The Laughter of Carthage

FIVE

ON WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 1st 1920 I died a Russian and on January 14th (by the Western calendar) I was born a Cosmopolitan. I had suffered a mild attack of typhus. For his own convenience the British doctor diagnosed nervous exhaustion. Ich Kann nichtso lange warten. According to Mrs Cornelius and the Baroness I babbled in half-a-dozen different languages. I had visions. I spoke of my loved ones, of my mother, of Esmé, Captain Brown, Kolya, Shura and the rest. I relived the glories and horrors of my past. They told me I had most frequently believed myself a boy in Odessa. This did not surprise me. I lost my youth in Odessa (but I was to discover my humanity in Constantinople).

By the time I recovered my senses it had grown dark. I was cradled in a wide, high-sided bunk. Shadowy lamplight revealed the Baroness seated beside me, her hair unruly, wearing a brown velvet dress and yellow apron. She was holding my hand but was half asleep. Weakly I tried to rise, only to discover I had lost the use of my legs. Believing as always in the power of mind over matter, I refused to panic. I knew I must eventually walk again; it required only an effort of will. When I squeezed her hand her eyes popped open mechanically, as if she were a trick toy. ‘Where am I, Leda Nicolayevna?’

‘This is Captain Monier-Williams’s own cabin, Simka. The doctor thinks you are in some sort of shock. You don’t have typhus, though everyone’s been tested. There doesn’t seem to be sickness aboard, after all.’

I held my tongue, letting her think whatever most comforted her. ‘Mrs Pyatnitski?’

She had helped nurse me. Currently she was enjoying a late dinner. ‘She said she’d look in before she goes to bed. And Jack Bragg and Mr Thompson will be visiting you. We’re all, of course, in quarantine. But it won’t be for long.’

At that time I believed as firmly as now that a miracle had occurred. I had been saved in order to fulfil my proper destiny. ‘My cocaine is still in my luggage, I hope.’ I trusted more in the drug’s powers than in the quack’s.

‘It’s impossible for me to get. I said nothing, naturally, to the doctor.’

I slipped back into sleep. I had no dependence on the drug, but its healing properties would help me recover. Even then cocaine was beginning to receive a bad name. Artists painted men collapsing in their wives’ laps and labelled the pictures ‘Cocaine!’ The Coca-Cola Company was forced to remove the drug from its recipe. This persecution anticipated prohibition. While cocaine remained freely available it was something International Pharmaceutical Companies could not control. These companies wanted it all to themselves, so they could put their own name on it and trumpet it as a ‘wonder cure’. They conspired therefore to lie about its bad effects and campaigned to characterise the ordinary user as a degenerate. Ironically of course my sparing use of cocaine probably saved me from full scale typhus.

I awoke only half-an-hour or so later. Leda was still there. ‘You must forgive me if I acted strangely this morning.’ She was tender. ‘I thought you were unnaturally cool towards me. I now realise you were feeling ill. Do you still wish to arrange a meeting in Constantinople?’ She reached forward with a damp cloth to wipe my forehead. ‘There’s a restaurant where Russians go. If we’re separated, we should look for each other at Tokatlian’s.’

‘I’ll remember.’ I spoke feebly, still more than a little surprised to be alive.

She moistened my lips. ‘Poor little Ancient Mariner.’ The reference was as obscure to me then as it is now. I had never seen an albatross, let alone killed one with a crossbow. People fond of literary references always disturbed me. The poems and stories they read mean something only to them and possess virtually no relation to reality. But she was romantic, my Baroness, and I suppose I was fond of her for it. Perhaps I am too much a man of science. I have known many great poets. Few of them ever struck me as being very stable. As for the modern T. S. Eliot school and its attempts to glorify the language and manners of the gutter, I am repulsed by it. I heard such rubbish in its birthplace when the likes of Mandelstam and Mayakovski used it to cheer on their Red patrons. I see no virtue in elevating the football hooligan and the petty spiv to the status of demigods.

She turned the lamp down when I explained it hurt my eyes. Did I wish her to read to me? I asked if it was possible to find a newspaper, preferably an English one, on the ship. She had seen a Times of Cairo somewhere and left to look for it. Whoever had undressed me had put me in a pair of pyjamas not my own. I searched for my clothes to see if I had left any cocaine in the pockets. But they were presumably being disinfected. I wondered why our quarantine was to be so short. Now it is obvious they were afraid of starting a typhus scare. For that reason they chose to diagnose my attack as ‘nervous exhaustion’. I was too naive then to realise how frequently authorities acted from motives of straightforward expediency.

Leda returned with the paper. It was all news of Peace Conferences and temporary solutions. There were a few references to Russia, how Mr So-and-So sought negotiation with ‘Mr Lenin’ or ‘Mr Trotski’. More informative were ordinary reports from London: the King opening a new airship works, a rabid speech from Lloyd George, propagating that intemperate radicalism which eventually destroyed him and his Party. Many were warning of Socialism in England. Already Germany was threatened by a Red take-over, as were France and Italy (where the Vatican was in league with the communists). Few had learned from Russia’s present agony. Did people actually envy us our death-struggles? I told Leda I wanted to hear of human achievement, not human folly. She could find little enough to read after that.

For two more days I remained in the captain’s bunk, drinking tasteless soup, sipping vile medicine, until a pasty-faced, fastidious Medical Officer, who could barely bring himself to touch me, pronounced me well. Mrs Cornelius had by then gone ahead to Pera and was staying at the Palas. The ship had crossed from Scutari to the European side, my documents and trunks had been cleared. I could leave the ship whenever I chose. Jack Bragg had helped the Baroness find temporary lodging with a German family near the Artillery Barracks. My own destination was closer, in the main part of Pera. There were no cabs easily available at this particular part of the Galata docks (Galata and Pera lay on the Bosphorus shore of the pontoon bridge) and I was advised to use public transport. Captain Monier-Williams shook hands and promised my luggage would be sent on to the hotel. I asked to be remembered to Thompson and Bragg, who had already gone ashore. I packed the small bag, still feeling a little weak, and made my way along the decks of the deserted Rio Cruz, down the gangplank and onto the stone flags of the quayside. On solid ground after so long it took time to regain my land-legs. Handing me a little coin, a Marine sergeant escorted me through the barriers, past the grey respectability of the Customs offices and up the steps to the busy street where the buildings were immediately far more disreputable-looking, with peeling whitewash, layers of posters, flaking paint, broken windows. The sergeant pointed to the hand which held the coin. ‘You can get the tram here,’ he said. He indicated a filthy green sign. ‘You’ll want the Number One.’ He did an about face and swung off. In the hills overhead there was a little sunshine, but down here were only the remnants of mist.

For a moment I felt deserted by everyone. Bitterly, I thought the captain could have had the grace at least to instruct a rating to take me to the hotel. Later, however, I was grateful. It is always best to be thrown into the middle of a new city; then one quickly learns how to get about, which languages are understood best, and so on. French was the weakest of my tongues, but I found it appropriate to remember as much as possible when I noticed the signs and advertisements everywhere. Half were in French. The Number One, I had been told, went to the Grand Champs des Morts, the Foreign Cemetery. I must get off at the Petit Champs. I waited on the narrow, dirty pavement, hemmed in by dozens of ramshackle buildings, trying to get my bearings. The dockside offices obscured my view of the harbour, but I could see some masts and funnels and glimpsed the nearby Galata Bridge. This was perpetually full of human traffic streaming back and forth between Stamboul and Galata. Near the tram-stop were a few shops with unwashed windows, selling shoddy household furnishings, bric-a-brac, lamps and inlaid tables. On all sides the crowds moved slowly yet were marvellously animated; a spectrum of the Levant: Turks, Armenians, Caucasians, Jews, Russians, as well as sailors from all the great European nations. Not a white man on the street, however, could go more than a few yards without some Jewish beggar accosting him. No matter how hard the Jews were beaten down, they still continued to lift crooked, imploring fingers.

The gloomy streets leading steeply up to Pera were mysterious canyons. Many were broken by crazy flights of steps to ease their sudden ascent. They sheltered mendicants of every description, sellers of carpets, oil-jars, sweets. In some of them boys on bicycles with car-horns attached to their handlebars tried to clear a way through the press of automobiles, donkeys, bullock carts, elegant carriages and even an occasional sedan chair. These alleys stank of horse-droppings, dogs, human urine, coffee, roasting mutton, tobacco, spices and perfumes. Veiled women with swift eyes like pebbles on a tide were almost as numerous as men. Since I knew it was unwise for foreigners to show interest in Turkish ladies I avoided looking at them. I already risked having my throat cut for my gold; I did not want it cut for a misplaced glance.

