The Laughter of Carthage (86 page)

The rain had stopped. I walked down the sloping streets to the coffee shop opposite the gate of the Galata Bridge and ordered a medium sweet demi-tasse while I watched the nations of the Earth come and go. On this side, the vicinity was full of street-sellers instilling impossible virtues to their pathetic wares; fat Turkish businessmen in fezzes and dark European clothes standing in groups, gesticulating as they occupied their time discussing unlikely bargains. Against my better judgment I bought some
ekmek-kadaif,
the ‘bread-and-velvet’ Turkish women found irresistible, a combination of flour and cream. There were probably at that moment in Constantinople more minds turned to the invention of new confectionery than ever considered the profound problems facing the future of their city. But perhaps Turks were best employed in this way. Another favourite of mine was called ‘the imam fainted’.
Imam-bayildi
was the most delicious dish I had ever tasted, and remains for me finer than any of the great concoctions of Vienna or Paris. I had eaten two of these by the time twilight came. It was at twilight that I had last seen my Esmé and I sat there in the superstitious hope she would re-emerge at the same time tonight. As ships assembled on both sides of the bridge, waiting for the pontoons to part as they did twice a day, mornings and evenings, I wondered how I might stow away, preferably on a British or American vessel. Every so often the regular ferries to Venice were subject to rigorous police checks; it was impossible either to go aboard or disembark without all kinds of paper authority. The time might come when I had to make urgent efforts to find my Bulgarian forger and commission appropriate sets of papers. Though I wanted to help the Baroness von Ruckstühl, it might be necessary, as she feared, to leave her here. She would quickly find another protector. Her circumstances were not as bad as most. The best of Moscow and Petersburg society was to be seen every morning crowded outside the embassy buildings of France, Germany, Britain, Italy, even Belgium. The French had a joke. They said you could tell how desperate a Russian was when he found himself having to choose between suicide and Belgium.

The flower of Russian blood was left to dry and dissipate on the bleak Lemnos shores. Professors of great academies, scientists, lawyers, artists of every kind, musicians and philosophers, were squeezed into the island camps to die of typhus or pneumonia. Royal princes crawled cap in hand before petty officials of a Germany they had meant to crush. One could not help be reminded of the ancient pagan conquests of great Christian cities, of Rome and Kiev and elsewhere, whose occupants had been forced to endure similar humiliations. Decent, devout Christians were exploited and misused, allowed to rot and perish. And the world pretended to sympathise while showing every sign of satisfaction. Tsar Nicholas and his government had been committed to outmoded institutions. Even Russian monarchists agreed on that. Now Russia’s surviving nobility paid a terrible price for their autocrat’s shortsightedness and folly, for their Tsarina’s lusting after a self-styled holy man whose advice produced some of the greatest strategic blunders of the War.

When it grew darker I left the waterfront to walk back through rubble, up stone steps and between buildings which jutted overhead at drunken angles, leaning in an insane geometry of impossible curves and corners. Somewhere a blaze started and from the Galata Tower, built for the purpose, came the frantic ringing of a huge bell. One of the city’s many private, self-appointed fire-brigades (usually incendiaries themselves) rushed by, a confusion of bare feet, fezzes, turbans, old donkeys, hoses and copper drums of water; a loutish group of cut-throats who looted as much as they saved.

I had just turned into the electric familiarity of the Grande Rue when I saw Mrs Cornelius’s head emerge from a motor-cab. She waved at me, shouting something I could not catch. I tried to run after her. She was angry, glaring back at me. ‘Unless yer pull yer bleedin’ socks up, Ivan, we’re never gonna git arta ‘ere!’ Then the cab turned down towards Tephane and disappeared. I did not know whether to follow her further, go to Tokatlian’s and the comforting bosom of my Leda, or try once more to see if Esmé had visited the
Rotonde.
Almost before I realised it I had passed through the doors of the café and was surrounded by warm commercial flesh and brutal serge. Always, since my Odessa days, I felt at ease in such environments. Perhaps it is because very little is ever expected of you in those places. You are tolerated in drinking clubs, working-class pubs and bordellos as long as you can keep your mouth shut and pay your way. You are at once amongst friendly company and anonymous at the same time.

