The Vengeance of Rome

FIFTY-FIVE

I think we first met Moorcock in 1965. We had been to see Mrs Cornelius’s children in their pantomime for Holland Park Comprehensive. Mr Auchinek the impresario convinced the school to revive a harlequinade from the turn of the century. The show was very colourful: faded golds, scarlets, deep blues and greens, with plenty of stage tricks and people in big heads. I supplied the old costumes. I bought them in Hastings as bankrupt stock. Auchinek was in love with Mrs Cornelius and so he put all three of her offspring into starring roles. Jerry played Pierrot, Frank was Harlequin and Catherine was Colombine. We expected them to go on to successful stage careers in those days. Even Miss Brunner thought Jerry would be the next Dick Bogarde.

Everyone enjoyed themselves, though I found it all a little vulgar and chaotic. They received write-ups in the Kilburn Advertiser and the Kensington Post, and Moorcock came to interview them at Blenheim Crescent. He lived round the corner in Colville Terrace and worked for the magazines as a freelance. His piece appeared in Plays and Players, but it was too short, made fun of the whole thing and got half its facts wrong. He thought it heralded a rebirth of the old-fashioned panto. Personally I would have sued him. Mrs Cornelius was pleased with it. Frank and Jerry hated it. Catherine said she thought Moorcock meant well.

The pantomime, The Crock of Oil; or, Harlequin Imperator, was put on at the old Kilburn Empire. We walked there from Ladbroke Grove, across Harrow Road up to Kilburn High Road. The traffic is terrible on the Harrow Road. We had attempted to find a taxi, but it was impossible. You can spend hours trying to cross against that noisy traffic. It comes in from the west and north, all lorries, buses and vans. It is filthy there. We were late for the performance but were allowed to stand at the back until the first interval when we found our seats. People were very kind. We still enjoyed that atmosphere of camaraderie which has since vanished from the neighbourhood. Nobody has any manners these days since Labour came to power. Once they used to die in church in that good old-fashioned way, celebrating mass. These days they clutch at their hearts as they leave the pub or get on a bus. They die in the street, like animals.

‘You take one day at a time, Ive,’ Mrs Cornelius tells me. She smiles in reminiscence. ’There’s somefink abart your Aye-taye airmen, say what you like. They’re sexy.’

She is talking about her time on Majorca after she left Berlin. She stayed with Desmond Reid after she went there with Major Nye, who was acting as an observer for the British government, but all the Italians thought he was a military spy. They treated him with cheerful goodwill. They were euphoric, he told me. They had tremendous morale. Later I was to experience a little of this myself.

We stop on the bridge to watch Concorde go over. What a beautiful plane she is, I say. I never received credit for her, but I am so glad to have seen her fly before I die.

‘Wot d’yer mean, yer morbid old bugger?’ she says.

That ship is the future, I tell her. One day the airways will be full of such beautiful craft.

‘One day,’ she says, ‘we’ll be able to afford a ticket on ‘em.’

Sometimes I think she has no poetry. I sigh. ‘You are a cynic.’

‘If yer say so, Ive.’

‘Think what that plane symbolises, dear Mrs C. What her name promises. Unified Europe. A balance of power against communism and rank American materialism. One day all planes will fly beyond the speed of sound. They will be graceful and beautiful again.’ We hear the distant bang as she reaches her cruising speed and disappears. ‘They bring harmony back to the world.’

She puts her arm through mine. She is affectionate. ‘Yer silly ol’ sod,’ she says.

Mrs Cornelius is modesty personified. She continues to insist she was neither my guardian angel nor my saviour in those pre-war days. She was never in prison, and they lied to me to stop me escaping. But I do not believe her. She was arrested by the Gestapo, I know, for helping me. Pure coincidence, she says, that she left Berlin for Spain. She knew there was a war on, but she’d thought the Balearics would be all right. She’d had such a nice time there before. She had already left Berlin before I was taken to the Institute. Then when Reid went back, she was stuck in Majorca with, as she puts it, that rather jolly bunch of Italian airmen. She didn’t see much of Major Nye. He was busy in Palma, and she did most of her entertaining in Andratx, well away from any politics. I think she protests too much. Her influence saved me. My love for her never falters. My faith is always refreshed. My gratitude never fades. She is my muse and my ideal. Technically we are still married, but I will not formalise the matter until I can bestow my true name and title upon her. I have explained this to her, and she accepts the problem with her usual generosity.