At long last, crackling and sputtering, the dirty green Number One drew up at the stop. Its brass and wooden sides were so battered it might itself have served at the Front. As I made to mount the footboard I was engulfed. From everywhere suddenly came Turks in fezzes, Greeks in bowlers, Armenians in astrakhan caps. I was swept upward, having time only to offer my silver piastre piece in exchange for a first-class ticket printed in French. The conductor carelessly accepted my money, took me by the arm and pushed me towards the back of the tram where there were fewer people. As I began to sit on one of the wooden benches, there came a great wave of hissing from behind me. Black eyes glared over veils. I realised with horror that I was in the Ladies Only section. The conductor had seen me. He shouted in Turkish, pointing a severe finger at the sign so faded it was unreadable. Blushing, I eventually settled beside a dignified Circassian, in bandoliers, long-skirted coat, soft riding boots, who held a brief-case in his lap and stroked at grey moustaches, which lay against his nose like suckling rodents, and stared out into the teeming street. I said ‘Good morning’ to him in Russian, but he made no response. It began to drizzle. The tram juddered, whimpered, then continued its painful journey up steep, winding streets. On all sides of the vehicle men and women, youths and girls, swarmed apparently at random. Most wore some form of Western clothing, frequently blended with Oriental dress, and none was particularly clean. But at least I was witnessing ordinary life; life as I had known it in, say, the backstreets of St Petersburg and in my native Kiev before the War. Conquered though they were, the Turks continued about their ordinary business. They had not been forced to creep cautiously, looking over their shoulders in terror for their lives and liberty, as was the case in so many Russian cities now. Indeed the contrast was increased for me since Pera was also Constantinople’s main Russian quarter. Many of my countrymen still wore their uniforms. Others wore suits of typical Moscow and Petersburg cut. Aristocrats and peasants were equal here as they would never be in Russia, all desperate for passports or work, for someone to buy what remained of their treasures. I would have recognised them as easily from their dazed expressions, their haunted eyes, their uncertain movements, as by their clothes. I put one hand into my coat pocket to grasp the butt of a pistol. I had looked at such faces for too long and was determined my own should never again resemble them.

Leaving the water behind, the tram approached another, coming from downhill. I thought they must certainly crash head-on. The two vehicles passed so close, swaying wildly in the narrow street, that their sides almost touched. There was a general clanking and whining and ringing of bells. Our tram swung round a corner to the left then almost immediately took another to the right. I was shaken, disoriented, uncomfortable, but happy to be in a city again, no matter how strange. Everywhere I looked the unstable wooden buildings, several storeys high, often unpainted, their foundations shaken by half-a-dozen earthquakes at least, seemed about to collapse into the street, yet from time to time appeared a magnificent Islamic dome, a mosque which had stood like a rock for centuries; elsewhere were marble towers, a little green park; and everywhere, suddenly, were clumps of poplars, cypresses and pines. We passed ragged, blackened gaps where houses had been razed by fire; there were piles of rubble, as if from shelling, new buildings half-constructed then apparently abandoned; elsewhere grandiose modern façades were already cracking and crumbling. Pera might have been the back lot of a run-down cinema company. What was substantial was in poor repair, what looked imposing was a sham, what looked most theatrical was probably the best piece of architecture in the town. This ‘new’ ghetto, where successive Sultans had confined their foreign visitors since the treaty with Genoese traders in the sixteenth century, had been allowed to exist in deliberate contrast to the Moslem city on the Golden Horn’s opposite bank. I glimpsed Stamboul occasionally through gaps in the buildings as the tram swerved this way and that. From Pera the view of ancient Constantinople was unspoiled and magnificent. I was reminded of some dreaming, elegant Caliph swaddled in sensuous luxury, carelessly unaware of the noise and poverty, the common stink from which he was separated only by a short expanse of water, a couple of narrow bridges.

The tram now began to move up a wider street containing better proportioned, more evidently European stone buildings. There were well-ordered trees, shops selling better-quality goods, yet still thoroughfares were crowded, smelly, full of vagrant noise. The conductor yelled at me from the far side of a dozen greasy fezzes. ‘Arrive,’ he shouted. ‘Arrive, monsieur!’ He gestured towards the wall of a small park which I could just see through the windows. I pushed through hard, unhelping flesh towards the exit, climbed down the tram’s wooden steps, checked my possessions were still about me, and as the vehicle moved on, stood upon a broken flagstone looking up and down the street. I was in the Grande Rue de Pera, the avenue of embassies, hotels, and popular legend. My childhood thrillers had not properly prepared me for the reality. I had expected something closer to the Nevski Prospect or the Nicholas Boulevard, something wide, imposing, secluded. But I had forgotten the cleverness of Turks, who put all foreigners together where they might fight amongst themselves, where they could be subjected to daily inconvenience. I wandered back and forth across the street, dodging bicycles, horsemen, dogs, a kind of rickshaw, and at last recognised the wrought-iron balconies of the Pera Palas, said to be the best hotel in the city. (And also, I was soon to discover, a notorious haunt of Kemalists and foreign agents.)

Lack of serious trouble in finding my hotel, however, dispersed the remains of my poor temper. I had become almost jaunty as I walked into the cool lobby, going straight to the reception desk. The place was relatively peaceful after the noise outside, and fairly clean. The cacophonous streets were somehow muffled, giving the place that proper sense of untroubled tranquillity and security, the mark of any first-class hotel. In common, too, with many other hotels of its day, the Palas had a tendency towards plush, black rococo cast-iron and gilt. Uniformed porters, in frockcoats, tarbooshes, and wearing white gloves, were in abundance. Even the Greek manager, waxed and fat, contrived to look French. I announced myself. He consulted his register. At length he nodded. ‘So pleased you were able to find us, m’sieu.’ He handed my key to an Armenian porter and the man, looking like some janissary from the Sultan’s guard, strode to the lift with an air of quiet dignity. We ascended smoothly to the third floor. My room was displayed with a touch of ceremony by the porter who appreciated my mumble of approval. The room was small, looking out over the Grande Rue, and was opulently comfortable for what it was, with its own wash-stand and toilet facilities. Again I used a silver rouble to tip the porter. Silver of any currency was perfectly acceptable to Turks, though I learned French Napoleons and British sovereigns were (perhaps since Lawrence) the common coin of larger dealings.

I ordered some hot water. The bed, with its carved and gilded headboard, its red velvet coverlet, was luxurious. I had an armchair, a little writing-desk, a box-room for my trunks and a large wardrobe. The little dressing-room had solid, if old-fashioned, facilities, including a full-length mirror. While I waited for the water, I took from my toilet case my razor, hand-mirror and a packet of cocaine. For the first time in a month I could enjoy my drug in relaxed and pleasant surroundings. A good-looking youth brought my water, some fresh towels, and soon I felt completely myself again. I had on a clean shirt, a smart dark brown three-piece suit, and I had oiled my hair. Now I was myself again: Colonel M. A. Pyat, late of the 13th Don Cossack Regiment, scientist and man-of-the-world.

I was arranging my brushes and boxes in the dressing-room, when there came a knock on the door. Adjusting my tie I went to answer. It was only the bellboy with a note on a salver from Mrs Cornelius. Welcome ashore, Ivan. Sorry I’m not here to show you around but I know you’ll do all right by yourself. Back in couple of days. Love, H.C. I was disappointed. Doubtless she was visiting her Frenchman. But I refused to become depressed. I would have time now to see something of the city before we continued on to England via the Orient Express (or by another ship). I had of course looked forward to having my first meal with her, but consoled myself: Soon I would be dining with Mrs Cornelius as often as I liked in London. All that really mattered was that I was at last in a true metropolis. There was no immediate threat from an invading enemy for the police of five Allied nations kept the peace. In Constantinople, too, one might enjoy every conceivable form of pleasure. I remembered the old saying that here the Moslem lost his virtues and the European added to his vices. There is nowhere quite as thrilling as a city recently emerged from War. Men and women develop eager habits of living to the full. From my window alone I could see dozens of restaurants, little theatres, cabarets. It was not yet lunch-time and already music came from the cafés. Fair-skinned, uniformed young men walked up and down the Grande Rue with unveiled, laughing Turkish girls on their arms. Everyone seemed so carefree. It would never be possible to capture the joy of my youth in Odessa, but Constantinople promised at least a taste of that old exhilaration. In fact it would be here I really discovered my ability to become quickly at home in any great metropolis. It would take me a few hours to learn the chief streets, a few days to discover the best restaurants and bars. A cosmopolitan city has a common language frequently making speech unnecessary. People come to be entertained, to buy and sell, to exchange ideas, to be artistically replenished, to embark upon sexual adventures. The complexity of trade is in itself the central stimulus. This is true of the poorest citizens as it is of the well-to-do. Only the very rich seem to know the kind of boredom which comes upon me, for instance, in the countryside; but such people would be bored anywhere; they have nothing to buy, nothing to sell, no nemesis save the ennui itself. To my joy I could hear Russian being spoken in the Grande Rue de Pera; I could hear French and English, Italian, even Yiddish, Greek and German. My blood quickened as it recognised its natural environment and I began to experience the rush of pleasure which accompanied the almost immediate revival of my complete old self. For too long I had experienced a half-life. Now I was about to set elegant patent leather upon real streets again.

