The Laughter of Carthage (71 page)

By the time I rejoined my Baroness, the coast was in sight, the rain had lifted and the horizon was beginning to brighten. ‘Won’t it be wonderful if there’s sunshine?’ She was animated. ‘They say it’s possible to have very warm days even at this time of year.’

I could not believe the British would abandon Batoum. ‘Maybe we should think of settling there,’ I said, phrasing as a joke my genuine distress at leaving Russian soil; distress which I knew she shared. She made a cheerful, fatalistic gesture. ‘Let’s enjoy the hours we have for what they are, not for what they might be.’

I decided to break the news to Mrs Cornelius. She was dressing when I knocked on the cabin door. ‘Jes’ give us arf a mo’ ter get me knickers on.’ She was looking extremely well, with her face flushed and her eyes bright, and she had on an orange dress. I told her I was going ashore to see Batoum for a day or so, hoping to look up one or two old friends.

‘I’ll prob’bly bump inter yer, then.’ She grinned as she drew on her fox-fur wrap. ‘I waz thinkin’ o’ poppin’ over ther side fer a bit meself.’ She laughed at my expression. ‘Yer don’ mind, do yer?’

It had not occurred to me she would want to leave the ship. I could do nothing but nod, shrug, smile, pack a change of clothes into my small folding bag and agree that we should think of having dinner somewhere together in Batoum. She was the last person I wanted to know of my liaison with the Baroness. I left the bag on my bunk and returned to the forward deck.

The water had grown suddenly blue and the clouds overhead had broken into white masses moving rapidly away to the North. As they rolled, the water became brighter, the ship’s brass and woodwork glittered in the sun and we were like a golden barge afloat on a silver sea. Almost immediately everyone was out on deck, standing along the rails, removing clothing, chattering and laughing, like clerks and factory girls on a works outing. The wake of the ship broke behind us, cream foam on royal blue, and ahead were the snowy Caucasian peaks, the verdant slopes of the foothills, the contours of forests, even the faint suggestion of Batoum itself; hints of white and gold and grey, as the ship changed course and began to head directly for the shore.

The landscape was extraordinarily beautiful; a panorama of wooded hills and green valleys softened by the hazy sunshine. It seemed we had moved magically from the dead of winter into the simple fullness of spring. Flights of birds passed over dense forests. We saw pale smoke rising from pastel houses: a scene of astonishing peace for which we had been completely unprepared. People giggled and shook their heads like lunatics. More than one adult began to weep, perhaps in the belief we had been transported to Paradise. Gulls cackled in vulgar welcome and flung themselves into our rigging. The note of the engine grew brisker and merrier. Now we saw the ochre line of a long stone mole, the industrial buildings of an oil-harbour, the coaling-stations, the white quayside beyond, the sparkling domes of churches and mosques. British and Russian ships were tidily at rest alongside the landing-stages. Batoum was not a large town. She lacked the grandness of Yalta or the military solidity of Sebastopol, but in that haze, with her gilded roofs and her flags, she was infinitely more beautiful than any city we had ever seen. To us, used to uncertainty, destruction, death and danger, she looked at once fragile and permanent; a haven of security. She lay in a bay surrounded by densely wooded hills, with no major roads leading into her and only a railway connection with the rest of Russia. Her Oriental appearance made us feel that we had already reached our goal, that we were in legendary Constantinople, and we began to act is if this were indeed our ultimate destination. I was now genuinely tempted to have my trunks unloaded, to put down roots in soil which was, albeit Asian Russia, nonetheless still Russia. I have no idea what the result would have been had I followed my impulse. I nowadays sometimes wish I had chosen to leave the
Rio Cruz
there and then; but I was full of Mr Thompson’s praise, of dreams of my great scientific career in London. I suppose I would have been frustrated in Batoum within a month. It was a beautiful oasis in a turbulent world; it would be years before its character was completely destroyed under Stalin. Yet it was not really the resting-place for a man who dreamed of gigantic aerial liners, of flying cities, and who carried in his wallet a new means of harnessing natural power.

