The Laughter of Carthage: Pyat Quartet

  While we played the little mock-Spanish theatres near the border, life became increasingly easy. We even had a few dollars in our cash box. I often wondered what it would have been like for me had I chosen to remain an actor. Probably I should have soon grown restless, like John Wayne or Frank Sinatra, and returned to politics. It is fashionable these days to mock Governor Reagan’s ambitions, but who can say if his natural talents would have been allowed to develop had he not taken his opportunities where he could, donning the stetson and six-gun as a champion of old virtue? He was a successful actor because he believed in his lines. Surely that is also the mark of a successful politician? The point, I would think, is not that you play a part, but that you choose which part you want.

  Through the rest of 1923 and into 1924 we continually found enough work to keep body and soul together. We became polished enough to refuse the poorer bookings. Now we appeared only in permanent theatre buildings, and once or twice reached the top of the bill. Life was good. We did not overly mourn Warren Harding when he died (another victim of the Black Pope). Calvin Coolidge seemed a man of great commonsense. Our circumstances remained unchanged. For a short while the news of Lenin’s death in January 1924 brought a mild hope I might see my mother again. Nothing improved. In England the Bolsheviks increased their influence when the socialists under Ramsay MacDonald seized power. Carthage was making steady gains, but I could not see it. I scarcely cared. I agreed with Mrs Cornelius who said one morning after reading the item about Hitler’s Munich failure, ‘we’re well art of it orl, if yer arsk me, Ivan!’

  Only in Italy was there any chance of political stability. In Russia, the Bolsheviks actually tightened their grip. It became clear that Lenin had been a restraining influence on the Oriental elements now apparently in power. In April 1924, at Mrs Cornelius’s insistence but against my better judgment (though I looked forward to city life again) we returned to Stranoff’s in San Francisco. They had offered us triple their old rate. We could not afford to refuse. The place was a little more decrepit but otherwise unchanged. Mrs Cornelius even found a piece of chewing-gum where she had stuck it on her last visit. We were doing White Knight and Red Queen as part of a bill including Douglas Fairbanks’s Mark of Zorro and Rudolf Valentino’s The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. On our second evening Harry Galiano arrived in my dressing-room. He was full of good cheer and with a broad grin pumped my hand. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘you’re doin’ great!’ He had brought me a letter. It had arrived earlier, in care of Mr Vince Potter at the North Beach address. ‘From Italy,’ said Harry. I reached out for it. I trembled. This letter was to bring a significant change in my life and remind me of my duty, my Lebensplan, my original course. Before I could open it Harry removed his hat somewhat awkwardly and told me with controlled sadness that Vince had been treacherously murdered about a week before the letter arrived. Harry knew Vince would have wanted to be sure I got it. I asked if he knew who killed his boss. Harry assured me with quiet confidence that justice would soon be done. He apologised for his poor manners. If there had been time to find me he would have invited me to the funeral, since I was ‘almost a relative’. I was surprised to hear Vince had followed my career with close interest. ‘We come to see you one night when you was outside Eureka some place. But we only caught half the show on account we was heading for Weaverville. We thought you was swell. Very classy. Vince was thinking about hiring you for the club. He was one of the sweetest guys in the world. But too soft, you know, for his own good. This letter come inside one from his cousin Annibale. I kept an eye on the posters, you know, and the Examiner, saw the show was in town. And here we are.’ The envelope was creased and crumpled, as if it had been thrown away and then recovered. I scarcely dared open it. Harry grinned. ‘That reminds me. You been writing bum checks. Matt?’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Maybe you heard of somebody called Callahan? He’s looking for you. Or, anyway, Pallenberg. It’s to do with a check. That’s all I know.’

  ‘You’ve seen Callahan?’

  ‘No. This came down the grapevine.’

  ‘He’s from the Justice Department.’

  ‘Bad hockey,’ said Harry. ‘There ain’t much you can do to a Fed.’

  ‘And you’ve heard nothing more?’

  ‘You think I should put the word out? Wise you to anything that comes in?’

  ‘It could do no harm, Harry.’

