The Laughter of Carthage

SEVEN

TO CONSECRATE MY resurrected ideal, the birth of my Muse whole, as it were, from the head of Poseidon, I required a parental blessing. Next day found myself and my girl descending to Galata’s wretched slums, that world of crippled dogs and myriad degenerate humanity, to visit her mother and father.

Esmé’s name had been Elizaveta Bolascu. After some political trouble, her parents moved to Constantinople in 1909 from Husch near the Bessarabian border. He had been a master carpenter until, Esmé said, ill luck had lost him his trade. Their one-room apartment was at the top, as she proudly told me, of seventy-five unstable stairs. He was, I realised at once, a drunkard, in appearance indistinguishable from the miserable Armenians and Sephardim who infested most of the building. Every vein on his face was broken and inflamed. The smell of cheap alcohol was, however, a blessing, since it disguised the general stink of the place. Esmé’s mother, half mad and apparently without will, wore a black shawl around her head like any peasant woman; her skin was as yellow as her husband’s was red. She said she would make us tea, but Esmé stopped her. ‘My mother is sickly.’

M. Bolascu spoke only his native language and some Turkish. His wife knew a smattering of Russian, but I could barely understand the dialect, and some French. Esmé was thirteen. As they laboured through their miniature vocabularies I wondered where Captain Loukianoff had been in 1907. Had Madame Bolascu ever heard the name? She said it was possibly familiar, but I suspect she thought I was searching for a distant relative’s next of kin. (Esmé was two when they moved from Husch. It was perfectly possible therefore that the girls were half-sisters. To this day I am convinced of it. Loukianoff’s wife had deserted him after only a year of marriage, after Esmé was born. Why should he not have sought consolation, later, in the arms of a Roumanian carpenter’s robust wife?) Madame Bolascu asked if he was a policeman. She spoke in a hesitant, reedy voice, anxious to please. No, I said, he was a Russian officer. A gentleman. Her eyes became blank, as if someone had switched them off. I wondered if this were an indication of guilt. These two had reached the very bottom, although it was evident they had once been respectable. The Turkish capital could have that effect. Something in the air rotted the honest Christian soul. They had been slowly starving to death but now, thanks to Esmé, they were gorged on the cans and preserves she had bought with her body. Strangely, both mother and father were swarthy. I knew Esmé could hardly be the drunken Roumanian’s daughter. Loukianoff had doubtless passed through Husch on his travels to and from Ukraine. I could not remember exactly when he had come to settle in Kiev, but it was after 1907. ‘Loukianoff,’ I whispered to the crone (she was not more than fifty in actuality). Her husband moaned like a sheep and complained it had grown cold. She went to rearrange the sacking at the window, pinning the fabric on rusty nails stuck into bare wood. Esmé lit a candle. Bolascu coughed and brushed at his grimy forehead. He did not want us there.

‘Très bon. Très bon,’ insisted the mother. Even her French had plainly seen better days. She patted her lovely daughter’s head. She tried to grin, but her few yellow teeth plainly hurt her mouth. Neither she nor Esmé was entirely certain why I was there. I tried to explain again. The child reminded me of my murdered sister. I wanted to provide for Esmé’s wellbeing and theirs. Husband and wife nodded at last and became thoughtful. We had reached the bargaining stage.

In the end I paid two English sovereigns for her. Having fairly purchased their blessing, I was now, in their eyes, the sole owner of their child. Her mother assured me she was a good girl, a virgin, a pious Catholic. She kissed her daughter farewell. The father snarled over his money. She said she would come to see them soon. We went back down the swaying stairs to where a nervous cabman waited, feeding his horse from a nosebag. I ordered him to return us to the little sidestreet behind Tokatlian’s. There I had already taken one of Olmejer’s private apartments, rented on a monthly basis. This suite was a red cavern with low, curved ceilings and deep carpets all of the same colour. It was their best. It must be a secret, I told Olmejer, to everyone. I had paid him in advance. The rest of our day was spent with the couturiers who came to dress her in decent clothes, befitting her age. I had her thoroughly washed. Her hair was brushed and tied back with ribbon. At length she resembled an ordinary thirteen-year-old girl again. I left her with her dresses and her mirrors and returned for a while to the Pera Palas. There were no messages for me. I began to believe myself forgotten by Mrs Cornelius. I hoped to see Major Nye in the bar, but he, too, was gone. I was sure the Baroness, on the other hand, would continue patiently to wait a while longer.

A week went by. I ignored Leda’s increasingly imploring notes. Then I let it be known I had been ordered to Scutari. I did not want my idyll interrupted. I was at last in love. It was a rapture of nostalgia, of dreams come true. We visited cinemas, fairgrounds and theatres. We did everything I had always intended to do with Esmé. And now Esmé did not hold back, primly examining the cost or warning me not to lose my head, as she had in Kiev. I was able to enjoy everything to the full and never think once of the future. Love-making was sweet and delicate, unlike anything I had known before, almost in the nature of a happy, childish game, though not without passion. Esmé was greedy for life, reaching for it urgently as one does when one has believed it permanently lost. She was in fact more eager for sexual pleasure than I. I was frequently content merely to lie with her cradled in my arms while I told her little stories, made jokes, fed her with sweets. My whole world had a rosy warmth; I knew the joy of a father reunited with his daughter, brother with sister, husband with wife. She accepted my romantic tenderness as prettily as she accepted all my gifts. I asked for nothing; merely that she be herself, the object of my affection, my little perfect goddess, rescued from vice as I had not been able to rescue her geminus. I remembered to write a few hasty notes to Mrs Cornelius. I told her I was in contact with people who could help us. I informed the Baroness von Ruckstühl I had encountered unexpected difficulties. The official who promised to arrange her visa was now being unhelpful; moreover, relatives of mine had arrived in Constantinople and required some of my time. Day after ecstatic day I put off meeting both women. While I lived in heaven, whole armies were routed, new countries were established, others were completely destroyed or rechristened with unlikely names. The empires of old Europe fell to bits like rotten wood. Esmé proved an excellent linguist. She rapidly expanded her French and soon learned Russian, as well as a little Italian. With her help I was able to speak slightly better Turkish. The skill for languages was one we shared and increased my belief that we actually were twin souls.