Some years ago when I had sold the icon I discovered and had some decent money, I wrote away to one of those genealogy people who make you your family arms and trace your ancestors. I gave them what information I could. They sent me back an heraldic shield. In one quarter were the arms of the Romanoffs, in another the arms of the Pyatnitskis, but the other two quarters they left blank. They said the Soviets had made it hard to trace my relatives. So many had died. So many were in exile. If I could give them more information they would be happy to continue the search. And continue taking my money! I said. To tell me what I already know. Mrs Cornelius agreed. She read their letter. ‘It’s a racket, Ivan.’

Most people round here call me Peters, a name they can easily remember. Peters is on my bills. Only formally will I give my name as Pyatnitski or Pyat, and even this is not my actual identity. She knows I am a colonel. Sometimes she still introduces me as Colonel Pyat. Her little Cossack. I would be so proud if, before I died, I could make her a princess. I would take her on a honeymoon around the world aboard the Queen Elizabeth 2. We would fly home on Concorde. One can still enjoy life in a civilised way, if one has money. There remains a chance that someone will take up one of my patents.

Mrs Cornelius never speaks of her own ordeal as a prisoner of the SS when she was used to ensure my own cooperation. I had no choice but to obey them, or she would have suffered.

After I left the Institute, I was put on a train, together with a crate containing my machine, to Burgos, which Generalissimo Franco had made his capital. The old town was teeming with military people, including many Italians and Germans. I even found a German graveyard beside one of the churches. I was introduced to Herr von Stohler, a gaunt, introspective civilian in charge of my project, and he explained how he wanted to test the Luftgeist. The machine would have only Spanish markings, he said. He wanted no hint of its being German, and since I was also a Spanish citizen, I would be able to pilot her without arousing suspicion. ‘We are very grateful to you, Professor Gallibasta.’ He was rather relieved to see me, he said. He was courtesy personified. I almost wept with gratitude to be treated as an equal again. At the moment most of the German squadrons were deployed further south. In the north the Italians were far too undisciplined as flyers and they possessed no useful observation aircraft themselves. They were as likely to frighten the enemy off before the Reds could be engaged. My machine was just what the doctor ordered.

Von Stohler was a civilised, worldly fellow with fine features and elegant manners. He was highly respected by the Spaniards. I dined with him in his private apartments while he sketched in the background of the war situation. Tomorrow, he said, I would be sent on to Zaragoza. Franco was about to make a big push against the Republicans, and my machine would be needed to fly silently overhead relaying back the enemy positions. Reassured that I could remain aloft for several hours in this way while coming and going at will, von Stohler sketched out the kind of territory I would be scouting.

‘We have tanks and aircraft at our disposal,’ he told me. ‘But the Spanish generals are of the old school. They scarcely know how to use such ordnance to advantage. If you can give us Republican positions, let us know roughly what kind of armaments they possess, how well defended they are and so on, we can then deploy our fighters, heavy arms and mobile forces. Do you foresee any kind of problem with this?’

I did not. I was eager to demonstrate my one-man airship. If I did well in this theatre, I would almost certainly be allowed to expand my activities and build some of my larger machines. I could further develop my idea of flying infantry. I became very cheerful at the prospect of taking to the air again.

Shortly before I returned to my hotel von Stohler had a visitor. There came a sharp knock on his door, and two high-ranking Falange soldiers stood there saluting. Passing between these men came a short, rather stout individual in full uniform. He, too, saluted in the conventional way and held out his hand first to von Stohler and then to me. I was astonished. The soldier was Franco himself. His eyes were cautious, rather distant, above a well-trimmed Hitler moustache. In his courteous Spanish he thanked me for volunteering in the Nationalist cause. He understood that I was of Spanish extraction. I was a patriot and a hero, he said. My nation honoured me. Heroism such as mine would be rewarded. Had we not met somewhere before? The Balearics, perhaps?

