The Laughter of Carthage

NINETEEN

THEY TOOK ME TO the desert. Buzzards roosted in the Totenburgen and red dust clogged my throat, making my arguments unattractive. Brodmann was one of them, I know. I recognised his jubilant eyes as their whips shredded my expensive evening clothes. I could scarcely believe she had left me to them. Had she known? ‘Your fancy woman had the right idea. You should have gone with her.’ They would teach me a lesson, said the deep-voiced leader, and I had better remember it good. I was sick. They drove me to the wasteland among buttes like ruined citadels and I vomited on the sand. ‘Get his pants down. Let s check him out.’ Certainly that was the only evidence anyone required. My father should pay for every blow, every welt and bruise. The moon and stars were enormous and possessed a rare brightness. I was alone on a rock in the void while those spurious hoods waved over me and the white arms rose and fell. She was the Judas, not I. Women have no conscience. They will always betray you. I had been left to placate them while she escaped on the Northbound train. I held up my hand. I wanted to tell them the truth. The whip struck my knuckles. I watched the blood push its way through the dark swellings. It was all I could see, that blut. I know their infernal Inquisition. I understand their pacts. Even they are not always conscious of their interdependence. Had the Klan in its entirety been infiltrated by them? Was Evans the Pope’s own candidate? From then on, from 1923, the Klan’s power declined. It must have been a plot. The propaganda against Clarke became hideous. Nito tsu remen tsu reydn! Yidden samen a Folk vos serstert. A narrisch Folk. Sie hat nicht geantwortet. Ich hahe das Buch gelesen und jene Leute sind verarmt. Wer Jude ist, bestimme Ich!

Wer Jude ist, bestimme Ich! Zol dos zayn factish. Fort tsurik. Vue iz mayn froy? In their desert my blood and tears were absorbed under clear black skies. They stared with impassive cruelty from the shadows. I held on to my agony. I would not become a Mussulman. Carthage could kill me. Carthage could not conquer me. The metal in my womb makes me vomit but the dibbuk is mastered again. I am stronger, always, than him. In the deep prehistoric dawn I crawled towards my bagazh. It was unopened, they were so arrogant, and all my things were there. My wallet, passport, some money. Everything I had left in the Philadelphia Grand. I found some more cocaine. It gave me the strength to change my clothes but I could not remove the blood, which had congealed everywhere on my body. I dragged my bag through the scrub to the dirt road and soon comes a truck. It stopped. The boy at the wheel scratched beneath his overalls but otherwise exhibited no surprise. He accepted I had been attacked and my car stolen. He said for a dollar he could drive me to Carson City. Some Samaritan! It was for the gas, he said. I gave him his dollar. He threw in a little water from his bottle so I could wash the worst of the blood from my extremities. He let me off at the station. From Carson City I took the first train leaving. It was going to San Francisco. I needed to find real streets where I could hide. I was careful to make sure no one followed me on board. I knew I had to discover deep anonymity. Brodmann, the Federal agents, and now the Invisible Empire itself had revealed their animosity. It was a conspiracy of which, I suspect, only I was aware. Diesmal wollte der Jude gans sicher gehen. For a while at least I would have to find still another name.

Having used the train’s facilities and killed the worst of the pain with unusually large doses of cocaine, I was somewhat calmer by the time we neared Oakland. I had a broken rib, which I could strap up myself. Otherwise, it was merely a question of waiting for the flesh to heal. I was now prepared to try to take rational stock of my situation. I should logically assume the various factions showing me ill will were not in league, as such. I was in danger largely because I no longer had protection. This obviously made me more vulnerable than I had been to those who already threatened my life. Half-dead from my beating I was not in a good position to cope with further attacks. I knew my assailants could not be true Klansmen, yet I had no proof of that. I must assume the Order to be riddled with spies. Evans himself could be an infiltrator. The Klan had declared itself the enemy of Pope and Bolshevik, of Jew and Jap. Going to earth in San Francisco was tantamount to hiding in the lion’s den, of course. This had always been the East’s beachhead in America. Her huge natural harbour made her the perfect and most important Pacific port while gold and silver from inland mines had made her the richest. My own ancestors might well have settled on her steep hillsides, coming in sailing ships from Odessa and Port Arthur to trade first with the Indians and later with mountain men, trappers who brought their beaver, bear, buckskins and buffalo hides from as far as the Rockies. When San Francisco was still part of Mexican California the Russian envoy Razanov had fallen in love with the sister of Don Luis Antonio Aiguella, but the Catholic Church had played its usual destructive role and Consuella Aiguella had ended her life in a nunnery. Eventually Slav and Anglo-Saxon banded together and drove Rome back beyond San Diego, establishing the rule of law in a land first named Nova Albion by Sir Francis Drake. Pan-Slavism was never an Anglo-Saxon enemy; rather it was always a potential ally.

