The Laughter of Carthage (96 page)

Eventually, of course, it dawned on me. Ethem was by no means the fool I had assumed him to be. He had left Hassan specific instructions to let me get as far as this but no further. The petrol would not be forthcoming until he could be certain of trusting me.

‘Benzin!’ I croaked imploringly. ‘A sovereign for just one can! Nobody will know.’

Staggering under the weight of the engine, waddling and bent like a hunchbacked penguin, I moved away from the edge of the roof. Below in the square a crowd had gathered and was looking up. Some of the faces had become almost animated, like spectators at a circus. A few voices shouted at me to begin. They were growing impatient. I half expected them to applaud. No matter how much I yelled at Hassan he would not change his single response, ‘It is all gone, effendi.’

I had not designed the equipment so that I could easily unstrap myself. My legs began to buckle. I was shaking in every part of me, was close to tears as my voice grew hoarse from imploring the boy’s help. More frequently now Hassan’s eyes went to the horizon. The smoke grew fuller. There was a locomotive somewhere up the track, still out of sight. It was then I thought I heard the rattle of machine-gun fire in the distance. With considerable difficulty and not a little pain, I turned in the direction of the sound. Just detectable on the ridge above the swampy plain was what could only be a squadron of tanks. They had the blue and white flag of Greece emblazoned on their sides, but they were British Mark IIIs in all their glory. And running behind them on two sides, with their bayonets fixed, I could see some three hundred Greek soldiers, firing as they charged.

From the town, the remaining bandits were trying to set up some sort of barricade. Clearly they had not expected such an attack. They moved hastily, in panic, cursing each other and shaking their fists at the Greeks. Two or three were already on their horses and fleeing in the opposite direction.

I panted now, the pain increasing with every breath. I felt as if I were being crucified: crucified on the cross of my own imagination. Hassan stared at me uncertainly. Then, with a look almost of pitying apology, he turned away. He ran towards the steps, pausing for a moment to watch me. I begged him to come back, if only to undo a couple of straps. I fell on my face, struggling to free myself from the constricting harness of the flying machine but becoming more entangled at every spasm. I was doubly desperate. I had no guarantee the Greeks or the British would not take me for a traitor, deliberately selling arms to the Turks.

Hassan disappeared below.

I let out a howl of terror which something pragmatic in my unconscious almost immediately turned into a song. When the Greeks finally found me on the roof I was beginning again on the second verse of Blake’s
Jerusalem.

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