In those days I had not discovered the consolations and demands of religion. For me my soul and my senses were the same and God’s work could only properly be accomplished by means of the investigations and applications of Science. Perhaps this was the form of hubris Prometheus suffered. Perhaps that was why I, too, came to be punished. I wished to enlighten a world I believed had a positive will towards peace and knowledge but, as a young man, I was also full of unexplored emotional and physical desires. I wanted to discover the limits of my appetites. In 1920 the political fate of Constantinople did not at all concern me. I naturally assumed the Turk was conquered forever; Britain or Greece would run the city until Russia was sane again and ready for the task. In the meantime, I hoped to taste as many of her pleasures as I could. I had been starved for too long. In Kiev, after the Revolution, I had frequently managed to entertain myself, but my enjoyment had been coloured by the pervading uncertainty of the times. This had also been true in Odessa just before I left. But in Constantinople there were no Bolsheviks or Anarchists threatening my peace of mind. I had never heard of the so-called Committee of Union and Progress. I knew certain Young Turk officers and soldiers had refused to lay down their arms and disappeared into the Anatolian hinterland, but I assumed they would soon be rounded up. My overriding thought was that I was free. I had been resurrected as a citizen of the world. Russia’s tragedy was no longer mine. I unclipped my plan-case to look afresh at my drawings and equations, my neatly written notes. Here was my fortune and my future. My nose would be against the grindstone soon enough. In the meanwhile I deserved a small vacation. Dressed and groomed to perfection, I locked my door behind me, took the lift to the ground floor, handed in my key, said I would be back before dinner, and joined the life of the city outside. I had no real fear that anyone I had known in Odessa might casually recognise me out of uniform (or, if they did, I knew they would be wary of me) and could not really believe there was any immediate chance of meeting enemies from my Kiev or Petersburg days; most of those, after all, must have been killed by now. In fact I was perhaps a shade over-confident, certain I could easily overcome any danger, drunk on the freedom of the captured Turkish capital. Yet I cannot say I was a fool. My eye, from habit, was forever cautious. In the steppe villages I had been afraid because I could not interpret most of the gestures, signals and subtleties of their environment; but here, though the place was new to me, I could read most signs very readily and those not immediately recognisable could be rapidly learned.

Instinctively I took a side street here, a main thoroughfare there. Crossing a little park I entered a shadowy café, ordering a cup of coffee while looking at everything and everyone, absorbing information swiftly and steadily: the little ways people had of using their hands, inflexions of speech, when they adopted passive mannerisms, when they felt able to seem aggressive. I knew I too was the object of their interest, because I was dressed so well, but I did not worry about that. Good spirits are one’s best protection anywhere. An open heart frequently saves you in the most appalling confrontations. In that sense it is always better for a city-dweller to be an innocent rather than to carry a gun. And one must be a good, natural actor: every day in a large metropolis we are called upon to play a variety of subtly different roles. It is nonsense, all this modern talk of what is a ‘real’ identity and what is not. We are the sum of our backgrounds, our experience and our environments; the self we present to the greengrocer is merely a different aspect of the self we present to the police inspector. The more conscious one is of this necessity of city life, the less one is confused, the easier it is to take action when action is called for.

I studied the traffic. I stood in the cemetery of the Petit Champs, beneath poplars and plantains, and looked across the glinting Golden Horn at old Stamboul on her seven, misty hills. I turned to my left and saw the Bosphorus lying between me and Asian Scutari. I marvelled at the volume of shipping. It crowded the waters as densely as any city-street. Yet it was nothing compared to the unguessable vastness of the ancient city. I had never realised any metropolis could sprawl so far in so many directions and in this case on three distinct shores. Russian cities, even St Petersburg, were tiny in comparison, virtually embryonic. Constantinople had no visible limits. She seemed spaceless as well as timeless, inhabiting a universe of her own devising: an infinite island existing outside the planet’s ordinary dimensions, where all races, all ages coincided at once. So strong was this impression that I found myself trembling with pleasure at the notion and became reluctant to leave the gardens until, somewhere beyond a wall, a donkey (or perhaps an imam) began to bray, destroying my mood. I continued up a narrow, shady street cleaner than most, its terraces of apartments apparently occupied entirely by European families. At the end of this street was a parade of shops selling stationery, books, perfume, flowers, sweets and tobacco, reminding me of any decent middle-class part of Kiev. The titles of the books were in every European language, including Russian. I bought a packet of papyrussa and thus changed one of my Imperial roubles, knowing I was cheated on the rate but not caring. I turned back, eventually, into the Grande Rue. From a little boy who squeaked at me in an unidentifiable language I purchased a button-hole; he made strange smacking sounds with his lips. I bought Russian-language newspapers at a kiosk. Sitting at an outside table of a coffee-shop, I drank sherbert and read the papers, amused by their grandiloquent Tsarisms and empty pomposities. I smiled at girls with heavily painted faces and cheap finery who winked at me as they passed by. Every other woman appeared to be a whore and every whore looked beautiful to me. There were also dozens of upper-class ladies in expensively cut Parisian clothes and elaborate hats and even some of these spared me a glance. I loved such an ambience. It is gone completely from modern life.

Tolerantly I waved away street-sellers offering me everything from their brothers’ buttocks to their sisters’ second-hand dolls. I bought some candy for a few kuruş, tried a little and handed it to the first child who begged a coin from me. Soon I had a reasonable sense of my location. The high part of town, Pera, was predominantly European, full of embassies and the mansions of the rich, offices of banking houses and shipping companies, better-quality shops. Sprawled below this, its border marked by the Galata Tower built by the original Genoese traders, were the mean, twisting alleys and jerry-built warrens of the poor. Further up the hill, beyond Pera, were suburban villas in spacious gardens, a predominance of lawns and parks. From the waterfront Galata Bridge led across the Horn to Stamboul, dominated here by Yeni Cami, the so-called New Mosque, with its unbelievably slender towers and clustered domes of different sizes. Stamboul was the Turkish city, though it also possessed a Greek quarter whose occupants traced their ancestors to before the time of Christ. Here were most of the older Orthodox Churches; the ancient, vaulted cisterns which were still in use, and the original walls of Byzantium, all productions of a superior culture the Turks might frequently imitate but never better. The most magnificent building of Stamboul remained Hagia Sophia, visible from Pera and distinguished easily by her bright yellow dome. This most beautiful of Christian churches the Ottomans continued to use as a model for their mosques. Although the majority of famous monuments were in Stamboul, making her the true site of Byzantium, perhaps Pera was the real Constantinople. Pera was where the Byzantines had buried their dead (it was still full of vast cemeteries for most races and religions), where the Osmanlis had hidden foreigners necessary to their trade; a city which flourished between dusk and dawn, given over to subtle diplomacy, exotic pleasures, obscure crimes and even more obscure vices, yet during the day the outward appearance of dignity and moral respectability, one of the marks of a typical European capital, was preserved. I was curious, of course, to visit Stamboul, but the pleasures of Pera took priority. I made no effort to restrain myself. I was a child given limitless credit in a sweetshop. I considered some sort of programme. It would not be wise to break immediately with the Baroness, unless her clinging proved inconvenient, neither must I lost contact with Mrs Cornelius. However, there would be no harm in my making fresh acquaintances. The more people I knew the more possibilities for self-improvement could present themselves. I reminded myself of every habit I had developed during the War and the Revolution. I remained wary of acquaintances from my former life, whether they displayed friendship or not. So many refugees filled up Pera I must inevitably run into some who might embarrass me. They would know me under a former name or might have met me when I posed as a Red or a Green. People were untrusting and might easily refuse to believe I had been forced from necessity to play these roles. It did not suit me to become again an object of suspicion. Thus I gave particular attention to Russians, surreptitiously inspecting every face. It would have been difficult if I had bumped into the young women I had known in Petersburg, for instance, or some radical bohemian who believed me a Bolshevik pederast because I had kept company with my dear friend Kolya. I could still see Brodmann, pointing his finger at me, screaming ‘Traitor’. This had been the direct cause of my precipitous flight from Odessa. Nevertheless, I remained confident that in most cases I could bluff out any such confrontation.