The maintenance of this secret apartment over Tokatlian’s meant selling jewellery intended for London. The Pera cocaine was good, cheap and plentiful. Nonetheless Esmé proved a voracious user. Once they have overcome their prejudice and sampled it, most women develop an authentic passion for the drug. Some would even claim it is above all a woman’s drug. The deterioration of my finances was rapid and did not take long to become obvious. I had not paid my bill at the Palas and quite rightly Mrs Cornelius had refused responsibility. She had left Russia with much less than I. Accordingly I began to consider selling either my knowledge or my abilities. During the Civil War I had learned to survive very well in Kiev, and had become a successful businessman. Now I must attempt to do the same thing in Constantinople. It was Esmé’s habit to sleep most of the day, so I would go down to the docks where under the old arches I found dozens of motor repair shops. I became friendly with several people specialising in boat engines. I helped them out whenever they needed me and in a short time became not only assured of work, but had several important contacts amongst small ship owners who plied the Bosphorus, Aegean and nearer shores of the Black Sea. The majority of these owners were either Greek or Armenian. I eventually met cousins of my old mentor Sarkis Mihailovitch and was treated thereafter as a family friend. They, too, were mechanics. Few Turks ran such repair shops. Turks tended to feel they lost face if they let their hands get oily or even attempted to understand the mysteries of the internal combustion engine. They had lived on the backs of others for centuries. Up to now they had employed German and Britons to build their machines for them while the lesser races of the Ottoman Empire were ordered to maintain them. The British had built the underground funicular which ran between Pera and the Galata docks. The Germans had built the tram system. No Ottoman was responsible for a single innovation. Even the designs of the mosques were copied from the Byzantines. When a class or nation is reduced to a reliance on pride and slaves, it gives up the right to rule. They had no claim on Constantinople. Byzantium’s true inheritors could construct the machines needed to run a city which Roman engineers had given fresh foundations. The ancient warrens of two thousand five hundred years were a tribute to the simple fact that to survive was to embrace and understand new technology as it emerged. Working in the harbours of the Golden Horn, where galleons of Venice and Chinese junks had met regularly in the course of trade, I could watch flying boats land and take off: Macchis and Porte-Felixstowes flying from Italy and Gibraltar, taking important military personnel back and forth. I longed to pilot one of those machines, at least until I built my own. They were a reminder of what the West meant to me. They revived my imagination. They made Europe real again. Even the most magnificent ships could not convey this ambience. The planes flew to their home bases within hours, coming and going so casually. I dreamed of flying Esmé and myself to freedom, to Genoa or Le Havre. I would build a more sophisticated version of my first machine and escape with her on my back, a flying prince and princess, those staples of Oriental legend.

I was touched when Esmé told me she dreamed one day of keeping house for me, of becoming my wife. I was only seven years her senior. When I reached thirty she would be twenty-three. There was nothing wrong with a man of twenty-five marrying a girl of eighteen. We planned like children, knowing little of normal domestic life. Esmé was admiringly curious of my designs, sitting silently as with set-square and slide rule I worked on a plan for a new steam engine which would use rapid heating chemicals, suitable for powering a motor car. Naturally, she could not follow the mathematical formulae but the symbols themselves fascinated her. For hours she would stare at them like a cat, her eyes following my pen as it formed them on the paper.

We continued to dine in obscure backstreet cafés. She wanted to cook for me, she said. She named Turkish and Roumanian dishes. Contemptuously she said the restaurants could not prepare them properly. She had been educated at a charitable convent school until she was ten. For a time she thought of becoming a nun. Then her father’s fortunes worsened. The Turks had grown unwilling to employ Christians in their War Effort. So Esmé herself had looked for work. During the War there had been few jobs. She tried to be a domestic servant like her mother, but most of the usual employers, the well-to-do Greeks, or people attached to foreign embassies had left the capital. Now, with so many refugees, the competition was impossible. Two friends of hers had gone to work at Mrs Unal’s. They told her money was good in the brothel once you were used to the hours. I guessed Esmé had been so obviously innocent Mrs Unal had sent her away. Even in Pera and Galata there were laws of sorts. The British did their best to maintain them, though much of their time was taken up settling disputes between different groups of Allied servicemen and attempting to discourage Turkish police from demanding bribes. Esmé said she even thought of returning to Roumania and finding cousins, but she had been her parents’ only support. They would die soon. In the meantime she had to care for them. To ease her conscience, I had already promised them a few shillings a week.

The von Ruckstühl correspondence grew hysterical. Those intolerable Germans wanted her to leave. Marusya Veranovna had disappeared. Kitty was heartbroken. There was no money. Had I ‘dropped’ her? Reluctantly, I arranged to see her. In my room at the Pera Palas I actually enjoyed myself with her. I felt a return of spontaneity which had vanished during my time with Esmé, for it is hard not to treat a little girl as a delicate toy. Leda had become inventively lascivious. All her fantasies and frustrations had given her time to explore her range of lust. With genuine emotion I told her how much I had missed her. ‘But you are always in Scutari,’ she said. ‘Have you a woman there?’ I reassured her. ‘It’s because the influential Turks live in Scutari.’

‘Are you a spy, Simka? When I told Count Siniutkin you were a flyer who served with Intelligence, he said you must be a secret agent.’

‘All you need to know, darling Leda, is that I am a Russian patriot. I hate Trotski and his gang. I really should not say more.’

‘Then your work is dangerous? I am so selfish. It’s the anxiety. I feel it more for Kitty than myself. But I shall have to find a job.’

When she left I offered myself the luxury of an hour in the bath alone and tried to collect my thoughts. I was indeed living fairly dangerously, though not as the Baroness guessed. In spite of my work, my savings were almost exhausted. Somehow I had put myself in the position of deceiving three women and, worse, I had diverted from my ‘life plan’. I had to find a way to resolve all these difficulties. Changing into fresh linen, I went downstairs to the bar and to my delight saw Mrs Cornelius. She had on a new soft silk frock of pale blue and sported a navy blue ‘picture’ hat. She was not in the least surprised to see me, but I believe I must have blushed under her searching eye.

‘Afternoon, Ivan,’ she said. She was distant and disapproving. ‘Ya got me note, then.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m this moment returned from Scutari.’ I was anxious to win back her good opinion. ‘I’m working. Trying to earn some money by doing mechanical repairs for the Turks.’