My train steamed slowly to a halt, almost on the very edge of the shore. I could see masts, blue ocean, a mixture of water traffic. We were at the Bay. The locomotive had stopped on a great mass of stone and concrete: the Oakland Mole. Passengers trooped down from the cars to file aboard Southern Pacific’s ferry, in those days the only means of crossing to San Francisco. I was glad to smell salt again, to lean on the ferry’s rail and watch gulls swarming overhead as we sailed steadily through deep turquoise waves towards the mountain and its towers which many called the finest city of the Pacific Shore, the New York of the West. With its misty greenery and sparkling stone it was reminiscent of Constantinople, yet also a contrast. On these hills had been built, since the Earthquake, a modern metropolis of offices and apartment blocks, buildings as elegant as Chicago’s. From a distance she was beautiful. And was a mere century of violent history any different, finally, to a millennium? Violence and human rapacity has a repetitious quality to it, after all.

Our boat docked at last against the quay dominated by what at first seemed to be a church steeple, the Ferry Building’s tower. We filed through shabby archways, then I carried my own suitcase out into a wide square full of automobiles, cabs and rumbling cable cars which began and ended their journeys here. I was still moving, kept on my feet, I suspect, solely by adrenalin, not daring to let myself stop, so I pulled my body aboard the nearest heavy red and gold cable car. It lurched forward, bell ringing, clanking and whirring, its window glass rattling, up Market Street which was crowded as always with people and traffic and every kind of shop. In my battered and confused condition it had not been my best choice of transport, this odd development of the ore wagon. I disembarked before it made another sickening hump. I had no clear idea where to go. I had thought of Russian Hill, which I gathered was an artists’ quarter, the area I usually sought out, but I was afraid now of being recognised. Intellectuals read newspapers and some of them were liberals. I took two or three streets, stumbling up and down impossible elevations which also rivalled Constantinople’s (though in the main lacking her stone stairways) and depressingly found myself back in Market Street with its four rows of cable tracks, its bustle and cosmopolitan clamour. I took another street, running off at an angle, and to my horror realised the emerald, crimson and gold carved wood possessed the forceful barbarity of Chinese handiwork. Unwittingly, I had stumbled into San Francisco’s notorious Chinatown, home of a score of warring Tongs. I could smell it, a mixture of spices, vinegar, old fragrances, strong food and opium. An alien nightmare.

Not knowing when I could get to my money, I was preserving my small store of cash. I resisted hailing a taxi. I put the yellow peril behind me by as many blocks as possible. By then I was utterly exhausted and running a fever. I decided I must try to find accommodation in the first low-priced hotel I came to. The district here was lively but somewhat squalid, a lower class restaurant and entertainment area, advertising cheap meals, burlesque shows, movies and dance halls. Many of the women already on the late afternoon streets were evidently harlots. I had no prejudice against them. Indeed I felt immediately comforted by their familiarity. In this district I could relax and recover myself. I climbed the dilapidated steps of a five-storey redbrick building called Goldberg’s Hotel Berlin on Kearny Street. The desk was at the far end of a short, unlit passage. I could hardly see the swarthy individual dozing on the other side. He grunted at me. They had rooms. I registered under the name of Michael Fitzgerald, sure that my accent would easily he taken for the rich, rolling brogue of the Emerald Isle. I went so far as to let the desk clerk know I had until recently been with a Catholic mission in Harben, China and what a pleasure it was to speak English again, after so many years. For the moment I felt safe. I had gained time to think and rest. I would remain in San Francisco as long as possible. At least there were ships here to take me to any part of the Pacific world or the great harbour cities of the continental American coast, South and North. I had heard that Argentina was a progressive nation, anxious to experiment. In Buenos Aires they had a branch of Harrods! My room was decorated from floor to ceiling in dull orange paint. The furniture was the same colour. Grey sheets and chipped washing facilities stood out in almost brilliant contrast. I put my suitcase under the bed and went to the nearest grocery to buy a few necessities, things I could easily drink and eat through swollen lips. My face had begun to throb as the effects of the cocaine wore off. The rest of my body was a single rising wave of pain. I bought a newspaper at the corner stand when I saw the headlines.

