The Laughter of Carthage

‘Where is she? Who was that sailor? Where does she live? What does she call herself? What was she doing here?’

‘She’s a Greek kid, I think.’ He wriggled under my hands like a dogfish, looking wildly about for help, knowing few would bother themselves even if I squeezed him to death on the spot, yet so automatically devious he still answered questions with other questions. ‘M’sieu Pyatnitski, I’m not her father! She’s new - calls herself -what is it? - Helena? What are you accusing me of? The old lady doesn’t ask for birth-certificates. How many times has she been in? Once or twice, maybe? Aren’t you a man of the world? Do you say I had something to do with what happened to Betty and Mercy? Am I that kind of monster?’

I dropped him and told him to get me some absinthe. I was shaking in every bone. Sonia tugged at my sleeve. ‘You’re bleeding. Sit down. Tell me what’s wrong.’

I swallowed the drink the Syrian brought. He shrugged at me. ‘You don’t have to pay. But I’m not to blame for any of this.’

When he had gone I put my head in my hands. I was sobbing. Sonia tried to comfort me, touching my face, dabbing at the cuts. ‘I must save her!’ I repeated this over and over. ‘She cannot be allowed to sink into the quagmire. Do you know her, Sonia?’ I looked up at last. ‘Do you know a Greek girl. A blonde who calls herself Helena?’

‘I’ve seen her. She’s pretty. One of the ladies from Mrs Unal’s sent her across a couple of days ago. God knows why she was looking for work there. Just as well she came over. You talk as if you know her.’

‘I do know her. Sonia, if you can get her address, I’ll pay. But let me have it at once.’

‘She might live down near the Roman Catholic Cathedral, towards the old bridge. She mentioned it once. Would that make her Italian?’

‘Perhaps Polish.’ I grew calmer. ‘Or Ukrainian.’

‘You must fancy her a lot, Max.’ Sonia was sympathetically amused. She dabbed again at my face.

‘I love her.’

I could see the Armenian girl was impressed by my sincerity. Her eyes grew tender and she smiled. Like many an older whore, she had a huge reservoir of sentimentality. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she promised. ‘But don’t break your heart, Max. Not over one of us.’

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that my Esmé was not to be compared with the likes of her, but that would have been ungracious of me. I got to my feet. I was unsteady, ‘I can’t help myself.’

I tried hard to remember what I had arranged to do at this time. With some effort I recalled Mrs Cornelius and the Baroness von Ruckstühl. At that moment neither woman had any real substance. I attempted to recall what they had said to me, but my mind was empty. I should have returned to the hotel, but when I left the café I found myself standing by the tram-stop. Then I wandered off the Grande Rue, down towards Galata, into the little, horrible side-streets where rows of Islamic washing clung to my face and the strange odour of perfumed tobacco came from grills set at the base of the houses. Dogs ran everywhere carrying shapeless pieces of offal in their mouths; babies wailed their grief at having been born into such misery, men and women exchanged loud insults; the dogs looked up from their disgusting meals, growling and barking at nothing in particular. I tripped on some cobbles and bruised my knee. There was very little light except that which filtered from latticed windows or from behind threadbare curtains; the occasional yellow naphtha flare from a confectioner’s shop where veiled women gathered to purchase pastries, their only pleasure, while their men disobeyed the edicts of Islam and sought consolation in the grogshops or played backgammon on the greasy tables of the coffeehouses. I crossed at least two different cemeteries, for this was the city of cemeteries, and almost by accident, with the lights of Pera and Stamboul distant and unattainable, I reached the Roman Catholic church. It was an unremarkable, mock-gothic building, built in the English style and might as easily have been found in Worthing or Fulham. It was impossible for me to identify the streets and the church was deserted. There was nobody I cared to ask. Only a few cafés and bars were still open in the area and these were crowded with the usual riffraff. I knew it would be unwise to approach them.