‘Where the ‘ell’ve yer reelly bin? Silly little bleeder. Unless ya pull yer socks up, yore gonna be in an ‘orrible mess. I carn’t ‘elp yer.’

‘You’ve already done more for me, dear Mrs Cornelius, than anyone.’ I spoke feelingly and with dignity. ‘If I am keeping you here, then you must travel on alone. I will join you as soon as I can.’

‘Oo’s bin torkin ter yer? I don’t fink you wait ter git ter London!’

‘I assure you I do.’

‘Then why ain’t yer doin’ somefink abart it?’ She was so pretty, even when her eyes narrowed with impatience.

‘We need documents. Divorce papers, if necessary...’

‘Divorce!’ She was exasperated. ‘I tol’ you abart that in ther larst note. It turns art there’s no bloody record of our marriage. I’ve orlready ‘ad that sorted art. Wot yer fink I’ve been doin’ wiv meself? It’s not me should be worrying. I don’t need nuffink ‘cept a birf certiff ter prove I’m British. An’ that’s on its way. Are ya delib’rately tryin ter do yerself darn? ‘Oo is it? That bloody Baroness?’

‘I’ve been earning money. I assure you it’s true. At the docks. You forget I’m a first class mechanic.’

‘First clars wanker more like.’ She sighed. ‘Ave a drink.’

I asked for anis.

‘I’m doin’ me best fer ya, Ivan.’ She was superficially more calm. ‘But yore not ‘elpin’ yoreself.’

‘My personal life is complicated,’ I admitted. I was yearning to tell her everything, but she gave me no time.

‘Personal life! Ivan, ya carn’t start ter bloody ‘ave a personal life until yer git ter bleedin’ London! Not unless it’s direc’ly connected wiv a passage on a ship. ‘Ave an affair wiv an admiral. It’s orl ya kin afford!’

‘Someone else is now involved. A relative I found here. An orphan. I want to save her, too.’

‘Come orf it, Ive. Ya’ve orlready tol’ me yore an only child!’

‘You’ve heard of Esmé? This is her half-sister.’

Mrs Cornelius stiffened. ‘Git rid of ‘er.’ She spoke urgently and firmly. ‘An’ double quick. Yore talkin’ bad news, Ivan. Dump ‘er. Do wot yer ‘ave ter do. But do it nar.’

I was offended. ‘This is not a passing affair, Mrs Cornelius. The girl in question has been of considerable help to me in a dozen ways. I am prepared to say, quite frankly -’

Mrs Cornelius lifted an imperious hand. ‘I’ve ‘eard it.’ With the other hand she signalled for the waiter to bring us more drinks. ‘Yore a babe-in-ther-wood, Ivan. I fought some bint woz takin’ yer. An if they ain’t, then it’s even worse. Yore takin’ yerself!’

This was to me the most appalling blasphemy. ‘You must hear me out, Mrs Cornelius!’

‘Let ya make even more’ve a fool o yersel’? Do me a favour.’

I was enraged. I thanked her for the anis and got to my feet.

‘Pull yoreself tergevver.’ She spoke in a fierce hiss. I knew she meant well. She cared for me greatly. If she had met Esmé she would not have said what she did. And she compounded the error with every statement. ‘Git art o’ it, Ivan. Every bloody man fer ‘isself!’

‘She’s my responsibility. Only a child. Thirteen years old, Mrs Cornelius!’

She sat back, pursing her brilliant lips. ‘Don’t involve me, Ivan.’

‘We could say she was adopted.’

Mrs Cornelius told the waiter to leave both drinks. She opened her navy blue handbag and paid him. By then I was insulted as well as furious. Without speaking further, I left the bar.

I realize now she had my best interests at heart, but my mind was clouded by my desires. I could not be separated from Esmé. I began to think Mrs Cornelius must be jealous of my little girl. I walked up the Grande Rue in a wild rage, careless of wind and rain. I felt severely let down and misunderstood. Since I could no longer trust Mrs Cornelius, I would seek my own way out. I needed only Esmé. I paused, finding myself in a Turkish cemetery. This one was the oddest I had seen, for almost every stone bore a life-size sculpture, some of them mundane, some of them utterly bizarre. Here a shoemaker worked on his last, there a baker prepared bread, while elsewhere a man seemed to be hanging from a gibbet, his body twisted and his face in agony. Scarcely a stone in the place did not have one of these realistic monuments and I came to realise they represented not only the occupants, but their trades and the manner in which they had died. The cemetery was surrounded by an old yellow sandstone wall. The rain fell relentlessly but without much force. Crowds of rooks flew screeching across a miserable sky. Gulls sailed on the colder currents, complaining. The old garden breathed like a dying man. I stumbled over cracked slabs to the shelter of a wall and found myself staring down beyond it at Italianate slate roofs, groves of bare trees which bent in the wind, a clear view of the Bosphorus. A gnarled Turk in lopsided fez and sodden woollen overcoat reaching almost to his feet, passed by on the path. He stopped and, careless of me, began to urinate against the wall. Upon consideration I could not bear the prospect of losing Mrs Cornelius. I was fully aware I had let myself drift away from my original course. There was a possibility I might never find it again. But must I be forced to choose between Esmé and my destiny? Many men were asked to make the same dreadful decision at some stage in their lives. Yet surely Esmé was as much part of my destiny as my engineering ambitions. She was my imagination and inspiration. Mrs Cornelius would not be angry with me for long; she was incapable of holding a grudge. If necessary I would get to England by my own route. Then I would look her up in Whitechapel as soon as I arrived. My commonsense restored, I left the cemetery and walked towards the lights of the Grande Rue.