Because the tables were all occupied, I made an effort to reach the bar and order absinthe as usual. I saw neither Sonia, the Syrian, nor ‘Helena’. I felt ridiculous, believing everyone there must be secretly laughing at me. I was wasting far too much time, as Mrs Cornelius had said. I should be laying out escape routes, preparing documents, checking tables of boats and trains. Nonetheless, I did not leave. I still hoped to see the girl just once more, to confirm that I had invented her likeness to Esmé, and besides I was already an expert at sitting still. In recent years, as cities fell and were recaptured, changed governments, revised their laws, I had learned to bide my time and wait for the right opportunity. I fancied myself a reptile, sometimes, a patient old lizard able to lie on his rock for days until his prey moved into range. If necessary I can abolish impatience, almost abolish Time itself, drifting into a kind of semi-conscious hibernation. This utterly inappropriate response to my situation’s present urgency began to possess me at
La Rotonde.
Finding the girl became of paramount importance. Rationalising, I told myself I could easily live and work in Constantinople. There were plenty of recently arrived entrepreneurs who would finance my prototypes and moreover I could always get work as a mechanic. In a villa overlooking the Sweet Waters of Europe I could live like a pasha. I should have fellow countrymen for conversation, hundreds of books and magazines published in Russian. I could not imagine cold, stern, dignified London being anything like this. I should not have my pick of so many young girls in England, either. By remaining here I could live a very quiet, aesthetic working life and when relaxing could taste all Constantinople’s many delights whenever I pleased. Such a routine suited my temperament; I was not merely a man of thought; I was moved by enormous physical passions and enthusiasms. I should become the principal architect for the new, gleaming, Christian city.

When I look back I can never logically see why I did not choose to stay and become one of Constantinople’s institutions. The severity of Atatürk’s first years hardly touched her. He said she was a Western harlot. He turned his back on her, refusing to let her be associated with his regime. He let her mosques fade with poverty or become museums for tourists, he refused to allow her educated men permission to work there, so they were forced to move to Ankara. But he did not actively trouble the city which brought all Turkey’s wealth to her. He never disdained the gold which continued to flow through his ‘Istanbul’. In spite of him, Constantinople remained the centre of the world. Atatürk raised his flag over the collection of mud huts that was Ankara, his new capital, imposing on his people all the puritanical severity he rejected for himself while he drank and whored his way to early death and so imitated, with ironic completeness, the hypocritical Sultans he had swept aside. Constantinople scarcely noticed and she did not much care; she was used to despots and their high pomposities; she had existed under them for at least three thousand years. I began to tell myself it might be sensible to live closer to Russia. It would be much easier to return home when the time came. I saw myself as the successful, triumphant prodigal of Odessa, stepping off a ship, greeted by a brass band and a cheering crowd, and bringing home Esmé, my childhood sweetheart, my bride.

She came in alone, and at first I had become so accustomed to discounting the inventions of my wishful eye I almost ignored her. Tonight she wore faded blue velvet, at least two sizes too large, and had bundled her hair beneath a peacock aigrette. All her cosmetics and tawdry wardrobe could not disguise her. Barely able to contain myself, I felt my head begin to beat sickeningly as my glass went down on the counter with a crack. My heart was painful against my ribs, but I held myself in rein, watching her out of the corner of my eye. Uncertainly, clutching a little sequinned evening bag to her chest, she picked her delicate way between the customers. I was trembling violently as I rose slowly to my feet; then step by wary step I moved towards her, as a dying man might approach an oasis he fears must be a mirage. I was now directly in front of her. She stopped. I bowed. My mouth was bone dry, but I mustered all my charm and appeared, I am sure, outwardly calm, even a little distant. ‘Would you care for a drink, young lady?’ I said to her in English.