It was important to preserve the reputation of a man of breeding and education and continue to move amongst the better classes. The British were prepared to take me on my own terms. I was a brilliant engineer with a good War record, forced out of Russia by the Reds. If broadcast, the unimportant details, while they did not touch on the essential truth, could conceivably make life difficult for me. So anyone who called me ‘Dimka’ would be ignored (unless I had known them really well). I would grow a moustache at the earliest opportunity. Strolling on downhill, into the little, miserable back streets of the Galata quarter, I deliberately absorbed impressions of poverty as well as wealth. I had not expected to find so many tall wooden buildings. Little remained of the original Genoan architecture. Here and there was an old house mounted on pilasters but the most substantial building was now Galata Tower raised to commemorate Italian soldiers who had fallen in battle, called originally the Tower of Christ. The rickety wooden apartments rose five or six storeys high, leaning at all angles, like a German expressionist film set. If a single one of these were demolished, I thought, a thousand more might collapse as a result. Perhaps such bizarre structural tensions (makeshift, workable, incapable of logical analysis) closely reflected the city’s social tensions. Constantinople survived then as Calcutta is said to survive today: superficially in conflict, everyone depended crucially upon everyone else.

Fez, turban, top-hat, military pith, panama bobbed in those agitated human currents. I walked back towards Pera. The short side streets running between Rue des Petits Champs and Grande Rue de Pera were full of little bars and brothels crammed, in turn, with men and women of every racial type and class. Hybrid girls and youths touted for trade in doorways not a stone’s throw from great foreign embassies, dominated in turn by the monstrous stone palace of our Russian Consulate. From basements and upper windows jazz poured into alleys. Whores hung over baroque balconies, gossiping with friends on the other side of the street, occasionally pausing to yell at a potential customer. It was like a city of Classical antiquity. Had Constantinople remained unchanged since the Greek colonists founded her six hundred years before Christ? Had Tyre been like this? Or Carthage herself? I was entranced. Here was the heady lure of Oriental fantasy. I daydreamed of beautiful houris, the languorous seraglios, unbelievable luxury, fantastic delights. Constantinople offered still richer variety than she had presented under the most decadent of Sultans, for now her inhabitants experienced unusual freedom as well as uncertain thraldom. No longer did the Lords of Islam administer absolute power from the Yildiz Kiosk but even in Pera the muezzin still called thousands to prayer. The tyranny of Islam could not be abolished overnight. To clear Byzantium of such alien authority might take years, or never be wholly accomplished, but today such authority was held in question by people who previously had never dared allow themselves such thoughts. The fierce, mad puritanical Faith, therefore, had suddenly lost much of its sway. As a consequence those freed from it were presently possessed of a lust to sample all that had previously been forbidden. To this was added a fresh element of corruption - desperate refugees eager for the slightest opportunity to make a few lira. In some of those wooden tenements aristocratic Russian families lived ten to a tiny room. Greeks and Jews had taken advantage of the Ottoman defeat to turn the tables on old Turkish rivals; Armenians occupied the palaces of Abdul Hamid’s disgraced officials or the villas of Arab merchants who had been ruined by their support for the Sultan’s cause. The Turks, so far as it can ever be said of Turks, were momentarily demoralised. In two years they had seen their vast Empire, built through centuries of conquest, reduced to that pathetic ‘Anatolian homeland’ from which, in the thirteenth century, Osman their founder had sprung in all his ambitious ferocity, to sink his teeth into the throat of Europe. Now few believed Constantinople would remain even nominally Turkish for much longer. Already into this uncertain ambience the greedy carpetbaggers of Western Jewry had arrived to pick at unearned spoils. For me and millions like me the war against Turkey had been a Crusade. But as with so many other Crusades this one had rapidly degenerated to a mere squabble over treasure and power. I realised none of this at first, I must admit. I saw only a superabundance of potential experience, an exotic blend of human types, infinite possibilities of fulfilling not only my wildest desires but of discovering tastes as yet uncultivated. That afternoon, at a bar serving only the best class of Europeans, I sipped cognac presented to me on a silver salver by a Russian Tartar in Moldavian shirt and White Army breeches. I could not possibly guess how radically my destiny would be influenced by this city.

(I had passed through ruins, slums, festering heaps of offal, yet I saw a new Byzantium rising on both sides of the Golden Horn. She would be the capital of a World Government, founding city of a future Utopian State. Peace would surely follow the crisis. The only question remaining was how this peace must be maintained, who should most fairly rule. What I did not know was that already Kemalists, financiers, Bolsheviks, schemed division and destruction. The formulae for Utopia in my document-case were available to everyone. Is it my fault the world refused its redemption?)

Slowly and extremely cheerfully I made my way back to the hotel. I bought a map and changed a little more money into Turkish lira. I hoped to make it last until I left Constantinople, for this was not the best time or place to sell the jewellery I had brought from Russia. In London I could get the proper market price. On the other hand I thought I might give a bracelet or a necklace to the Baroness. She was, when all was said and done, a decent enough woman. I would not want her or Kitty to suffer the fate of other refugees.

In my room I was delighted to discover that my luggage had arrived. I changed immediately into Don Cossack uniform. Now a veteran Colonel, not yet twenty-one, looked out of the full-length mirror, bearing himself with dignity impossible in even the best-cut civilian clothes. The uniform had been earned by my suffering. It redeemed my father, honoured my mother, celebrated my country. However, I knew it was still unwise to wear it in public. Regretfully I removed it, folded it and put on ordinary evening clothes before going downstairs for an aperitif. A number of high-ranking British and French officers were in the bar, mingling with well-to-do men and women of the finest type. I was glad Mrs Cornelius had been able to get us the rooms. Seating myself on a stool beside the stiff but slender back of a British army major I ordered in English a whisky-and-soda. He turned at the sound of my voice and nodded to me. ‘Good evening,’ I said. ‘I am Pyatnitski.’ He seemed surprised at my command of his language. ‘Good evening. I’m Nye.’ He had washed-out blue eyes, abstracted but kindly. His tanned skin was stretched tight on near fleshless features and he had a neat, greying moustache. After a glance around the bar he half reluctantly agreed to take a large gin-and-tonic. When I explained I was a flyer shot down over Odessa while observing Bolshevik positions it obviously eased his mind. As if in apology he said he had just recently arrived from India. ‘In their wisdom, our top brass seem to think my experience of Pathans on the Frontier will be of use in Constantinople!’ He was otherwise vague about his commission. Learning I had only that day stepped ashore and planned to travel on to London, he warmed further. I did not resent his caution. As he said himself, later, one had to be frightfully careful of the people one talked to at the Pera Palas. I knew little of the campaign in Anatolia against Turkish nationalists. Mustafa Kemal’s name meant nothing. Although I gathered a Greek army currently advanced into the Anatolian mainland I was ignorant of the detailed issues. It simply seemed just that Greece should be claiming her due. Major Nye willingly offered to sketch the background but would say nothing, of course, about British policy. He had every admiration for the heroism of our White Army he told me. Russia should be given charge of Constantinople as soon as possible. ‘She knows the Turk best. You must understand, I’m no supporter of Russia’s territorial ambitions elsewhere, not in Afghanistan or the Punjab at any rate.’ He smiled as he sipped his gin. He thought the British should meanwhile administer the city in the name of the Tsar and King Constantine. ‘Until things calm down a bit. The East has to be contained. I have every respect for the Asian mind and naturally I love India. There’s much we can learn. But if Asia ever really adopts the manners and ambitions of the West, masquerading in English pinstripe and spouting German metaphysics, she’ll become a danger to herself and to us.’ He pointed in the general direction of Scutari. ‘The Turks can have Smyrna for their capital, by all means. Let them take the whole of Anatolia. In other words they should stay in Asia. The Greeks can then take Thrace, while the Russian exiles shall have Constantinople, which I agree is theirs by tradition. With British support the Greeks and Russians will then form our strongest barrier against Eastern and Bolshevik expansion. It will mean a proper balance between East and West. Everyone will see the benefit almost immediately. Credit where it’s due, Johnny Turk’s a damned brave little chap. But he shouldn’t be allowed to pretend he’s an Occidental.’

I was tremendously impressed by his grasp of politics, his positive vision, his fair-mindedness. Major Nye was that excellent type of Englishman who wore neither his heart nor his religion on his sleeve, yet who held profound and well-considered moral convictions. I told him how much I agreed with him. Russia had been ruined by her Eastern expansion. Everyone knew Chinese, Moslems and Jews now supplied Lenin’s main initiative. At this the major became enthusiastic. ‘Exactly!’ He was about to elaborate when, noticing a waiter’s signal, he looked at his watch. ‘I’m committed to dining with a chap. We’ll talk more about this, though. What d’you say to later this evening? I owe you a drink anyway.’ With a wave that was almost a formal salute, he disappeared into the adjoining restaurant. He had contributed to my already excellent good spirits. I was soon chatting with a Russian captain attached to British H.Q. at Haidur Pasha. He had overheard some of our conversation. His name was Rakhmatoff. A nephew of the old general. ‘I gather you’re a flyer?’