Returning with relief to the admiring comfort of Esmé, everything else was put from my mind. My plans for the steam car progressed. I let it be known around the docks and workshops that I had an invention worth millions to an investor. In less than two weeks I made several contacts and almost concluded an arrangement with Mr Sharian, an Armenian financier. He offered to fund me for the prototype and intended to sell the first cars in Paris. Then Mr Sharian was murdered in broad daylight on the Galata Bridge and I was dragged to the police station as a suspect. I gave my address as the Pera Palas. There were people who could vouch for me. I mentioned, among others, Major Nye and Count Siniutkin. The Turkish police were already in the process of ignoring everything I said and turning me into the murderer but happily the British redcaps were more cautious. I said my wife, Mrs Cornelius, would be able to speak on my behalf. I began to feel as if I were within the nightmare once again; this was overly familiar to me. A British MP sergeant interviewed me and I had to repeat everything. My unlit cell had iron manacles stapled into mildewed stone and had probably been built in the middle ages. After some delay the sergeant returned. He told me Major Nye had been recalled to London and Mrs Cornelius had already left the Pera Palas, taking a train to Paris. At this I became frantic and I am not sure what I said, though I remember begging the sergeant to help me, swearing I was not capable of killing anyone. He told me he could only do so much. I could not think properly. How long would Esmé wait before she panicked? If she spoke for me, it would betray our secret and cause me dreadful embarrassment. I could imagine what the gossips would make of my pure, wholesome love for her. I felt I was going mad.

Six hours later the authorities released me. The murderer had been caught. A Circassian identified by all witnesses, a man with an old grudge against Mr Sharian. The Turkish police told me none of this. It was the British MP who apologised. ‘Were you supposed to travel with your wife? Well, send her a telegram and tell her you’ll be on the next available train.’ Fearing the worst, I rushed back to Tokatlian’s where I found Esmé weeping. She had been convinced I must be dead. In a short while she was comforted and cheerful again and I was able to spare the time to go over to the Pera Palas. The manager came to me while I waited in the lobby. Mrs Cornelius had indeed left a forwarding address. It was c/o Whitechapel High Street Post Office, London E., England. Major Nye could be reached through the War Office in Whitehall. In the meantime, said the Greek with hypocritical apologies, my baggage had been removed from my room. They would be pleased to return it on receipt of a month’s rent. Most of my plans, my clothes and half a kilo of cocaine were in the trunks. After I had fetched the money from Tokatlian’s I was almost completely out of funds. The trunks were transferred to my rooms by two huge Somalis who normally acted as commissionaires in the evenings. I did not tip them.

That night I sold almost the last piece of jewellery and took Esmé to the music hall. I was desperate to get a grip again on reality. When I was in her company nothing seemed of particular gravity. Mrs Cornelius would soon be in London and I could write to her there. She was in a much better position to get permission for me to enter the country. If I looked at it from certain angles, things could even seem as if they had improved for me.

On the other hand my Baroness, whom I saw the next afternoon, was growing increasingly distraught. Her anxiety made her less attractive. Rather than make love, she preferred to discuss her dilemma. She had still heard nothing from her husband’s family in Berlin. Her German hosts felt she had overstayed her welcome. Kitty needed far more attention, now that Marusya was gone. Was there some way she could earn money?

I could think of very little that was respectable. There were few openings for someone of her class. I myself was forced to disguise the way in which I earned what was after all a meagre living as a jobbing mechanic. I assured her, of course, I would continue my efforts to help her get to Italy or France. She had heard rumours that a full scale Civil War was imminent in Turkey. The nationalists grew steadily more vociferous. The Sultan’s rule was seriously threatened because he too willingly dealt with the British. The British, for their part, had made many political arrests and so increased the tension. Haidur Pasha was being reinforced. Count Siniutkin, she said, predicted more trouble soon. A large proportion of the Turkish army had refused to disband. Bashi-bazouki bandits in the hinterland terrorised villages, killing Turks, Greeks and Armenians indiscriminately. Constantinople herself might soon be attacked.

This last seemed highly unlikely. I told her the Allies could easily defend the city. The whole civilised world would lend aid, if necessary. A few brigands were no threat. Down the centuries she had held firm against entire nations of enemies. But Leda refused to be calmed. ‘It’s getting exactly like Russia. Can’t you see that, Simka? The whole horrible world’s going the same way! That’s why I worry about you. I don’t want to lose you.’

I laughed heartily. I was indestructible, I told her. Like Leonardo, I moved from city to city, always able to gauge the wind in time. Someone could be relied upon, no matter what my circumstances, to find my genius of value to them.

She was sceptical. ‘Then why are you still here?’

I had, I reminded her, my loyalties. Moreover she should take into account the murdering tendencies of the Turk. My Steam Car Company had been a mere day or two from reality when Mr Sharian was killed. ‘But I shall find another Mr Sharian.’

‘Oh, Simka, it is such a shame. You deserve better. You should not have to go cap in hand to Armenians. If I had the money you would never have to know this awful frustration. Somewhere I’ll get a job and keep us both. I am good at arithmetic. My husband always admired my accounts.’

‘You must think of yourself and Kitty first. I can always find honest employment.’

‘I have become a miserable burden to you. No wonder you see so little of me.’

‘I have distant relatives, don’t forget, in the city. One of them is thought to be dying. And my vocation, darling Leda, I have always said to be my first mistress.’

‘Mrs Cornelius went to Paris, I hear. I would not have left my own husband in such a predicament.’

I refused to listen to this petty criticism. ‘You always knew it was a marriage in name only. Mrs Cornelius had already spoken of her plans and I had insisted she go.’

She began to weep very discreetly. ‘I doubted you. I’m sorry. I will not be a check on your freedom, Simka. I’m not jealous, though I could not bear never to see you.’ Her expectations, I thought, were now even lower than the last time. She had become a realist. I felt renewed sympathy for her. ‘Actually, my darling, Mrs Cornelius begged me to go with her.’ I hoped this would make her feel better. ‘She was angry when I refused. I told her it would mean leaving you.’

The Baroness laughed and shook her head as she wiped the tears from her cheeks, ‘If only it were true.’

I was offended, but she did not seem to notice. I rose and dressed. The cheap room, which offered a special rate if you took it for a whole night, had no carpet on the wooden floor. I felt a splinter drive itself into my foot and I cursed. I pushed back one of the shutters to see while I eased the little shard free. Outside a mob was demonstrating. It was impossible to know, from the Arabic on their banners, what their grudge was. Leda pulled a dirty sheet to her shoulders. ‘Don’t be upset. You must look after yourself. I haven’t any illusions. I’m almost ten years older than you.’

I lowered my foot to the floor. Affection and understanding suddenly returned. Crossing to the bed and kissing her, I promised I would see her very soon.