She frowned, puzzled: ‘I am a Catholic.’ She spoke halting French with an accent I could not place. She thought she was answering my question. This brought a gentle smile to my lips, whereupon she smiled back. It was Esmé’s same, flashing parting of the mouth and widening of the eyes; her whole face coming alive at once. She realised she had misunderstood me and said something in Turkish. I shrugged and made a pantomime of apologetic obtuseness. I knew such unbelievable joy. I had not been mistaken. This was Esmé’s twin. She laughed. It was Esmé’s unselfconscious laughter, full and musical. ‘You call yourself Helena, do you not?’

‘Helena, yes, m’sieu.’ She nodded rapidly as if I had displayed unusual perceptiveness and she wished to encourage me.

I took her gently by the arm and led her to the quietest corner of the café. ‘You will have absinthe? Or lemonade, perhaps?’

She understood my French and chose lemonade, proving to me that she was by no means a hardened whore, but a wholesome schoolgirl who had, by some dreadful mischance, become mixed up in this life. There was still time to save her.

Disdainfully ignoring the Syrian’s leering, conspiratorial wink, I ordered the drinks. ‘Do you recognise me?’ I asked her.

She frowned, then quickly put an embarrassed hand to her mouth. ‘Oh! The man on the tram!’

‘I alarmed you and I’m sorry. But you are the image of my dead sister. You can imagine my own shock. You seemed a ghost.’

I had not frightened her. She relaxed again, her curiosity, if nothing else, encouraging her to stay. She put her little head to one side, just as Esmé did, and said sympathetically, ‘You are Russian, m’sieu? Your sister was. . .?’She could not find the word. ’Bolsheviks?’

‘Just so.’

‘I am sorry for you.’ She spoke softly, yet in that same vibrant voice Esmé had always used when moved to emotion. Even her tiny, nervous gesture of concern was the same.

‘You understand why I searched for you? Do they really call you Helena?’

She hesitated, as if she wanted to give me her real name. Then caution returned. She inclined her head. ‘Helena.’

‘You’re Greek?’

She shrugged, attempting to resume a mask which was still unfamiliar to her. ‘We’re all something, m’sieu.’

I felt enormous tenderness for her. She was Esmé, my darling rose. I wanted to reach out there and then to scrape the coloured powder from her cheeks, revealing the lovely skin beneath. I wanted to touch her in kindness as I touched Esmé, whose love I took for granted, whose confidence I never doubted. Esmé worshipped me. They tore her from her destiny as they tried to tear me from mine. They perverted her soul. They made her commonplace: a child of revolution with a twisted grimace where once there had been a natural smile.

‘Your parents are still alive?’

‘Of course.’ She waved an arm outwards, towards the door. A copper snake flashed, green enamel eyes glittered. ‘Over there.’

‘What nationality?’

I think the question began to make her nervous. Sighing, she spread her awkward hands, covered in penny rings, on the table. ‘Roumanian,’ she said. Within the mask her blue eyes were candid. ‘They came before the War.’

‘Would you keep me company tonight?’

She lifted fingers to her inexpert coiffure. ‘It’s what I’m here for, m’sieu.’

I shook my head, then decided not to explain. I was terrified, still, that I would startle her, send her running to where I should never find her again. So I contented myself with, ‘So you’ve no special friend?’

There was a hint of assumed world-weariness, the suggestion of a play-acted sigh which reminded me of Leda’s similar responses. ‘Not yet, m’sieu.’

I ignored her pose and touched her hand for a moment. ‘My name is Maxim. I wish to protect you. Can I call you Esmé rather than Helena?’

She was puzzled by this, and not unamused. ‘If you like.’ Her expression was transformed to one of genuine sympathy. ‘But do not be sad, M’sieu Maxim. We are here for pleasure, no?’ She fell silent, peacefully content to drink and watch the other couples dance. She had the poise of Esmé, the same unstudied movements of head and shoulders, an identical air of self-contained amusement at the world’s antics. I wanted her in a wholesome dress, hair properly brushed and rearranged, but I was still too cautious to suggest anything of the sort, frightened she would take to her heels if I moved too hastily. At that age girls can be singularly whimsical. She seemed perfectly glad to be in my company, yet at any moment might resolve to leave with someone else or decide she hated the shape of my nose. She had not been a whore for long or she would by now be taking a merely professional interest in men.