‘I’ve flown,’ I admitted modestly, ‘in the service of my Emperor. And you?’

‘Just an ordinary infantryman. Major Nye’s one of the few British who properly understands our position. We must all pray that his influence will prevail. I believe he’s here as an advisor of some sort, isn’t he? To do with the uprising in Anatolia?’

I could honestly answer that I did not know. I became a little cautious of Rakhmatoff. With his world-weary, decadent droop of eye and mouth, he was too drunk for so early in the evening. Refusing his invitation to dine I asked the waiter for a table overlooking the courtyard, where I would not be disturbed. I ate sparingly, sampling several Turkish dishes, especially the skewered meats. Much Turkish food is similar to Ukrainian, so it was a relief to be free, for a while at least, from the endless duffs and dumplings of the British. I enjoyed a bottle of St Emilion, the first I had tasted in more than two years, and as I finished my coffee considered the idea of rejoining Major Nye as he had suggested. For the moment, however, the pleasures of Pera remained my most pressing interest. Starved for too long of the excitement of bustling metropolitan streets I was curious to discover what commonplace adventures awaited me at night in the Grande Rue de Pera. I returned to my room, changed my clothes, put on an ordinary top-coat, and sallied forth.

Dance music issued from almost every doorway. Electric signs advertised cabarets and bars. Trams squealed and rattled, sending sparks into the upper air; women of every age, race and colour smiled at me. Girls in sequinned frocks swung their hips along the narrow, cracked pavements; Italian policemen in tri-cornered hats and capes aimlessly blew their whistles and turned their eyes towards invisible stars, unwilling to involve themselves in anything likely to distress them. Kurds, Albanians, Tatars rushed here and there under the weight of huge loads, or stood on corners to scream ritualistically at each other. Shop windows were filled with silk and gold. Mumbling Jews staggered with bales of bright printed cotton into the open air, begging passersby to test the texture between their fingers. The flickering lights of Stamboul were in the distance and a white sea-mist gave the whole city the appearance of a dream, for only her cupolas and minarets were clearly visible above the banks of cypresses and sycamores; everything else was either jet-black silhouette or invisible. While here in Pera one might feel oneself in a jabbering, jostling, desperate Hell, Stamboul remained as tranquil and as remote as Nirvana. Great hooting ships came and went in her harbours; ferries with oil-lamps dancing under their canopies pushed towards a yellow haze that was Scutari. The sea resembled a series of dark mirrors placed at random upon an indistinguishable surface. Dissonant Arabian music wailed and barked then gave way to equally cacophonous jazz. I heard the tango and the fox-trot. I heard balalaika and saxophone and the wild din of a gypsy orchestra. Further along, men in tasselled caps and the white ruffles of Greek soldiers ran suddenly from a Turkish bath-house. They looked both embarrassed and satiated. A dozen cinemas advertised their films in as many languages. It had been so long since I had visited a cinema I hesitated for a moment between Birth of a Nation and Cabiria before deciding that while London had films, she could not offer Constantinople’s other entertainments. Hoping my Baroness did not wait for me inside, I passed Tokatlian’s, the restaurant she had mentioned as a favourite meeting-place of Russians. Tonight I was in search of younger company. The Café Rotonde, with its blue electric sign and eerie green windows, attracted me. I pushed through a rabble of harlots whose heads barely reached my chest, giving my hat and coat to a red-haired witch at the door before following a jaunty dwarfish Syrian waiter to a table. Within seconds I was besieged by half-a-dozen deliciously sleazy girls in cheap satin and bedraggled feathers who begged me to drink and dance with them. I selected two, as had always been my habit, and dismissed the rest. They were both Turkish. They gave their names as Betty and Mercy but spoke scarcely a word of English, had some Russian and slightly more French (chiefly sailor’s argot). Betty was fourteen, Mercy was a little older. That evening and part of the night I spent in their lascivious company, chiefly on the couches of the Cafe Roto ride’s back room when the garish lights began to hurt my eyes, the jazz music grew too loud for my ears, and their lewd language became too arousing for my loins to bear the lust any longer. My little girls might have come straight from the Sultan’s training-schools. I was not disappointed in them. They reminded me of Katya, the child-whore, cause of so much trouble between me and my cousin Shura in Odessa, but their skins were darker, their liquid eyes larger, and their arts far more sophisticated. It was no crime to enjoy their flesh. It was fairly paid for, as others had paid. I know these girls. They are naturally depraved. There is a myth about female innocence I have never understood. True, some are also naturally innocent, but others are born with an animal desire to explore all the wanton secrets of their own senses. Nobody forces them to live as they do. I did not invent the games we played that first marvellous night. They are games as old as civilisation, as subtle or as crude as the players themselves. It is a way of life for them, as often a passport into Heaven as it is into Hell. People should not condemn what is alien simply because it frightens them.

Next morning, profoundly relaxed, I decided to breakfast in my room, congratulating myself that my luck had turned at last. My cocaine protected me from most venereal dangers and Mercy had told me where I might obtain fresh supplies. Neither child was a stranger to the drug. They had, moreover, information where to sell gold at top prices, where to buy a cripple if I should ever desire one, what the best private lodgings were. A friendly whore is one’s best source of knowledge in any large town. She moves in a wide social sphere and hears everything. True she has a penchant for sensational gossip, mystery, conspiracy and romantic mysticism, but that can be discounted. In a single night I learned of bordellos staffed entirely by young Circassian boys, of women who made and sold absinthe, of ‘dealers’ from Trieste and Marseilles who continued an age-old white slave trade to markets in Syria, Egypt and Anatolia. I now knew of an Athenian who would sell me a modern revolver and ammunition. If I left the hotel and walked for three minutes towards Galata I should find someone to prepare me a fresh passport in another name. Had I needed to live on my wits, as in Kiev and Odessa, it would have taken me two days to make all the appropriate contacts. The Pera bohemians prided themselves on their city’s reputation, just as my old Moldavanka friends spoke warmly of local gang leaders and madames as others spoke of film stars. In refusing to judge such people I was quite unconsciously following the edicts of Nietzsche and formulating my own morality which, in time, would be stronger than anything I could have learned in a comfortable and conventional life. Without that background, it is unlikely I should have survived at all.

Lifting myself on my sweet-smelling pillows, I pressed the bell beside my bed. A waiter answered almost at once and I ordered the small breakfast, an English newspaper, some hot water. He returned with my tray and a note from Leda Nicolayevna. Jack Bragg had told her where I was staying. She suggested lunch at Tokatlian’s. She would arrive at twelve-thirty and would wait until two. Sentimentally, full of languid love for the world at large, I decided to keep the appointment. My evening was already planned (I would spend it with Mercy and two of her friends. Betty had a previous engagement), but it would be unwise to snub the Baroness altogether. There was nothing to be gained by hurting her feelings. Moreover I was now in a position to help her get to Venice, should she wish to go. Betty had told me of a man who earned his living illegally ferrying refugees to Italy. The fare was very high, of course. I would offer to pay it.

Dressed in my dark green Irish twill I arrived at Tokatlian’s by one. The restaurant occupied the lower part of a private hotel (Mercy had spoke of its doubtful reputation) and had recently been modernised in the Persian style, with a preponderance of green, yellow and red mosaics. I never discovered if an Armenian called Tokatlian still owned the place. The manager was Dutch. Mr Olmejer had committed some crime, or offended some institution, in the East Indies and could not return to Holland. The restaurant’s huge plate-glass windows revealed a crowd of Levantine businessmen, Allied service officers, diplomats, journalists, many apparently well-to-do Russian émigrés. A tango orchestra played softly on the far side behind potted palms. I would be reminded later of those elaborate cinema foyers we used to have, when films were worth watching, told the truth and were therefore still popular. A tail-coated head waiter bowed and asked if I had made a reservation. I was meeting the Baroness von Ruckstühl I murmured, peering through the ferns and palms to glimpse her at a table in the second gallery, overhead. The waiter bowed again, offered to lead me to her, but I thanked him and made my own way through the restaurant. Her magnificent head tilted back as she talked to the tall man dressed formally in frock-coat and dark trousers who stood smiling beside her chair. He had conventional good looks and was obviously army-trained. I was almost glad to feel a pang of jealousy. It made me realise I retained feeling for her. The meeting would not therefore be as difficult as I had feared. Her brown velvet luncheon frock and a torque of pheasant feathers gave her a pleasantly pastoral look; an eighteenth-century aristocratic shepherdess. As I mounted the half-spiral of the stairs she saw me and waved a gloved, animated hand. She introduced me to her companion. Count Siniutkin seemed a shade embarrassed. I suspected he had wanted to leave before I arrived. ‘But perhaps you already know each other?’ she said. ‘From Moscow?’ I said I had never visited Moscow, but he seemed slightly familiar, and I, he said, to him. His expression was pleasant and open, unspoiled by a scar running from the right-hand corner of his lip to his jawbone. Indeed, the scar enhanced what would otherwise have been unremarkable good looks. His manner was self-effacing, his voice soft and a little sad. I found him attractive. My jealousy disappeared. I apologised to the Baroness for failing to contact her the previous evening. (‘A meeting with some British military people.’) I invited the Count to join us. He hesitated. ‘Oh, for a few minutes, you must!’ The Baroness spoke from generous good manners. Plainly she preferred to be alone with me.