By the following day, however, Esmé had become ill. A cold had become something more serious, perhaps influenza, and the doctor’s prescriptions were costly. Obsessively, I nursed my child, brought her nourishing food from the restaurant, did extra work at the docks and continued my quest for another backer. Her tiny face, in a frame of sweat-drenched blonde hair, smiled bravely back at me whenever she was awake. Again I had no time for the Baroness. The cards I had ordered were delivered: The European and Oriental Steam Automobile Company Ltd. I distributed these widely. I saw no point at that stage in alienating Turkish interests. The steam cars were for the world. Did it matter, in the long run, if the finance for their development came from the Orient or the Occident? The money was better spent on cars than on guns! I had many false hopes in that period.

Esmé grew well and was gay again. I began seeing Leda occasionally. The spring came. I took Esmé into the hills. We ate Imam-bayildi under fragrant mulberry trees while we watched goats and sheep graze. The sun was silver in a pale grey sky and the walls of the villages were washed with faint lilac, pink or yellow. Shrubs were starting to bloom. The distant sea was tranquil. Constantinople’s dignified seaside suburbs were nothing like the yellow houses of Kiev’s outskirts. The scenery was more exotic, more evidently Islamic. Yet my childhood was completely revived: that confident, egocentric childhood when I was beginning to realise my unusual capacities and give proper detail to my dreams. Esmé listened to me as Esmé always listened, and I described the glorious promise of the future. She would gasp. She would grow round-eyed. She would remark on my cleverness and anticipate a marvellous career for me, with herself as my loyal companion. Then she would indulge her own fantasies, of the kind of house we would own, when we were rich, how many servants we should have and so on. She supplied everything I had taken for granted from the first Esmé. But this Esmé I did not take for granted. I had lost one and could never bear to lose another. She had my daily attention. I made certain she was entertained, was healthy, had the food, the clothes, the toys she most desired, that our love-making was to her taste even when it was not to mine. I knew the dangers of being over-solicitous and tried to avoid them. Esmé realised how much I loved her, what she meant to me. She accepted my concern as her right, the care of a real father.

Constantinople became gradually more familiar to me while, with the changing of the seasons, she also grew more magical. By now I had friends around the docks, acquaintances who were engineers on the vessels sailing regularly to and from the city. I was of service to many émigrés still inhabiting Pera. These continued to increase, for the Red Army pushed our Volunteers further back. Some Russians presently fought beside the Greeks in Anatolia. Others had been recruited into the brigand gangs taking advantage of the War. Everywhere groups of renegades joined the service of petty chieftains. There was an entire unit of ‘Wolfshead’ Cossacks helping to establish the regime of a Chinese warlord. Others had gone to Africa to join the Foreign Legions of Spain and France. Some white officers were even lending their expertise to the pirate khans of Indonesia. They had thoroughly turned their backs on our cause. So many Russian mercenaries were little more than children; as a trade they knew only battle and would rather sell their swords to Islam than live on Christian charity. The Allies, caught up in their own political machinations, had no time left to help our Russian Army consolidate. Generals departed for America daily, apparently to lecture on the Terrors of Bolshevism, but actually to join relatives in Toronto and Miami. The Baroness von Ruckstühl was lucky. In April she became a receptionist at the Byzance. We met twice a week in her little room at the very top of the old hotel. Kitty received private lessons on those evenings, from a Madame Kron, attached to the American school. We still spoke of leaving. She continued to apply for a visa to Berlin, but both of us considered ourselves fortunate compared to the thousands of wretches reduced to hanging around the Galata Bridge or the harbours, selling ikons and furs to grinning soldiers and sailors.

The cabarets had taken on a distinctly Russian air in parts of the Grande Rue. Noble princes and princesses who before the War had learned a few tasteful folk dances and little else, now performed them for drunks to the sound of out-of-tune balalaikas, while disinherited Cossacks nightly displayed their skill with pistol and whip. Counts gave riding lessons. Countesses taught drawing and music. The Tsarist upper crust had become a troupe of beggars and third-rate circus performers half a million strong. To be Russian in Constantinople was to be a laughing stock. One preferred when possible to claim another nationality. On occasions I was Polish or Czech. Sometimes I let people think I was British, French, even American. Similarly, the Baroness carefully retained her German style, though sometimes she dropped the ‘baroness’ (since every other Russian had a title) and became Frau von Ruckstühl. Because of my dark looks, I was frequently taken for an Armenian, and it was not always practical to deny it. I knew a few phrases from Sarkis Mihailovitch, chiefly technical terms, and these proved useful to me. Armenians are not Jews, whatever people say. They were very friendly to me and some even called me ‘the nephew of Kouyoumdjian’. They began to ask me to take on the more complicated jobs, almost always ensuring I had the entire fee for myself. Five or six steam engines belonging to the ferry boat owners soon became familiar exasperating acquaintances. I learned a great deal about marine machinery and steam engines in particular. Whenever I could I experimented, making little improvements to my automobile designs.

In the evenings Esmé and I would hire a carriage and a driver. We would tour Stamboul or take the little white coastal roads winding beside the pure turquoise of the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmara. The sky was equally blue, a colour I had once believed the fanciful invention of painters. We ate well, in restaurants overlooking wooded bays and tiny fishing ports. Listen to languorous Turkish music we watched the sun set on impossible landscapes. Spring mists diffused the light, especially at dawn and dusk, and we saw the hills of Scutari and Stamboul quiver in copper-coloured haze. Constantinople was a jewelled treacherous beast. She could fascinate you with her beauty, then strike you down suddenly, to suck out your blood and your soul. Her attractions were potentially fatal. I earned good money as a mechanic, had a worshipping child-bride, a mistress who was equally devoted, but must always remember that my true vocation was to be found in the more vigorous West.