I had not met him as far as I remembered. He was insistent. I agreed I had spent a little time in Minorca with some Italian friends before the War, but I did not elaborate. When politely Stohler let me know that he and the Generalissimo had important matters to discuss, I raised my hat and left.

For some reason I felt a certain chill in my bones as I walked back to the hotel. I could not rid myself of fears for Mrs Cornelius, imprisoned on Hitler’s orders. Why I associated that meeting with Franco, which had been perfectly civil, with my last moments with Hitler, when I had seen him glaring at me, I do not know. I piss in Hitler’s mouth. I shit in Hitler’s eyes. My whip rises and falls. Blood and excrement splatter against the sheets. Mrs Cornelius weeps behind bars. Hitler lusts for her. I shake my head to rid it of these bizarre images. Franco and Hitler had nothing in common, least of all their sexual tendencies. Even Mussolini had more in common with the Spanish dictator.

Two days later I was in Zaragoza. A cool, golden morning on a tranquil airfield. I watched my Luftgeist swell and strain as she was filled with hydrogen from a mobile tanker. While I would have preferred them to use helium gas, none was available to us. That rare element was a by-product of the US oil industry, and America needed it all for her own military projects. I was in no real danger, however, from the gas. Only a tracer bullet could ignite it, and nobody would use such ammunition against a machine the size of mine. I tested my harness and the controls, keeping the machine tethered for safety. Everything responded very well. We were ready for our first real flight! Even concerns for Mrs Cornelius were forgotten as I anticipated the pleasure to come.

On 16 March we heard that Barcelona had again been bombed by the Italians based in Majorca. The squadron was led by the dashing young air ace Bruno Mussolini. Evidently his father had found time to give him lessons or commissioned another airman to train him! I must admit I felt a pang of jealousy, a sense of betrayal. That honour should have been mine. The Germans, however, were critical of these raids. They saw Bruno as a typical Italian romantic, a young glory-seeker. Mussolini had achieved very little, they insisted, save to harden Republican resistance. Not long after this Bruno was removed from his squadron and recalled to Rome, some said after Hitler had telephoned Mussolini.

The next day, feeling a certain nervousness as well as excitement, I stood with a pair of Spanish aviators on a small airfield near the recently liberated town of Alcañiz watching as Nationalist soldiers steadied the guy ropes of my little airship so that I could be buckled into the combined airsuit and airframe and check that I had clear access to my instruments, my radio and my supply of water. The small fuel tank limited my range. I was unarmed. The engine was controlled from handlebars rather like those on a motorbike. The ailerons were adjusted from the stirrups in which I placed my feet.

My colleagues wished me good luck. I would be up for some six hours or more and had eaten a very hearty breakfast to maintain my energy. We had another beautiful, fresh morning with clear skies in all directions. For my safety I would have preferred a rather cloudier sky, since I would easily be visible from the ground. From the ground few artillerymen would be able to get my range so I had little to fear. The Spanish flyers reassured me. Even if they spotted me and recognised my ship for what it was, the Republicans had very little in the way of fighting aircraft left and few anti-aircraft guns.

Would I have attempted that flight just for the sake of it if I had no fears for Mrs Cornelius’s safety? I think I would.

A few minutes later, settled comfortably into my apparatus, I squeezed the handlebar forward, gunning my engine to life. I heard the satisfying whine of the airscrew turning behind me. By moving my legs and feet I controlled my height; with my hands I could angle the machine from side to side. The radio operator’s voice came clearly through my headphones. I replied in the affirmative and, as the soldiers let go of the anchor lines, ascended a little erratically into the sky. At first the gas-filled wing responded sluggishly. Then I had the sense of weightlessness one gets from ascending in a hot-air balloon. I felt a little sick with excitement. The ground fell steadily away. Soon I had reached a height of five hundred feet and could look down at the Spanish and German soldiers waving to me as I turned in a graceful sweep to the east, following the railway line which would take me towards my destination, marked on a map-board strapped to my left forearm.

I had never in my life felt such freedom or such personal triumph! My sufferings and humiliations were forgotten. At last I was rising above all the conflicts and pain of the world, experiencing the epiphany I had longed for ever since, as a child, I had soared over the rooftops of Kiev to the amazed delight of little Esmé Loukianoff, my only sweetheart. This was my first true escape, the escape of flight!