So the three of us sat in a semi-circle round the marble table and ordered complicated American cocktails. We were all very mystified by the odd names and bizarre combinations. Then the young Count suddenly smiled, then said hesitantly, ‘I believe we met at Agnia’s once. In Petrograd.’ This placed him as one of Kerenski’s young liberal supporters. He had doubtless been acquainted with my friend Kolya. ‘Of course you knew Petroff?’ I was always happy to speak of Kolya.

‘Very well indeed. We served together in the same department.’ He became animated. ‘When Lenin started taking over, Kolya advised me to leave Petrograd. He could read the signs so well.’

‘He and I shared an interest in the future,’ I said. ‘Did you by any chance hear how he died?’

Siniutkin was surprised. ‘Who on earth told you he was dead?’

‘His cousin Alexei. We flew together. He was very bitter about it.’

‘After the October counter-coup, Kolya went to ground. He hid with me in Stryelna for a couple of months. Then his sisters joined him and they all got to Sweden by boat. I had a letter from him not much more than a month ago. He’s alive, Mr Pyatnitski.’

For an instance I honestly believed this whole episode, the city, its pleasures, my Baroness, was part of an elaborate fever-fantasy, surely I was actually still aboard the Rio Cruz! Then I became almost hysterical with joyful disbelief. I had mourned Prince Nicholai Feodorovitch Petroff since his cousin had drunkenly crashed us in the sea off Arcadia. Had I not been in a state of shock at the news of Kolya’s death, I should probably never have boarded the plane at all. Slowly the reality impinged on me. My beloved friend was safe. Somewhere he still made his usual ironic jokes and enjoyed life as he had always done. ‘That’s wonderful! Do you know where he is now?’

‘He was in Berlin, but he talked about going to Paris or perhaps New York. The idea of a “government in exile” was an over-familiar farce. He wrote that he had played in one too many such farces. Perhaps it was a joke, but he said he planned to emigrate. To teach Russian to Jewish radicals in America.’

The Baroness laughed heartily. She put her hand on mine. ‘I’ve never seen you so cheerful, Maxim Arturovitch. Aren’t you pleased I introduced you?’

‘I’m eternally grateful!’ To celebrate, I ordered three more cocktails. ‘You can’t possibly know, my dear Count, how much your news means to me.’

‘I’m so pleased. Kolya’s a splendid chap. Tremendously amusing no matter what happens to him. You could probably get in touch through an expatriate society, you know. But I’ll gladly find that last address for you.’

‘You’re very kind.’ I remembered my manners. ‘And what brings you to Constantinople, sir?’

‘A little of this and a little of that. Intelligence work, of sorts. Some interpreting. Luckily the Turkish I learned as a cadet has proven useful. My own escape was eventually made through Anatolia, after I had been drafted by the Reds, who were short of officers.’

‘You plan to move on again?’

‘I must see how things go. There’s pressure, of course, to join the Volunteers, but sadly I’ve no faith in our present leaders or their politics. I backed Kerenski. I remain a republican. Maybe I’ll go back when Lenin and Trotski calm down.’ He shrugged and pretended to study his fruit-filled glass as the waiter set it carefully before him. I think Siniutkin had been embarrassed by my question.

The Baroness broke the silence. ‘Well, one of you gentlemen must find me new accommodation. The family I’m living with is extremely German. Not at all pro-Russian. They spent the last twenty-four hours complaining bitterly about the new Sultan. Apparently Abdul Hamid was a saint in comparison, even if he did throw the odd houri into the Bosphorus. Germans have an uncanny ability to distinguish fine differences in tyrants. A sixth-sense not permitted the rest of us. They are boring me, Maxim Arturovitch. I must be rescued as soon as possible.’ She was ill-practised as a coquette. She had chosen an unlikely mask for her anxiety and despair. Obviously Count Siniutkin was as little deceived as I. ‘I’m sure one of us can find you a decent hotel.’ He blushed, as if he had let slip an obscenity, and brought a genuine smile to her lips. She said, ‘As soon as possible, my dear.’

Finishing his drink quickly the Count said he looked forward to seeing us again, then went downstairs to join two French officers at the long black and gold bar. Leda touched her knee to mine under the table. I was a little repelled by the urgency of her passion. ‘I have not forgotten you,’ I said. ‘I’m doing everything possible.’

‘Can’t we meet tonight?’ She flushed in mixed lust and humiliation. ‘I’m longing to make love. I can invent an excuse to the family. I’ll agree to any plan.’

‘I share your desire, my darling. But there’s so much to be arranged here.’

‘You won’t abandon me?’

I found myself automatically reassuring her, insisting my duties presently took up most of my time. ‘The military people keep irregular hours, you see. I must work on their terms. They have the power.’

She straightened her shoulders as she plucked up a menu. ‘And Mrs Cornelius? How is she?’

‘I haven’t seen her. I understand she left the city. I’ve no idea when she’ll return. Leda Nicolayevna, there’s a chance I can get you and Kitty to Venice. From Italy it will be much easier to reach Berlin. I didn’t want to say too much about this until I had concrete information.’

‘That isn’t the immediate worry, my dear.’ With a gloved hand she fingered her lips. ‘Apparently the British authorities are herding Russians of all classes onto some desert island. Is it true?’

The infamous Lemnos camp was at the other end of the Dardanelles. I sympathised with her fear. There were dreadful rumours of overcrowding and near-starvation. People apparently paid hundreds of thousands of roubles for a passage back to Constantinople rather than stay there. Visas were impossible to obtain. There was disease, insufficient medicine, needless death. Again I reassured her as best I could. I explained I only stayed on in the city for her sake. She said I must be resentful. I denied it. ‘I’m worried and rather overworked.’ She melted and asked me to forgive her. ‘You understand I’m so terrified for Kitty. And I couldn’t bear to lose you. I’m not asking for all your time.’

‘Of course. Give me your address. I’ll drop you a note in a day or so. There’s a chance I’ll have good news.’

We ate a light meal. My mind was largely taken up with the wonderful news of Kolya’s ‘reincarnation’. His inspiration, his love had meant so much to me. Leda thought it was her company which made me so happy so she relaxed marvellously. We parted at the table. Again I spoke of my affection. I kissed her hand. It trembled. Count Siniutkin was still deep in conversation with the Frenchmen. I nodded to him on my way out. He looked a trifle startled, as if I had surprised him in some dishonourable transaction. From Tokatlian’s I went immediately to La Rotonde to forget the embarrassments of lunch and to celebrate Kolya’s return to my world. My celebration, as it happened, went on for longer than I had planned. Thanks to some unusual sexual invention, the extraordinarily high quality of the cocaine, the simple ambience of the city itself, Time began to pass at an accelerated rate. During the next three days I experienced one long, steady rise to increasing, undreamed of heights of pleasure: passion I had thought lost forever. When I remembered, I would check occasionally at the Pera Palas to see if Mrs Cornelius were back and would write a hasty, regretful note in reply to one of the many sent by my desperate Baroness. Twice I crossed the Golden Horn by the Galata Bridge, an excited whore on either arm, to taste the magic of Stamboul and her massive mosques. The old city still reeked of enormous power. Here the Sultanate seemed strong as ever. The power was of all kinds, spiritual and temporal, and not all benign. I had been unprepared for the scale of Stamboul’s palaces and monuments, her public squares and gardens. When I ventured, with Mercy and a little giggling thing called Fatima, into the Grand Bazaar it felt infinite: cavern after magical cavern twisting away into further mysterious labyrinths, selling the exotic bric-a-brac of two or three millennia. This astonishing market was the meeting place of the centuries. Timeless, it offered the impression of all human history somehow consolidating in this one gigantic warren whose shadowy roofs echoed to the cries of traders speaking every civilised tongue, ancient and modern: echoes of voices which had advertised these same wares a thousand years before. Unexpectedly, as you rounded a corner, a ray of golden light would break through some high, domed glass roof and pierce the antique dust; another window would materialise where no window should logically be and you knew if you looked through it you might see anything: a squadron of Roman gladiators, marching at double-time to the Circus, a Byzantine Court procession, the triumphant cavalry of Europe’s Crusading knights, an Osmanli harem’s scented opulence. Once within the Grand Bazaar I became afraid I should never leave, that it was a place without boundaries or familiar geometry. We bought drugs (opium, hashish, cocaine), confectionary and coffee; we sat on soft carpets and talked to merchants whose eyes were as old as creation, who smiled and offered us arcane blessings. We stared at brightly-coloured captive birds, monkeys, peculiar, hybrid cats. Our senses were enraptured by the most delicate and powerful fragrances. And then, somehow, we were in Stamboul’s evening streets again, with the sun setting, the moon and early stars beginning to appear in a sky of dark blue crêpe-de-chine. Even here, the magnificent kiosks and mosques, with their marble and gold and mosaics, frequently stood only a short distance from tottering wooden tenements. As in Galata there were whole blocks desolated by fire; other parts had received heavy shell-attack and remained unrepaired. Nevertheless the pageant of our whole Western civilisation, as well as that of the parvenu East, was apparent in each broken stone and blackened timber. This filled me with a sense of purpose.