The Allies grew increasingly uncertain of their rule. Peace talks continued. Europe was divided up, her future settled by her victors. The Byzantine city became an embarrassment to them. We heard more of Mustafa Kemal and his henchmen, of nationalists active in the capital. Many French and Italian military people thought Constantinople should remain Turkish rather than Greek. The Greeks, they argued, were just Englishmen in white skirts. The British alone gave genuine support to the Greek cause, supplying them with munitions and ships. Britons considered themselves the true inheritors of an Homeric tradition, thus in helping Greece, they reinforced their own self image. But could it be wrong to want control of the Straits while Islam and Bolshevism threatened to join hands in the Caucasus and Anatolia. Together they would form a Red Horde more ruthlessly effective than any Tamburlane or Attila directed against Christendom. It was not madness to predict the Antichrist’s army one day massing against us. Having fought and won a great battle, the Allies were exhausted but tomorrow that battle would seem as nothing. The mountains were bursting; from scarlet fire galloped the very armies of Hell. Into the fray came swaggering Carthage. The citadels of civilisation were attacked on every front. The West must entrench herself, restore her energies! The real enemy was still alive and on the march!

These condescending young men, with their beards and tartan shirts, come into the shop trying to put Labour Party posters in my window. They have no idea what they were rescued from. The Communist and the Oriental remain serious threats to everything held dear by the West. Those decent men and women voting for Adolf Hitler did not believe they voted for tyranny. They were hoping to contain the spread of evil. Hitler’s greatest mistake was to make a pact with Stalin. His ordinary followers felt a wavering of their faith in him. The Third Reich truly began to crumble when it lost its internal morale and its supporters abroad. Some innocent people were caught up in the great struggle and did indeed suffer an unjust fate, but most who exaggerate the evils of Hitlerism and speak melodramatically of a ‘Holocaust’ are the very ones who thought they had a right to enrich themselves by exploiting their host nations. I am not a political person. Even in my present circumstances I believe in decency and the Fellowship of Man, in good will and tolerance. As a youth, my idealism was even more pronounced. I believed that Turks were open to reason, that they would be grateful to be left alone in Anatolia. I even sympathised with aspects of their struggle. My trust, as was to happen frequently in my life, was abused.

On Friday, 1st May 1920, I kept the usual evening appointment with my Baroness. If it lacked passion, at least our loveplay was comfortable. When it was over she poured me a glass of Polish vodka, the kind we used to call ‘Bison-water’. The musky and dimly lit room was crammed with her possessions, including many framed photographs of herself, Kitty and her dead husband. She seemed unusually excited and full of secrets as she fetched a box of candied figs and offered me one where I lay in bed. ‘I am growing fat in Turkey,’ she said. ‘It’s better than living off German dumplings, I suppose.’ I wondered if she had at last found another lover. She had that air women often display in such circumstances, of possessing private power, of being inwardly amused, of having easily appeased a slightly troubled conscience. I stroked her face. ‘You grow more beautiful every day.’

‘I’ve something to tell you, Simka.’

‘That’s obvious. Is it Count Siniutkin?’

She was puzzled; then she laughed. ‘Oh, you expect everyone to be as bad as you!’ I had taught myself to forgive her these little insults. If it suited her to see me as a rake and a charlatan and so preserve some sense of identity for herself I did not mind. ‘I believe I have some good news for you.’

I became alarmed. She was pregnant! Yet I had been careful. I racked my memory for the likely date of conception.

‘I said “good news”, Simka.’ She sat back on her heels, rubbing cream into pink breasts and belly, massaging neck and shoulders. ‘I think I have found a financier for your inventions.’

I was delighted and considerably relieved. What did I care if the financier was her lover? All I wanted from him was the chance of bringing to physical reality just one of my ideas. From that, my reputation would automatically grow. ‘Who is it? Another of your wealthy Jewish friends?’

‘I wasn’t given his name. But your guess in one respect was right. He is an acquaintance of Count Siniutkin.’

I had not seen the Count for several weeks. After being a fixture at Tokatlian’s, he had disappeared completely. There had been talk recently of Tsarist officers leaving to fight in Paraguay or in the Argentine where there were already large numbers of Russian soldiers. I had assumed him en route to South America. Leda wiped the corners of her mouth. ‘I don’t know a great deal about it, but the Count thinks it’s an excellent opportunity.’ In two weeks Siniutkin would return to Constantinople, she said. He would then be ready to negotiate on behalf of the backer. ‘He’s interested in your one-man aeroplane. Could you prepare something on paper? An estimate of production costs?’ She frowned, trying to remember what Siniutkin had told her. ‘The factory space and tools needed, what raw materials are required, and so on. He’ll understand that you won’t want to reveal details, but needs as much as possible. He’s absolutely serious. The Count assures me that he’s above all a man of his word.’

I was content with this, reflecting how in finding Esmé I had somehow rediscovered my luck. For me, she would always be associated with my one-man plane. ‘Everything’s ready. I can easily work out costs. I know people in local factories. The engine is the main outlay. It could be made cheaply in large quantities. Did the Count mention money?’

‘He said his backer was not a spendthrift but would pay fairly.’

‘It’s all I ask.’ I kissed her. ‘My darling, you have won your passport to Berlin!’

We celebrated with the remains of the vodka and with the cocaine I had brought. When I returned to Tokatlian’s rather later than normal Esmé was asleep in front of the English primer I had bought her. Her exercises, written in a surprisingly clear, rounded hand (one of the benefits of her convent) had scattered across the floor. Tenderly I picked up the pages and stacked them together. She murmured in her sleep as I lifted her and put her gently to bed. If I left Constantinople soon, I had determined I would also take the Baroness and Kitty. My chances of entering another country unnoticed in the company of an under-age girl were poor. The schools of Constantinople already supplied the brothels of Europe. Officials would make the obvious assumption. A man and woman travelling together, a little Turkish girl as the daughter’s companion, would seem perfectly respectable. Moreover I now owed the Baroness that much at least. In bed, while Esmé settled to sleep in my arms, I considered the problem.

The Baroness had complained recently that Kitty was alone for loo long; the girl knew no children of her own age. Leda feared Kitty would grow bored and begin to wander the streets. I had already thought of introducing Esmé to Kitty, since my girl also needed a respectable friend. I would refer to Esmé as one of the distant relatives I had already mentioned. I would say I had promised her dying father to care for her. Would the Baroness, out of the kindness of her heart, agree to look after Esmé? I would pay all expenses. As long as Esmé agreed to the deception, the plan could not go wrong. Esmé was used to lying as the necessary consequence of poverty. I would explain how this little deception offered her a passport to the West and, eventually, marriage to me. More to the immediate point, if Esmé had a friend to amuse her it would ease my mind. Once my aeroplanes began production I could be away for days at a time. There were two weeks in which to lay the foundations of my charade. It meant the Baroness would be seeing far more of me. I was sure she would not be displeased.

