Captain Quelch seemed charmed by Shura’s company. With two arms he was a winning rogue. With one he was irresistible.

The only cabin available for Shura was Mr Mix’s vacant cubby hole. It took no time to fill the negro’s suitcase with the few books, toilet articles and clothes he had left behind. I was not greatly pleased to see The Martyrdom of Man among those effects and joked to Shura that at this rate we should soon find a copy of Das Kapital under every camel blanket! (I was innocent enough in those days not to believe my own fantasy.) My cousin was swiftly supplied with bed-linen and toiletries, then we spent a few minutes in the cabin sampling the cocaine he had brought with him. I reminded him that it was he who had first introduced me to this natural stimulant. ‘There’s scarcely a sniff goes by that I do not think of you, darling Shura!’

My cousin laughed. I was, he said, the same old Max. He suggested we stroll back up to the saloon. He told me that these days he was in partnership with an Odessa acquaintance, the man who had inadvertently been the cause of my first meeting with Mrs Cornelius. S.A. Stavisky was now in Marseilles and chiefly involved in the importation of cocaine which could be processed cheaply and more or less legally in Tangier where it was not against the law to import South American paste. ‘But he’s branching out, these days, into politics, so I handle most of that drug business. Political stuff and the stock market was never my style. But you know what opportunities there are, now! Millions are being made. One of the people helping Stavisky is an old friend of yours, I gather. Another émigré. Remember a Count Nikolai Feodorovitch Petroff?’

By now I was breathless with the shock. But Kolya surely was in Paris, married to an aristocrat?

‘He still travels to Paris, I think. He’s definitely based with the boss in Marseilles now, though.’

‘You are sure it is the same man?’ Pretending to be dizzy from the drug, I rested for a moment against the bulkhead. Only a few steps lay ahead before we ascended to the saloon.

‘Very tall, rather pale. Good-looking in a sort of effeminate way. Excellent tailor. Knew you in Peter? Was in business with you in France?’

It could be no one but Kolya. ‘You say he travels?’ Somewhat falteringly I continued towards the companionway and paused again before I climbed.

‘Yes. He was in Tangier, for instance, only a couple of weeks ago. That was probably politics, too, but he didn’t say. He stayed at the Villa de France.’

‘His wife was with him?’ Almost supernaturally, Esmé had appeared overhead on the deck above, her dress and mood thoroughly changed. Now she was a little Mary Pickford, a Victorian angel - everything I knew her to be deep within herself. ‘No, miss.’ Shura looked up with friendly candour. ‘At least, I wouldn’t have thought so.’

I was delighted to introduce two of my most beloved friends. As we brought ourselves up to stand in formal attention before her at the stairs, she stood there like a queen while I made the proper courtesies. ‘Alexander Semyonovitch Neeva, may I introduce Esmé Bolascovna Loukianoff, my betrothed. Esmé, my cousin Shura.’

Shura kissed Esmé’s tiny hand and murmured some courtesy. Esmé excused herself. She had been on her way to her cabin, she said, and looked forward to joining us later, perhaps at dinner. Our ship was already drawing up her anchor and turning to the open sea. I took Shura into the saloon and found my own bottle beneath the bar. It was Old Beaumont Plantation, the best bourbon in New Orleans. Captain Quelch had a case of it and had presented me with three quarts for myself. Shura was highly appreciative. ‘You get sick of cognac and whisky and the wine here’s dreadful. One longs for the aged golden vodka we used to drink in Esau’s in the Slobodka.’

To be honest, I remembered nothing so wonderful on sale at Esau’s, but I would not have disagreed with my cousin and spoil this reconciliation if he had remembered that the Tsar was a Jew! I drank the bourbon for that very reason, I told him. I described some of my adventures since I had left Odessa on the Rio Cruz, my time in Constantinople, my meeting with Esmé there, our flight to Italy and France, my engineering achievements in Paris and Los Angeles, my film career, which he had already heard about from Captain Quelch. I saw no point in describing the negative parts of my story.

Shura was highly impressed by my success, but for his own part was self-deprecating. Even with one arm, he had been conscripted into various armies before he managed to get first to Varna and from there to Sofiya, where he had, he said, fallen in love for a while. He had gone on to Fiume until D’Annunzio’s antics turned the place into an uninhabitable slum, whereupon he made his way slowly to Marseilles where he had fallen in with our old acquaintance, the dentist’s son Stavisky, now a French citizen. ‘We’re a sort of Old Odessan network,’ said Shura. ‘He even found a job for Boris and Little Grania. She’s in Tangier at this very moment, buying and selling.’

‘And Boris is doing the accounts?’

‘Exactly! Of course, Marseilles isn’t Odessa, though it has certain similarities. I’ve learned to need the heat. I’m not sure I could easily live in Ukraine again.’