After the Turks were gone it would be upon these ruins we would build. Equally elegant modern architecture would rival the old. The sky would fill with the shimmering wings of silent aircraft. Bearing the polished steel of gently murmuring motor-vehicles, silvery overhead roads would curve and sweep between spires and domes no longer mosques but churches dedicated to our own, Greek Christ. Here exemplary human aspiration and dignity would expand. Constantinople would be a synonym for enlightened moderation. Before the benevolent power of electricity, steam and oil poverty would vanish. To her courts would come Arab spice-sellers, Christian tycoons, great poets, engineers, musicians. All would live in marvellous harmony, each knowing his place in the scheme of things. And ruling our Emperor City, if my dreams were to be fully realised, would be a noble, tolerant, far-sighted Tsar. A Tsar of a united world: a Tsar with the joyous vision of a positive Future. In his justice and wisdom he would reign justly over all men. This wonderful place, half-metropolis, half-garden, would exist in eternal summer. By science her light and temperature would be controlled beneath a glowing, transparent dome radiating the rainbow colours of the sun; a dome as beautiful as the dome of Hagia Sophia herself. That great Cathedral, symbol of our endurance and our Faith, would continue to dominate the city’s seven hills. All religions would be tolerated, but the Christian religion would flourish supreme, exemplified by our Greek liturgy. This creation of a better world on Earth would be a sign of the world to come. She would serve as a model to which other cities and cultures might aspire. Finally, thanks to the construction of enormously powerful machinery below the foundations, she might herself ascend one day to the heavens.

At first I tried to explain these visions to my companions, but they were inarticulate, even in their native tongues, and their schooling non-existent. Sometimes I felt more like a village schoolmaster than a rakehell. Eventually I contented myself with making the notes I am using now. In 1920 it seemed easily possible to manufacture reality from my dreams. I could not possibly know that, while I imagined this best of all futures, Turks, Jews, the dregs of Oriental Africa, schemed its abortion. They dare not let Paradise flourish on Earth, because all they have to offer is a modest reward in the world to come. They divided us and now they rule. Compromise was to be the order of the day; the very name of our century. Those who refused to compromise were, one by one, broken and destroyed.

I had been less than a week at the Pera Palas and was returning up the Grande Rue one morning, pushing my way through touts and hucksters, European officials in top hats and frock-coats, soldiers and sailors and women of quality, and feeling more than a little exhausted, when I heard my name called. Peering across the street I saw Major Nye, in khaki, standing on the corner waving to me with his swagger-stick. Behind him, in a leopard-skin coat and matching hat, stood Mrs Cornelius. An omnibus moved between us, a Turkish boy with a long cane clearing the way ahead, and I almost ran into it, my weariness forgotten, as I rushed over to them, shook the major’s hand and kissed Mrs Cornelius on both cheeks. The major was smiling. ‘We were wondering what had happened to you, old boy.’ But Mrs Cornelius was in poor humour. Her usual genial manner was strained. She wore more cosmetics than normal. ‘Have you been ill?’ I asked her. ‘Well, I’m not me usual chipper self, I must admit, Ivan.’ She spoke in what she called her ‘posh’ voice, which she affected sometimes in the company of certain types of Briton. ‘How have yer bin?’

‘I’ve managed to hold back the anxiety,’ I said. ‘I’ve been so worried about you.’

She did not soften. Major Nye explained they were about to have a drink before lunch and with his stick indicated the doors of a little bar. ‘This suits you, old man?’ We strolled into the semi-darkness as happily I told her of my discovery that Kolya was still alive. I was longing to get to London. From there I would locate him easily and let him know my whereabouts. She grew a little gloomier at this last remark of mine, ‘It’s not gonna be that simple, Ivan, I’m afraid. A couple of days ago I found art I’m a rotten Russian subject. Officially, any’ow. On account o’ that bleedin’ - dashed - certificate. I’m your wife. ‘Cause that’s ‘ow we registered on the ship.’

‘But we were never really married. What does it mean?’

She fell silent and made an effort to smile at the major. He was ordering our drinks. Her voice lowered for my benefit, she glared. ‘I’m bloody well stuck ‘ere, that’s wot!’ Then she added in a peeved tone, ‘I’ve been fuckin’ lookin’ fer ya orl over! Wot the ‘ell ya bin up ter? I’m now dependent on you gettin’ a visa for both of us. Fat bloody chance, eh?’

Major Nye turned back to us. ‘Mrs Pyatnitski has explained your difficulties. It’s a vile position. I’m trying to contact the appropriate authorities and clear the matter up. But everyone’s so overworked.’

I told him I understood. I had after all been an Intelligence Officer in Odessa, with similar duties and identical problems. One did one’s best to retain one’s humanity, but there were so many needy cases.

‘Perhaps we could get you an exit visa if a high-ranking Russian officer vouched for you?’ he suggested. We sat in a row on the bar stools and looked out into the turbulent street.

‘My superiors are all dead,’ I explained. ‘Had it not been for Mrs Cornelius - Pyatnitski - I should have shared their fate. There’s Captain Wallace, an Australian Tank Commander I worked with last year. My C.O. was Major Perezharoff when I acted as a liaison officer between the Volunteers and the Allied Expeditionary Forces.’

Major Nye sighed. ‘There’s too few records and too much confusion. I’ll do what I can. Perhaps a wire to Perezharoff, wherever he might be. But the powers above have to contend with French, Italian, American and Greek opposite numbers. The Russian Army chaps also want their say. The paperwork alone is wretched. Nonetheless, sometimes these things go far smoother than you expect.’

Now there was the faintest hope of a solution, Mrs Cornelius soon recovered her usual spirits. ‘Marry hin ‘aste an’ repent at leasure, eh, major? Chin, chin.’ And she finished her drink. ‘By the by, Ivan. Thet Baroness’s bin eskin’ orfter yer.’

‘I offered her my help, as a Russian gentleman. It appears now that I need help myself.’ I smiled wistfully.

‘Certainly looks like it. You bin up orl night?’ She placed demure lips upon the rim of her glass.