The paper was delirious with delight over the ‘k-k-krack up!’, the division in Klan ranks. A certain obscure Texas dentist, Hiram Evans, proclaimed himself, the paper said. Imperial Wizard, and announced his intention of ridding the Klan of its traitors, people of loose moral character, of doubtful loyalty. Minutes after the successful putsch Eddy Clarke had been indicted under both the Volsted and Mann acts for licentious and vicious behaviour, which they claimed had occurred some years earlier. Mrs Mawgan was described as a woman of doubtful virtue, mistress of a Jew speculator. Colonel Simmons was in open conflict with Evans. Major Sinclair was not mentioned. I wondered if he, like me, had been beaten up, or even killed. According to the reporter, Klankrest had become as sinister as Caligula’s court, with plotters and assassins skulking in every corridor. The entire Klan seemed on the point of falling apart. I took with a pinch of salt much of what I read (‘Knives Out For Klan Renegades’, ‘Death Threats For Clarke and Supporters’) but it was clear I had no friends left in Atlanta.

The Justice Department’s investigation of me could be part of a general attack on Klan members. Doubtless traitors within the ranks were giving information (much of it highly coloured or simply false) to the Federal men in the hope of charges being dropped. That was why Callahan was hounding me. And Brodmann, of course, posing as a White policeman, could be helping him while idling lies about me to the Klan. Things became clearer. Anyone associated with Clarke, Mawgan or even Simmons was ‘fair game’ for a witch hunt. The Klan itself, split by factions, could no longer help. Mrs Mawgan had been thrown to the wolves. She, in turn, had given them my hide. It would be sheer insanity to try to claim my money from where it had been deposited. If I were to cash a check, very likely Callahan would soon know and quickly trace me. If he was indeed working with Brodmann, my nemesis was bound to try to stir up further Klan hatred against me. Perhaps I should try to reach Canada, and from there head for England.

Meanwhile, as long as I was reasonably careful, San Francisco, in spite of her capacity to revive unwanted memories, was ideal for my needs. Her busy slopes were filled to extravagance with the nations of the world, with the very rich and the horribly poor, with eccentrics, madmen, cripples, beggars and every kind of criminal. Her slums lacked the worst miseries of Galata, her mansions were marginally less opulent than Stamboul’s, but she was otherwise that city’s equal in vulgar variety. I stayed in my room, bathing my wounds in witchhazel and antiseptic, waiting for the bruising to subside so I would be at least unremarkable, if not presentable. I decided to seek the help of Santucci’s cousin, Vince Potecci, at the Ristorante Venezia. I checked the map I had bought and found the address was not very far away on Taylor Street. I could get there easily by streetcar. Since Major Sinclair and The Knight Hawk had vanished (I learned some time ago he had escaped in his ship to Mexico and ended his life giving joy rides to dagoes) Mr Potecci was my only safe contact in America. I was willing, until matters settled a little, to return to my old trade of jobbing mechanic, but I hoped to be offered a loan. I would throw myself as much as I dared upon the mercy of Santucci’s cousin.

As soon as my face and hands only marginally betrayed the signs of my beating, I set off for Taylor Street, near fishing quays where the rigging of little crab boats cross-hatched the spaces between the houses. There was a mouth-watering smell of fresh seafood and cooked lobster. Clouds of gulls hung over the wharves, wheeling and shrieking, fighting for scraps. I found the restaurant, left my message with a sleepy old woman who held the envelope carefully in both hands. She yawned, assuring me it would be safely delivered. Then I strolled back. In a typical San Franciscan morning, foggy and damp, thin sunshine was breaking through. I decided to explore the city, as was my habit. I had become stiff from spending so long in bed. I needed exercise. Trudging through little streets and alleys in the general direction of my hotel I came eventually into a slum favoured by hop-heads and winos. Occasionally I was whispered at from a doorway, but was not otherwise disturbed. I turned into Clay Street, glancing at a small, sleazy theatre and found myself staring in astonishment at the smiling face of Mrs Cornelius. She was one of three girls in a photograph, part of a chorus line, advertising a show called Beauties From Blighty. The Latest Concert Party Sensation From England. I burst out laughing at my own surprise. So close was the threat of the engulfing nightmare I was sure I had begun to indulge in wishful hallucinations. I forced myself to go on a few feet and peered into the cluttered window of a faded delicatessen while I collected my wits. I returned slowly. Like most of the places in this area the theatre was run-down, an edifice of damp, flaking brick and peeling red and white paint, called for some reason Stranoff’s Russian Commedia. It advertised ‘movies’ as well as ‘live-shows’. It occurred to me, cautiously, that Mrs Cornelius’s film contacts had paid off: she was not physically in San Francisco, but was appearing in a kino play. I tried the doors. The place was locked, back and front. The Matinee began at 2:30 pm. In a daze, I returned to Goldberg’s hotel and sat down on my narrow bed to write another note. I would assume Mrs Cornelius to be working at the theatre. If they would not allow me through the stage door she would at least read my note and have me admitted or send word when she had finished her turn. Once again I congratulated myself on the saving instinct which led me always to large cities where such coincidences were the stuff of ordinary experience. Mrs Cornelius, my guardian angel, might again be able to save me. The hope revived that my present circumstances were merely a minor setback in a career which, with a tiny amount of good fortune, could only prosper.