From the following day on, my schemes went forward without a hint of resistance. Believing she had won back my heart, Leda became extraordinarily happy and affectionate and within a week was discussing elaborate arrangements for our journey West. She would go first to Berlin and join me later in London. She was confident, now, of finding employment. Her main concern was Kitty. It was the moment to mention my recent meeting with my cousin from Bessarabia who had been here for some time now. He was dying of TB and was at his wit’s end, with five daughters and a niece to care for. The niece was called Esmé, a good-hearted child. She had nothing to do all day, however, and my cousin feared she could easily go to the bad. Further elaboration and the Baroness was close to tears. ‘The poor child. Have you met her? What’s she like?’ Esmé was a sweet, shy creature, a little young for her age, but without a hint of vice in her character. She was too innocent for Pera. ‘I will write to your cousin,’ said Leda. ‘Give me his address.’ The house where he boarded was unreliable, I said, so she should let me have the note and I would deliver it.

Next morning I told Esmé what she must do. The Baroness was an old friend, a kind woman, very fond of me. She had once been my paramour. Nowadays she was useful to me and I in turn wished to be of service to her. If Esmé befriended Kitty we should all benefit. Esmé thought the deception a wonderful, harmless game. She agreed at once. That evening I went back to the Baroness bearing a note exquisitely written by one of my destitute waterfront acquaintances. With dignified, old-world elegance my cousin said he would happily allow his ward to visit the Baroness; he was more than grateful for her thoughtfulness.

From then on I began to enjoy a kind of life I had never previously experienced. The child I had lusted after on the ship and the girl who was now my mistress became great friends, playing together, sharing toys, being taken to parks, museums and the more suitable cinemas by their loving guardians. Reliably, the Baroness made no displays of passion in the presence of children. Esmé and Kitty found they had much in common and the language barrier was soon crossed. All was rather comfortingly bourgeois and for me was an attractive change. Leda von Ruckstühl even met my cousin once or twice. A broken-down cavalry officer, Blagovestchenski would do anything for a rouble or two. I justified all this play-acting in the knowledge that the Baroness already characterised me as a rogue and I was not therefore doing anything she should not expect. Besides, no harm was coming of it. The arrangement was helpful to everyone. All that was necessary for me was to rent a room near the Galata Tower while continuing to keep Tokatlian’s a secret. I was pleasantly surprised at how smoothly everything settled into a pattern for us; how relaxing it was to be a conventional patriarch.

It was almost a month before Count Siniutkin contacted us. The Baroness and I arranged to meet him at a restaurant called The Olympus in the Petite Rue. A Greek bazouki orchestra was playing so loudly when we arrived that we found it impossible to talk properly until the musicians retired. The food was greasy, unremarkable, but the Count explained there were certain people he did not want to meet at present. Otherwise, with us he was warmly enthusiastic. I asked him if he had travelled far, for he had a kind of weather-beaten look to him. He said that his business had taken him a fair distance, but explained no more. He was anxious to discuss my work. ‘I will be so happy if this opportunity leads to something. From the first I’ve been amazed at the imaginative simplicity of your idea.’

I said he was kind to flatter me. ‘Wait until you see the first machine take to the air!’

His handsome features were eager. ‘That will not be long now.’ His principal was currently unable to visit Constantinople but would be in Scutari in a matter of weeks. If I supplied the estimates they would be passed on at once. If all went well, as he was sure it would, I could expect to meet my potential backers and arrange a contract. I assumed he represented a group of international businessmen and for this reason needed to keep his association with them secret. We spent the rest of the evening together. The Count showed considerable familiarity with South Russian problems. He knew both Kiev and Odessa. He had also, it emerged, met Petlyura who was still, he thought, active in some corner of Ukraine. ‘A brave man,’ he said, ‘and a strong nationalist.’

I was tactful. I agreed Petlyura was fighting for what he believed in. I saw no point in airing my own opinions. Count Siniutkin had been a radical in St Petersburg. He had witnessed the consequences of Revolution. Yet he still believed in such causes if they were far enough divorced from his own direct experience. We spoke instead of Kolya, of the people we had known at The Harlequin’s Retreat and The Scarlet Tango. He was sorry the likes of Mandelstam, Mayakovski and Lunarcharsky continued to support Lenin. ‘But some will always cling to a political ideology as firmly as a woman clings to her faith in a worthless man. It is what they wish were true, not what is.’

I agreed. One might almost say he described the tragedy of the whole Russian people. ‘We seem to require religion as a necessity of life,’ said the Count. ‘As others need bread or sex. Apparently it doesn’t matter what form it takes.’

We grew a little drunk. The Baroness began to speak of life at their dacha in Byelorussia and the little country church where she had been married. She described the priest who had run her school, and might have been speaking of God Himself. ‘I am sad Kitty will never know a proper Russian childhood. We were all so fortunate. We thought it would be the same forever.’

‘The Tsar’s sentiments exactly.’ Count Siniutkin darted a sardonic look at me. ‘It’s what led to our present circumstances, isn’t it?’

The Baroness as usual refused to discuss politics. All she knew was they had destroyed her life and taken everything she treasured. ‘I have only Kitty now. And, of course, Simka.’ Sober, she would not have made this sentimental display. Politely the Count ignored her. I was grateful to him. Leda’s emotional state next led her to telling him how she now had ‘two daughters’ to look after and how she enjoyed the responsibility. At this, Siniutkin stood up, making his excuse. He would be in touch soon, he said. He kissed the Baroness’s hand, ‘In the meantime -’ He placed a small chamois bag on the table. ’- from my client.’ He bowed and saluted. ‘Good evening, M. Pyatnitski.’ He walked out into the evening crowd.

The Baroness lifted the leather purse. ‘It’s gold!’ In my little room near the Tower we counted ten sovereigns. I gave her five. ‘Your commission.’

‘Marvellous,’ she said as she loosened the ribbon on her drawers. ‘We can arrange for the children to buy new dresses on Monday.’