Slowly the
Rio Cruz
eased her way into a space between a French frigate and a Russian merchantman, throwing her lines to waiting British sailors on the quay. Water slapped against warm stones smeared with bright green weed and rainbow oil. I smelled Batoum. I smelled damp foliage and roasting meat and mint and coffee. Palm-trees marched along her promenade; she had wide parks, public gardens full of feathery bamboo, eucalyptus, mimosa and orange trees; her streets were crowded with calm, dark buildings, the colour of vine-leaves, of rusty stone, brick or stucco. And flying high over what was obviously the public architecture near the centre of town, were the reassuring banners of two Empires, the Russian and the British. At dockside huts and customs houses smart Royal Navy bluejackets with carbines and bandoliers stood guard. The quayside was spotlessly clean. Polished brasswork and fresh paint was everywhere. I heard the hoot of motor-traffic, the clatter of trams, the familiar bustle of ordinary city streets. Through the lines of trees I made out hotels and shops, pavements populated with a mixture of races and classes. There were Russian, British and French uniforms, Moslem turbans and Greek fezzes, Parisian tailor-mades and Turkish tarbooshes. The Revolution had temporarily improved the life of Batoum, giving her an intellectual and fashionable element she had never previously possessed. I felt like a hound on a leash as I hurried to collect my little bag and wait impatiently at the side as the gang-plank was lowered. My pleasure was spoiled only by Hernikof’s fat body sweating and eager (doubtless he had worked out a means of turning a profit while in Batoum) pressing against mine. He winked at me. ‘A bit of a treat this, eh? Makes a change from stamping passports in Odessa, I shouldn’t wonder.’ Chilled by his casual intimacy with my past, I refused to be drawn and was hugely relieved when sailors and soldiers at last arranged themselves on the quay, barricades were drawn about the disembarking area, a desk was situated beside the gang-plank, officers checked one another’s clipboards, shook hands, and finally the signal was given for passengers to come ashore. I was first down the bouncing causeway, well ahead of Hernikof, my coat flying, my collar open as I began to appreciate the heat. My gloves in my hand, my hat on the back of my head, I grinned like a chimpanzee at British officials who carefully inspected my papers, then handed them back to me. Abstractedly I nodded and mumbled at the Russian officer who searched through my bag and returned it. I almost sang to the Ukrainian NCO who again looked at my papers and checked my name and description in the large ledger he carried. He was a gigantic, fat man with handle-bar moustaches and a kindly manner. ‘Be careful, friend,’ he murmured when I stepped at last through the final barricade and breathed the sweetly exotic air of Batoum. ‘A good many people here don’t accept there’s a closed season for boorzhoos.’ I turned to look at him sharply. He sounded like a Red. But he grinned. ‘Just a well-intentioned word.’

When I saw that there were actually izvotchiks stationed beside the curb, underneath the palm-trees, I gasped with delight. The nags were almost as old as their drivers and the finery of the four-seaters was patched and faded, but one might have been in Petersburg before the War, or at least one of her suburbs. I approached the nearest. With his long whip, big coachman’s coat, top-hat and thick, grey whiskers the cabby was an unchanged survivor from Tsarist days. I asked him what it would cost to take me to the best hotel in Batoum.

‘The best, your honour?’ A look of condescending good-humour came over his ruddy features. ‘It’s a matter of taste. And a matter of your politics, too, I’d say. Also a matter of there being enough room for you. What about the Oriental? It has a good view and reasonable food.’ I think I actually gaped at him. He spoke pure Moscow Russian. ‘How much? Well, it’s a rouble, but nobody accepts roubles if they can help it. Have you any Turkish lira? Or British money would be best.’

‘I’ve silver roubles. Real silver. No paper money.’ In this respect the conversation was no different to any one might find elsewhere in Russia.

‘Very well, your honour.’ He scratched his cheek with the end of his long whip. ‘Take your bag in with you. There’s plenty of room.’

I was slow in doing as he suggested, for at last I saw the Baroness making her pre-arranged way along the pavement towards me. Then, to my horror, I realised her bag was being carried by the ubiquitous Hernikof. I did my best to ignore him as, according to plan, I raised my hat to her. ‘Can I give you a lift. Baroness?’ I had not, however, reckoned to have the company of a Jewish financier on our little idyll. He panted as he put the bag down, shifting his gaze from her to me and almost, I would swear, leering at us. She was polite. ‘You are most kind. M. Hernikof. I think I will accept M. Pyatnitski’s offer, however, since we were going in roughly the same direction.’ She took her valise from his hand and placed it hesitantly on the ground. I placed my own bag in the coach and reached for hers. Hernikof smiled at me. ‘Good morning again, M. Pyatnitski.’