  ‘Sure.’ Harry gave my arm a friendly punch. ‘Stay in touch, eh? We got plans, same as Vince, to go into the entertainment side more. We’d rather give the work to an old friend.’

  I thanked him, assuring him I would contact him again, even if I heard nothing more about Callahan. Although not handsome, Harry possessed the natural poise of a Renaissance Medici gallant. He was to put rum-running behind him in later years and turn, as he had predicted, to show business and leisure activities in Las Vegas. The last I heard, he was still alive and in excellent health.

  The letter, of course, was from Esmé. I still have it, but if I did not I could quote it in full. Sie war es. Ich gebe allmein Weltstadten weg; aber ich gabe nicht alle meine Briefe. Her childish hand, her misspellings, her unconscious drifting from one language into another, revived all those profound feelings I had shut away when I left her in Paris. I had always known a reasonable explanation would emerge. At last I was to discover why she had failed to communicate or follow me to America. Mãyñ shvester, mayn froy! She had only, she wrote, recently received any of my letters. Almost immediately after I left Paris she had decided to live alone since Kolya’s wife Anäis seemed displeased by her presence. Kolya had kindly helped her find a flat. For a while she had worked as a receptionist in the office of one of Kolya’s business friends. Then something had cropped up. She was vague. ‘A stupid, pointless argument,’ she said. She left that job to work as a waitress in a night club. Then, unable to stand the advances of the customers, she had luckily bumped into Annibale Santucci one day. Santucci was sympathetic, offering his friendship and protection. Knowing she was my fiancée the Italian had behaved honourably and so she returned to Rome with him. There she lived with his cousin, a lady of Christian convictions, eventually finding a job as a hostess in a club. She worked and saved hard to get the fare to America. She had written me, but the letters were returned. Nobody knew my address. Unfortunately, just as she had enough money for a ticket, it had been stolen from her by the woman who shared her flat. As a consequence the police had arrested her for vagrancy (it was much harder nowadays to get along in Rome). Finally, meeting Annibale again, she had seen my last letters to him and at once wrote to this, my most recent address. She was longing to see me, was delighted I was doing well in America; she would be there with me now save for her lack of money. She had a genuine Italian passport, thanks to Annibale’s government friends, but to come to America she would need ‘dollars’ from me. Could I send word as soon as possible? She gave the address of a hotel near Tivoli where she was registered as Signora Sylvana Rastelli. This was also the name on her passport. She hoped I still wanted to get married. She had been a good girl. Mayn freydik, mayn gut bubeleh! She loved me faithfully and her heart had broken the moment we parted. Wann kommen Sie wieder?

  I was, of course, overjoyed. I was so proud my little girl had managed to look after herself sensibly for the years we had been separated. In my elation I scarcely considered Harry’s news about Callahan. Muyn froy. Sie fährt morgen! I showed the letter to Mrs Cornelius. She read it carefully, first with pursed lips and a frown, then with a peculiar smile. Naturally I had completely failed to realise how ordinary female jealousy can distort the most objective information. Mrs Cornelius was typical in this respect. She spoke with flat significance. ‘Ya gonna send ‘er ther cash, then, are yer, Ivan?’

  ‘That’s the problem. I haven’t anything like the amount she needs. And I’d have trouble getting more. Of course she must have a first-class ticket.’

  ‘Better write an’ let ‘er know yer carn?
??t afford it, then, ‘adn’t yer?’

  ‘I can’t do that, Mrs Cornelius.’ I was surprised at her. ‘Esmé is my betrothed. We intend to be married. I left her behind only because she had no passport.’

  ‘Got one easy enough nar, ain’t she.’