This wonderful family charade took root so successfully I considered making it permanent. If the Baroness came to know of and tolerate my carnal affection for Esmé, or at least turned a blind eye, there would be no reason for our ménage not to survive intact forever. Once or twice I came close to hinting at the truth, but held off, for fear of losing the status quo which had been achieved. My nights, as always, were spent side by side with Esmé at Tokatlian’s, but evenings were devoted to the woman Esmé now called ‘aunt’. I decided, moreover, that it was unwise to inform Esmé of my continuing intimacy with Leda. Female jealousy has ruined many of the world’s greatest schemes. While Esmé enjoyed deceiving Leda, I doubted that at her age she would appreciate the irony of her own deception.

A few days later a message from the Count informed me his clients were impressed. We would soon be discussing details. Was I willing to travel a short distance? I replied I would travel across the world if necessary. I met him alone at a bar near the Tephane Fountain. He said his backer’s group could not be certain when they would next be in Scutari, so I must be prepared to leave at short notice for the Asian Shore.

‘If they genuinely want my plane, I’ll drop everything and come at any hour of the night or day.’

‘They think they can be here in about two weeks.’

‘You’ll accompany me to the meeting, Count?’

‘Of course. But rest assured my friend is a man of honour.’

Suspecting his client to be a Jew, I made it clear I was not at all radically prejudiced; neither was I disapproving of another’s religion. In this way I connived unconsciously in my own delusion. Mrs Cornelius often remarked I was my worst enemy. My faith in my fellows, my happiness to live and let live, to offer a helping hand, expecting to get one in return when needed, all proved my undoing. For years I was too ready to explain my ideas to anyone who showed interest. And today who hears of old Pyatnitski? Yet everyone has heard of Lear. People show surprise at my profundity. My remarks are drawn from experience, I tell them. This hatred of Bolshevism is not notional. It is hard-won by a man who understands what it means to suffer under the Reds. I know now I should not have quarrelled in Odessa with my cousin Shura. That, too, was the fault of a girl. My worldly education was thus interrupted at the wrong time. If as a boy I had remained in the city I should have learned realistic caution. Odessa’s catacombs still echo to the murmur of an unfulfilled future; ghosts still tread the Robespierre Steps. Somewhere in the sky over the Nicholas Church flies a solo aeroplane, a graceful thing bearing a young man. His outline black against a yellow sun, he sweeps over the city of sleeping goats, the city of Odysseus. He looks down on streets which are falling to pieces, at houses nobody can repair, at grey wretches standing in the rain for bread which never comes. He weeps for them and his tears are silver. They rush forward. They try to catch the glittering drops. They quarrel amongst themselves; they kill one another for a silver illusion. The youth ceases to weep. Now his laughter is insane as he rises higher into the sky to where it grows black; and then he is gone beyond the horizon. Odessa, city of greed, city of reality. City of what might have been. There was a Jew in Arcadia who held my hand. He knew why his people put a piece of metal in my stomach. They made me cry. Hernikof bleeds and his eyes contract with disbelieving pain. Es tut sehr weh. They made us kneel in the snow. They scourged us with their whips. Brodmann told them. They pushed us into barbed-wire nets and lifted us over their fires like squirming fish, while red-tongued dogs sat on haunches, eager for the flesh to be cooked. I trusted them to release me. I trusted them with my life. I told them the truth. But in those days perhaps I did not know what the truth was. How does one prove one is worthy of keeping one’s own life? In that night, in those deserts, I prayed to stars because I thought they might be angels who would save me. I have done no harm, unless to love is harmful. I have betrayed no one. They betrayed themselves. It is not a crime. I said to them: ‘It is not a crime!’ Still they turned their backs on me. Let them find out what suffering can be. Let them wander as I have wandered. Let them long for dignified death. Brodmann was a wretch. Life is useless for its own sake. In the end dignity is the best one hopes for. But even that is usually denied. They must reinforce their rationale for doing what they do to you; and this means stealing your self-respect if they can. The planet turns. We are too small. I love the universe and all its wonders. I asked for no reward. I only desired to enjoy the gifts God bestowed on me. I am no better, no worse, than Hernikof, surely? Than other men? I could have become that respectable husband, with a handsome wife and two fine daughters, taking the air of the Grande Champs on a Sunday afternoon. I could have been that stockbroker in frock-coat and top-hat, watching his children whirl their hoops beside the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens, or strolling with his wife on his arm in Central Park. I could have had a name, reputation, family, every honour. But to earn them I had to forget my trust in my fellow men. The price, I think, would have been too high.

A couple of weeks after my first meeting with the Count, I received word through the Baroness to board a three o’clock ferry for Scutari. Count Siniutkin would meet me there. I hastily went to Esmé and taking her by the shoulders told her to be good. I would be back next morning at the latest. I left her some money. She stood on tip-toe, put her slim arms around my neck and kissed me. ‘You will be a great man,’ she said in Russian.

My confidence reinforced by her love and faith, I set off on light feet, stopping only to say goodbye to the Baroness. I assured her I would be careful. She had, she said, great trust in the Count himself, but I must be certain of his friends before I committed myself. I promised her I would be properly circumspect.

I went down to the Galata Bridge and at two forty-five boarded the first available ferry to Scutari. Treating myself to a padded seat for a few extra coppers, I leaned back to enjoy from the sea the wonderful panoramic views of Constantinople’s three great cities. The sun was high in the sky. The domes of mosques were awash with light. Everywhere I looked I saw a different shade of green or soft blue, shimmering white. The smell of brine and spices, flowers and coffee mingled. It was possible, I thought, that I would return to Pera a wealthy man. The world would very shortly hear of my achievements. I would not need to slip away from the city like a felon. I would march into London or Paris a celebrated lion: Pyatnitski, the creator of the flying infantryman. Pyatnitski, the inventor of the patent steam car; Pyatnitski of the aerial liner and the domestic robot. The fame of Edison would fade. Where he had created toys, I was about to create an entire civilisation!

How proud Mrs Cornelius would be of me, I thought, when she heard of my fame. I could imagine her reading the news in the Daily Mail and boasting to her neighbours how we had once been married. I would move about the world with all my lovely women; a great patriarch in the old Russian tradition, yet also a modern man and a man of the future. And it would all have started here.

Thus the centre of the old world would be transformed, becoming the hub of the new.

Triumphantly, in my mind’s eye, Parsifal reached to seize the Grail.