I had not thought of that aspect. I, too, had grown used to California and the way that good weather brought out the best in people, as, of course, it had done in Odessa, compared to the rest of the Empire. True to form, Shura was somewhat mocking of my three-piece suit. He said that his own costume was absolutely the latest Paris rage. Americans were so unstylish! I reminded him that I had always found his taste a little flashy. I had been raised in a more old-fashioned tradition. I did not remind him that our branch of the family had always been somewhat more intellectually sophisticated than his own, who were, after all, shopkeepers. I told him instead that I would find myself a good English tailor the moment we docked in Alexandria. I wanted to know what he planned to do in Tripoli. He was looking over, he said, a group of oil-fields being developed there. The ‘firm’ was considering some sort of flotation. Then I understood immediately why Kolya was involved. A wizard who had taken naturally to the mysteries of High Finance, Prince N.F. Petroff had become an eminent member of the Bourse. He would be called to assess the value of the fields and suggest the best way of launching the shares. It was through no fault of his that our Rose of Kiev had rotted in her shed, a victim of Levantine Big Business which wanted our Transatlantic Aerial Navigation Company to fail, which plotted our destruction. I shall never learn the whole of that wretched story. Certainly it was not Kolya’s fault that the burden of the blame for our defeat fell on me and I had been branded a swindler, forced to flee. He, after all, had courageously volunteered to remain behind and fight on. I could only thank heaven that in the end the powers opposing us had chosen not to pursue him. No doubt it was fortunate his wife’s father had been one of the other directors and, anxious to avoid an inter-family scandal, sent him into some sort of exile, but I was rather surprised to hear of Kolya’s sudden change of occupation. Maybe, after all, he had merely grown bored with the routines of the Parisian haut monde. Like me, Prince Nicholai was fundamentally an adventurer, a risk-taker, a restless seeker after fresh experience. This latest news suggested that I might meet him again sooner than I had dared hope. Our paths were sure to cross. I began to nurse the idea of returning to Europe. With my American passport and my credentials as Tom Peters, the moving-picture actor, I was sure I would have little trouble there. After all, the screen confirmed my honest American identity! But I would still avoid France for a while. It would be wonderful, I thought, to see Rome again. I had good friends there. The events of 1922 had heralded the beginning of a great social experiment just being realised to its full potential. Mussolini had brought a wonderful new stability to Italy.

When we had completed our Egyptian picture, I told Shura, I would probably take Esmé on a honeymoon in Europe. My friends da Bazzano, Laura Fischetti and Annibale Santucci must surely still be there, eating fried artichoke and arguing over the future of nations. I would love to see them again. And people told me that Berlin was far more interesting than Paris, these days. We would go over to London, where I still had money awaiting me. I laughed about this. It had seemed such a fortune before I began to earn my own living. But it would be a good excuse to look up Mr Green and Mr Parrot.

‘I heard those two old crooks were doing well for themselves with my dad’s money,’ said Shura cheerfully. We had gone out on deck to enjoy the sunset over the distant city. ‘I doubt if you’ll get what you’re owed, Simka darling. And we’ll never know how much they had. Dad was shot early on. By the Reds, I think. Anyway the pogromchiks changed their name and went out looking for “profiteers”! The results were much the same. You can’t make a Cossack change his hobbies overnight. The female profiteers were mostly raped, the males were butchered along with the children. All in Slobodka. They said Wanda got away.’

I had a soft spot for his sister. ‘I hope so.’ There was no mercy in telling him that she was probably dead.

By the time Esmé rejoined us, and Captain Quelch, Mrs Cornelius and the rest were ready for dinner, Shura and I were sadly the worse for drink. I remember very little of the evening, save for the warmth and security of our nostalgia, and remained in this euphoric state, with the help of Shura’s cocaine and my bourbon, until the ditty-boat took him towards Tripoli. We were on our way to Alexandria almost before I could be sure that I could read the drunkenly traced letters of the hotel, his permanent home in Tangier.

My reunion with my cousin had begun a healing process. Until then I had carried a bloody wound with me for some five years; a wound made when I wrenched myself away from my native land, the land of the Steppe and wide rivers where my Cossack ancestors established their sechs. I had never planned to leave Odessa or my motherland. I had been forced to go as the Bolsheviks stamped their terrible will on the nation. I was part of an exodus making the Jewish exodus a weekend holiday. All the best that was Russia belonged to that exodus. All the best that survived. Scientists, writers and scholars, engineers and soldiers, so many of us fought to pretend we had no throbbing wounds, no aching longing for our Slavonic home. Since leaving Russia I had lost my way. I had forgotten that necessary pain. With Shura’s stories of old friends and old times, I knew something of the past must survive. The past can never be recreated but on the other hand it need not be lost to us. My scapegrace, charming cousin, before he left the Hope Dempsey, had restored to me a few vital scraps of my past. Like healing tissue, those scraps would knit to form at last a protective scar upon my wounded spirit.

Shura would never know how, almost in the nick of time, he had brought me the healing gift of tranquil recollection.