‘Good morning, Hernikof. I’m sorry I can’t give you a lift.’

‘It’s of no consequence. I know my way about Batoum. Thank you.’ I resented his insolent, mocking tone.

‘You are too rude, Maxim.’ She was embarrassed as she arranged herself in our carriage. ‘You know poor Hernikof meant well. Are you jealous of him? He was not trying to impose.’

‘I want to be alone with you.’ I settled myself beside her. ‘I’m determined we shall have an unspoiled holiday.’ The cab started off at a smart Petersburg trot. With a petulant twist of her mouth she dismissed the subject of Hernikof. The sudden movement of the vehicle as it crossed the wide quayside towards the boulevard seemed to excite her and her lips opened as though she already gasped in the grip of a lust if anything greedier and hotter than my own. When we accidentally touched we could barely keep from embracing and in order to preserve decorum I moved to sit across from her in the four-wheeler. We pretended to be interested in the pleasant buildings, neatly kept flower beds, the shrubs, the tall palms. We attempted to make conversation, rehearsing our charade.

‘What perfect sunshine.’

‘The British officers were very pleasant, I thought.’

‘And the Russians unusually courteous. Isn’t it lovely to be in a proper cab?’

The ride was relatively short, through orderly streets, unspoiled by war, and we had soon arrived outside the Oriental, a tall and elegant building in Nabarezhnaya Street, looking out onto the harbour. The hotel’s polished stone and carved Egyptianate pillars, decorated with gilt, filled me with an immense sense of comfort. While the Baroness waited in the cab I ran up the steps and entered the airy, peaceful lobby to enquire at the reception desk if they had rooms. A thin Armenian manager was elaborately upset, reporting there were no ordinary accommodations, only two suites left at three English pounds a day. He would be delighted to accept a cheque drawn on a European bank, at a pinch he would also accept francs, but desperately regretted he could not take any form of Russian funds unless they were gold. I pretended to dismiss this as perfectly normal and was a little disdainful, a little impatient. He became still more spasmodically apologetic, sending a Georgian porter to carry our baggage as I escorted the Baroness up a wide yellow marble staircase to the first floor. The carpets were of a pinkish-red and the wall-panels matched them, reminding me of the luxury of first-class train travel in pre-War days. Our suites were to be one above the other and when we reached her door I removed my hat, bowed, and loudly wished her a pleasant stay. ‘I will be at your disposal the whole time.’

‘I am more than grateful to you, M. Pyatnitski.’

‘Perhaps you would care to dine with me this evening?’

‘Thank you.’

‘Shall I meet you here at six-thirty?’

‘Six-thirty. Excellent.’

I signed for the porter to continue upwards. We parted. This little scene, of course, was for the benefit of the hotel staff. I took another flight on strawberry carpet, then followed my small bag through a doorway fit for a Calif into an elaborate sitting-room. Beyond this lay a bed chamber whose size and appearance resembled a small harem, with its large four-poster, gauze curtains, an ornamental ceiling in deep blue-and-gold arabesques. From the windows I looked out past tall palms at the blue sea. I had ascended to Paradise. I tipped the porter with a silver rouble, silently daring him to complain, and when he had gone I stood on the balcony, inhaling warm, spicy air. I had forgotten what comfort could be. This was a hint of everything I might expect in Europe. There would certainly be luxury in London to match this. Luxury in Paris. Luxury in Nice. In Berlin. There would be handsome motor-cars, the country-houses of aristocrats, servants, expensive restaurants, everything which, as little as two months earlier, I had never expected to know again. I began to realise that soon I could be living in cities which were not ruled by the moment; cities which could barely conceive of the possibility of sudden attack, which presumed an invulnerable culture and institutions; where Bolshevism was at worst a bad joke and where civil justice was taken for granted. I began to shake as I stripped off my overcoat and jacket and stretched on the blue velvet counterpane, drawing deep breaths, laughing to myself, feeling tears of relief stream down my face as it dawned on me exactly how fortunate I was, how dreadful had been the horror from which I had escaped. For me normality had become violence, suspicion, lies, sudden death, random denunciation, arbitrary imprisonment: but suddenly I saw it could so easily be secure and elegant surroundings and well-mannered companions of one’s own choosing. My proper rewards were within my reach again. In an almost drunken mood I put on my jacket, let myself out of my door and walked with swift caution downstairs to be admitted, unobserved.