The major insisted we take another drink. I could not count much on his assistance. I was merely an acquaintance, one of half-a-million voices lifted in the desperate babble filling the entire embassy district. Privately I pinned my hopes on Mrs Cornelius’s ingenuity. The boat to Venice had also become worth our consideration. Still speaking in an undertone, she told me to calm down. ‘Ya look a bleedin’ wreck. Yer inter the snuff agin?’ I assured her my consumption remained moderate. She would do what she could, she said, but I would have to stay in touch. We might need to move rapidly and at short notice. I said how sorry I was I had become a burden to her, yet she was my only certain means of reaching London and my money. I could not act on my own, much as I felt I should. Our lunch became a rather forced affair. The major did his best to lift the mood. He told amusing anecdotes of Turkish duplicity, Greek recklessness, French pigheadedness, American naïveté and British disquiet. He mentioned Mustafa Kemal and problems with the nationalists. He had also heard the Reds were making solid gains now in Ukraine. These stories served to decrease my hopes of making an early departure, particularly since I had tasted most of Constantinople’s pleasures and was quite ready to move on to England. A deep weariness began to return, even as I did my best to respond with interest to the major’s stories. That afternoon I would visit my Baroness, to spend at least one night with her. After my recent exertions it would seem sedate and restful. As lunch ended, Mrs Cornelius adjusted her leopard pillbox with its miniature veil and said she had arrangements to make. She told me to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

I returned to the hotel desk where the quasi-Frenchman handed me notes from Mrs Cornelius and Leda. There and then, on the hotel’s stationery, I wrote a short letter to the Baroness, telling her to meet me at Tokatlian’s that evening, whereupon I went straight up to bed for two hours, to sleep off the worst of my worries. On awakening, my improved mental state was consolidated with the help of the good new cocaine I had obtained through Mercy. It was six o’clock by the time I had bathed and dressed, so I decided to go for a drink at La Rotonde and say farewell to my agreeable little girls. With the exception of Betty and Mercy I had been seeing rather too much of them for my own good. It was time to take stock of myself, to pull back, to arrange, at very least, a change of companion for the next few days. It might even be wiser to employ only the Baroness as the object of my lust. Entering the green haze of the café I sought out my chief friends. Betty and Mercy always sat at the same table during this slow part of the day, but at present they were gone. I assumed they had found an early customer. However, when I asked the grotesque Syrian when they would be back he seemed deliberately vague, scratching at his warts and frowning. They were probably working in Stamboul, he said. They had not been around for a couple of days. He scuttled off to his quarters. One of Mercy’s closest friends, a slender blonde Armenian known as Sonia, had overheard us. As soon as the Syrian was out of earshot she came, with a rustle of muslim, to sit at my table. ‘He’s lying,’ she said in Russian (she was a Christian) and she glared into the smoke which clung to the ceiling. ‘I knew Betty and Mercy hadn’t seen you recently. You were with Fatima and that lot, weren’t you?’ I agreed. Sonia went on: ‘The Syrian told us they’d gone abroad with you. He didn’t want a fuss. But why should he say that?’ She pursed flamingo-pink lips, ‘I think they probably did go over to Stamboul for a night. There’s an old woman there, a rich widow, who likes to play games with them. Nothing much. But they were always back at the house by morning. Simka, dear, my guess is they’ve been kidnapped.’

I knew the average whore’s delight in sensationalism, so I smiled indulgently. Certainly kidnappings were common enough in Constantinople. ‘But who would pay a ransom?’ I asked reasonably.

‘Nobody,’ said Sonia. ‘Their parents died in prison. I’d guess they’ve been sold by now. The Macedonian buyer came in a couple of days ago. They were almost certainly on his shopping-list. I saw him make a note. I warned Mercy at the time, but she thought I was joking. The Syrian had something to do with it. He must have.’

‘But where would they be sold? Not in Stamboul?’

Sonia glanced down at her glowing nails. It was now obvious that she was close to tears. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly. ‘Egypt? Somewhere like that. Jedah? There’s lots of places. There’s brothels in Europe, too. Berlin, in particular. But if they made too much of a stink, they might even have taken the Sultan’s Road.’ She meant they had been thrown, weighted, alive into the Bosphorus. I was upset. I was in no position to try to find them. I knew the Turkish authorities were not in the least interested in such commonplace problems, while the British were in the main powerless. I told Sonia to get in touch with me if she heard anything else, good or bad, and I gave her a couple of American dollars to buy herself a drink. Then I went out of the café and crossed the street to Tokatlian’s.

I was cheered by the dark, glowing colours of the place. The obvious wealth of the clients, the Persian décor, helped ease my anxieties. On the little stage, lit by amber and emerald-green, a negro trumpeter was squawking some Mississippi slave lament. Weakly the rest of the orchestra attempted to accompany him. They were all Jewish and would have been far happier playing Hungarian polkas or Austrian waltzes. The long bar was crowded with a group of Italian soldiers celebrating a comrade’s birthday. One of these was trying to sing a lugubrious aria against the caterwauling from the stage. I glimpsed Count Siniutkin, seemingly a permanent resident, as he got up from his table and disappeared into a back room. Private apartments, behind and above the restaurant, were frequently used for assignations. A tap on my shoulder announced the Baroness. She wore a new red evening dress which did not much suit her, though it emphasized her heavy, well-proportioned figure. I still found her attractive, particularly as a substitute for Mrs Cornelius. Both were of the old-fashioned kind of beauty which I appreciated as much as the boyish flappers who were then beginning to emerge. I pride myself I have catholic sexual tastes. Kolya always insisted this was the mark of a humane personality. I kissed my Leda’s hand. I was almost passionate. I felt her stiffen with hope. With some difficulty we passed through the crowd to our table. A word with Mijneer Olmejer and we were assured of a room overhead when we were ready. The Baroness regarded me through sleepy, passionate eyes as I deliberately forced myself to relax and concentrate on this luscious epitome of Slavic womanhood. The little whores were just two amongst thousands, after all. It would be stupidly sentimental to feel overly anxious about Betty and Mercy. They could easily be enjoying a life of unheard-of luxury. Such girls took certain risks. I should be worrying about how Mrs Cornelius and I were to escape this increasingly sinister city. But even that was put to the back of my mind as I used all my charm to prepare the Baroness von Ruckstühl for the ravishment she so clearly craved. Both she and I ate sparingly, drank fairly heavily, and then discreetly, by means of the stairs leading from the toilet vestibule, repaired to the black plush and mirrored panels of a Tokatlian guestroom. Even as I stripped off her dress she seized my penis and began to press it with her fingers, forcing me to calm her down with the offer of some cocaine. She had been starved of both my cock and my drugs for so long, she said, that she had gone half-mad. She had quarrelled with her child’s nurse and generally behaved very badly. I was not interested in her domestic confessions and silenced her by drawing her head down to my unbuttoned fly while I prepared the cocaine on the surface of a little marble table. I had become used to my responsive whores and she was a little surprised by my unromantic gesture, but she did not resist the budding, circumcised instrument of pleasure which was both my own joy and my shame, for in his insane revolutionary embracing of modernism, my father had unwittingly given apparent substance to the ghastly rumours of Jewishness which have so frequently led me into social embarrassment and even, on occasions, grave danger. By offering me up to that foolishly enlightened surgeon, he had placed upon me the mark of Abraham. Now, when almost every boy is divested of his foreskin at birth, it means nothing; but in my day it was a badge of race and religion, calculated to horrify unsuspecting women and to determine certain men in their decision whether one should live or die. Not that this was true of the Baroness von Ruckstühl as she applied her greedy teeth, tongue and lips to the object of her near-mindless lust and so allowed me to escape from the worries of the day, for her very inexperience was in itself relaxing. There is much to be said in favour of the forceful love-making of a mature, determined woman when one has problems to avoid. I gave myself up to it. At the Pera Palas a bribed waiter would relay any news from Mrs Cornelius so I did not need to feel uneasy on that score. Through a long, unhurried night I enjoyed the intensity of Leda’s lust, satisfying her desire while at the same time restoring her confidence in my affection for her (if not in my fidelity, which she questioned several times, though without rancour). I revelled, too, I must admit, in the knowledge that this beautiful Russian aristocrat was absolutely in my power, and I began to consider the possibility of introducing her to my ‘harem’ of little whores.

By morning, when we parted, there was no message for me at the hotel. Neither Major Nye nor Mrs Cornelius was anywhere to be found. My messenger had not seen them since they had dined together the previous evening. I was glad she continued to cultivate the British officer. She knew exactly whom to seek out when an emergency arose. She had an unerring nose for power, even when it was in the least obvious guise. I was confident we must soon be on our way to London.

I slept until noon, then went to La Rotonde for lunch. I was curious to see if Sonia’s speculations had proven groundless and I planned to meet one of my new friends, a Bulgarian engraver specialising in visas. At that moment I felt wonderfully content, in perfect control of myself and my world. I remember whistling Marching Through Georgia (Jack Bragg’s sole contribution to my repertoire) as I swung my cane and moved on light feet down the Grande Rue towards La Rotonde. Mind and emotions were thoroughly balanced; my sense of proportion had never been better, and my perspective on life was excellent. I was a man at one with himself and knew no hint of care.

It remains, therefore, a source of profound puzzlement to me how it was possible, only a few hours later, to find myself inescapably in the power of an all-consuming obsession; an obsession which would dominate the rest of my life and determine almost every aspect of my destiny. I do not regret what happened; I simply do not understand how I could become the victim of such an impossible coincidence. I sometimes look to ancient Greek mythology and see myself as some doomed hero upon whom Zeus has placed a curse and thus began a remorseless chain of consequences which must decide the ultimate fate of gods and mortals alike.

Wheldrake, greatest and most neglected of Victoria’s poets, speaks for me in English far more eloquent than mine (but then he also knew the dreadful suffering and humiliation which compulsion can bring to a man):

O, Prometheus, by what subtle glamour

Was thy power constrain’d?