  ‘Italian. Not French. Can you imagine what she must have gone through? She hardly mentions it. She can’t bear to. I knew Kolya wouldn’t let her down. It was that bourgeoise Anäis. I always found her a snob. The wicked bitch! Thank God, though, for Annibale’s generosity. I owe him a great deal. He’s been a true friend to us both.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Her rivalry was patent. ‘An’ she’s bin a perfec’ lady, a bleedin’ nun. Keepin’ ‘erself by the sweat of ‘er brow while stayin’ pure an’ untouched fer ‘er ‘usband ter be. Makes yer weep.’ She was pitying. ‘Yore ther softest touch on earf, Ive, for orl yer ‘orrible ways. If y’ve got an ounce o’ sense y’ll tear that bleedin’ letter up an’ ‘ave done wiv it.’

  Of course I ignored her. She meant well, as she had in Constantinople. But she had not met Esmé. Once I introduced my girl, everything would become clear. I became obsessed with the problem of raising the money. Mrs Cornelius pulled herself together. I think she realised what profound forces were at work. She offered no more negative advice. It was, she admitted, my own life. All she asked was that I spend my own, not the company’s money. She should not have feared. I possessed my usual means of earning honest cash. What I had to find quickly was a backer for my patents. Happily I was in the perfect area. Los Angeles and San Francisco, not to mention the five hundred miles between, had attracted several newer fortunes, such as Hughes’ and Davenport’s; many big industries were based in the State. But I had no idea whom to approach, nor how best to begin. My circumstances meant I could not contact Washington or any old Klan associates and Harry Galiano’s news of Callahan alarmed me. I did not dare cash a further check. I had to be more than usually circumspect about anyone whose financial assistance I sought. The patents were in my own name. I required a sympathetic ear and absolute discretion as well as an enthusiastic chequebook.

  I had to offer my patents, therefore, to someone willing to keep a secret until I cleared my name and became officially resident in the USA. Harry Galiano evidently was not yet interested in industrial expansion. He might, however, have friends who were. Similarly most film people were notoriously wary of investing in anything speculative, save movies. I went on stage in a daze, my lines and gestures performed completely automatically. I considered a mental list of firms: Gilmore, Curtiss, Lockheed, Douglas, Studebaker, Martin and so on. Most were exploring some field of aviation. For the moment I had no faith in dirigibles or aeroplanes and did not particularly want to be associated with them. They had brought me too much ill-fortune. Oil was my next thought. I had detailed specifications prepared of my gas-powered car, a machine designed to make use of oil well by-products or even sewage waste. It would be cheaper to run than a conventional petrol-fuelled vehicle. The only serious technical problem lay in the storing and accurate valving of the gas. It was less stable than petroleum. To counter this I had invented a new type of cylinder (and, incidentally, the method of safety ignition still used today). Everyone knew the expense of refining Californian crude oil and realised it must eventually run out. Gas was cheaper to process. Unlike petrol it could be artificially manufactured. It seemed inevitable that my gas car, even perhaps my dynamite car, must in time replace the conventional automobile. Together with these designs I had a suction pumping method and a rapid refining process both of which would radically reduce well maintenance costs and produce a million barrels a day for every current thousand. By the time we finished that evening’s performance, I was certain I should soon possess more than enough money.

  I went from the theatre to the nearest Western Union office and cabled Esmé: I had received her letter, noted the contents and a ticket would shortly follow. I returned to our digs, having celebrated thoroughly in a low-priced gin joint I knew, at about three in the morning. I was staying at Mulvaney’s Apartments on Jones Street, not very far from the theatre. It had a fancy glass door, reinforced with wire mesh; the desk was in the vestibule between this and a similar door some five feet further along. As I picked up my key from the Japanese night porter, he whispered something to me. I thought he was asking if I wanted a woman (it is a standard question from night porters at that time in the morning). I told him no. On the other side of the second glass door a slender figure was rising from where it had been sitting on the stairs. I grew alarmed at first, thinking it must be Brodmann. But this man was much taller. I went through the second door and turned up the gas in the hall. Smiling uncertainly, his hands deep in the pockets of his raincoat. Officer Callahan seemed apologetic. I did not care why. With Esmé so close, it now appeared I was to be locked away from her. I had no visa, false papers. I would spend time in a Federal jail, then be deported. It was about the best I could hope for.

  ‘I suppose I’m speaking to Mr Pallenberg,’ said Callahan.

  I did not reply. I stood staring at him, almost tempted to kill him. I was desperate. I could not be separated any longer from my girl; it would be an outrage.

  ‘Well,’ Callahan looked away from me, ‘where do you care to do this, sir?’

  I took him up the flight of stairs and unlocked the door to my room. He waited for me to enter, then he followed me in. After I lit the globe I glanced quickly around to make sure I had left none of my cocaine in view. It was hidden, but if he decided to search my luggage he would find it easily. I wiped my moist forehead.

  ‘You know your money’s frozen, do you, sir?’ The Irishman lowered his eyes towards the bed. It was unmade. He reached down and pulled the threadbare coverlet up, then seated himself, unbuttoning his raincoat and drawing out the same notebook he had used on the train. ‘We noticed you haven’t used the account. Besides that one check.’

  ‘I suppose it was my only mistake,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe. You didn’t do yourself much good blowing Walker without paying your hotel bill.’

  I was not sure how much I should tell him. In a similar situation, with the Cheka in Russia. I had learned all information is worth hoarding. I waited to see if he would reveal anything else.

  ‘That was a pointless, petty crime,’ he said. ‘Up until then you’d kept your nose clean, at least as far as we had evidence. You could be charged for it.’

  When I still remained silent, he went on: ‘And now you’ve changed your name, plainly to remain here illegally, since you’ve made no attempt to renew your visa.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  He sighed. ‘A good lawyer could keep you in the country for a few months, maybe longer. Plainly you prefer it here. Is there something in Europe you’d maybe like to forget?’ He looked up at me from ambiguous. Catholic eyes. Suddenly I realised he was very probably a failed priest.

  ‘Can you help me?’ I said. My mouth was dry. I was trembling. Deliberately I let him see how nervous I was.

  ‘Help’s what I wanted to offer last year.’ I watched him grow slowly into his role. ‘We’re not ghouls. And we don’t always go by the book. What happened?’

  ‘I was frightened, Mr Callahan.’ Seating myself on the other side of the bed, I did not look at him directly. I tried to imagine a confessional grille between us. ‘My life was threatened.’

  ‘Who by?’ His voice grew softer. ‘Can you say?’

  ‘I had no clear idea what the Ku Klux Klan was when I arrived. I love America. They offered me a speaking circuit. It seemed an ideal means of earning a living while I toured your country. I never planned to stay here forever. By the time I realised what the Klan actually was, I was deeply enmeshed. Nothing specific, but I knew it would be unwise to anger them.’

  ‘I guessed as much.’ He sighed. ‘Go on.’

  I had no choice but to encourage this mockery of religious ritual, to paint him a picture of my terror, of Klan threats, of my attempts to get out and fi
nally, after I had talked to him on the train, my decision to refuse any further lecture engagements. Whereupon Mrs Mawgan had turned me over to the organisation’s bully-boys. They had beaten me, left me for dead. It was the Klan, not the Justice Department, I had hidden from. Certainly I had no wish to return to Europe. I had done nothing wrong. I had fought the Bolsheviks in Russia. I had been instrumental in getting hundreds, possibly thousands, to safety through Odessa. The Chekist Commissar Brodmann had been specifically commissioned to hunt me down. I got up to open the closet containing my clothes. One of my Russian uniforms hung there. ‘Those decorations were honourably won,’ I told him. I explained how I had flown against the Reds, how I had crashed and almost drowned. Yet Brodmann had searched me out until I was forced to flee Odessa, returning to France, my birthplace. There I had been the victim of a Chekist conspiracy. I had come to America hoping I might eventually be forgotten. If I went back now I would probably be going to my death. I had worked for the Klan because I thought they were anti-Bolshevik. I had not realised their own revolutionary ambitions.

  Now Callahan was nodding rapidly, still making his notes. His ‘Go on’ was automatic. He was a monument of pious sympathy. ‘That’s it, Mr Callahan. There’s no more, save a few details. I believe the Klan and the Cheka are still hunting me. If you succeeded, then they too must soon find me. I suppose I’m as good as dead.’