As it happened, when at two o’clock I arrived at the stage door, there was no one to stop me. I was able to wander freely through a mysterious succession of musty tiled corridors until I found the dressing-rooms. There were only three. One was marked Actors, one Actresses and the third, cryptically, Others. I knocked on the ladies’ door and heard familiar English giggles and shrieks. A voice shouted for me to enter. I turned the handle and was immersed suddenly in a confusion of tinsel and cheap brightly coloured fabric, the smell of sweat, paint and strong perfume. Smoking and still wearing her street clothes (a gorgeous pink frock with green trim) Mrs Cornelius stood leaning against an unplastered wall. Her blonde hair was fashionably waved. She wore bright red lipstick. With her emphatic mascara and rouge, she looked even lovelier than when I had last seen her in Constantinople.

She recognised me. At first she was expressionless, shaking her head. ‘Bloody ‘ell,’ she said. ‘Wotcher, Ivan.’ She began to chuckle, ‘It’s abart time ya turned up. Yore lookin’ the toff orl right. So yore doin’ as well as yer said, eh! ‘Ave yer come ter take me orf ter ‘Ollywood?’

I moved forward uncertainly between the clutter and the two other young women, oblivious of them. I took her hand and kissed it. ‘You remain the most beautiful creature in the world!’ I was entranced, as always. I could not disguise my ecstatic emotion. Behind me the skinny little girls giggled and whispered. Mrs Cornelius leaned forward to kiss me on the cheek. Her fragrance was intoxicating. ‘Come orf it, Ive. We ain’t on stage fer anuvver ten minutes! Still, I carn’t say I’m not pleased ter see yer, ‘cause I am. Wot yer bin up ter?’

It was my turn to smile. ‘Oh, all kinds of things. In the past year I’ve been on tour.’

‘Wot? Actin’?’

‘You could say so. They call it lecturing. How long have you been here?’

She had arrived in New York the previous summer. The show had been booked by an agency which led them to believe they would be appearing in major theatres, ‘Instead we come on between ther bloody flickers while they’re changin’ the effin’ reels. Ter keep ther bleedin’ customers from tearin’ up ther rotten seats!’ She shrugged, dismissing a wealth and variety of disappointments with her usual good humour. ‘But at least we’re workin’. An’ ther Yanks ain’t bad audiences, mostly. This is ther biggest bookin’ we’ve ‘ad since Phily-bloody-delphia. We got anuvver week, then it’s renewable. Dunno wot we’ll do if they don’t bleedin’ renew. Ther bloke managin’ us run off ter Brazil in February, wiv ther juvenile lead, littel effin’ poof.’

As she talked she began, with unconscious grace, to change into her costume. ‘Wot woz yore management like?’

‘I’m in a similar predicament. A change of directors. No further bookings. I’m currently at a loose end.’

She looked back at me, cigarette in the corner of her mouth, a small frown in her eyes. ‘Ya bin duffed up, ain’t yer? ‘Oo dun it, Ive?’

‘Cowboys,’ I said. ‘My last appearance wasn’t received too well. One of those Western towns.’

‘Yeah,’ she agreed, ‘they let yer know when yer ain’t goin’ over too well. So yore art o’ work, eh? Ya c’d orlways come in wiv us. Ya couldn’t do worse’n ther larst bloke. Managin’, I mean.’ She made small, dainty adjustments to her tights and spangled bodice. The costume matched those her friends were wearing.

I had nothing else to do. I would dearly love to be close to the woman who had been my most reliable friend. Yet I had no general experience of theatre work. I did not know what rates to charge or how to approach owners. There again I was sure to learn quickly. I said the idea had its attractions. She seemed pleasantly surprised. ‘Buy me some supper after ther show.’ she said as the distorted sounds of music came from the auditorium. ‘And we’ll tork abart it some more.’ She tripped towards the darkness.

‘Oh do, please do help us!’ whispered the last girl hastily, turning huge, vulnerable eyes on me. Then all three ran for the stage. The girl at the rear offered me a red grin.

That night Mrs Cornelius and I ate at Hong Kong Willy’s on Grant Avenue, ‘It woz yore fault, reelly,’ she said. ‘Writin’ orl them bleedin’ letters sayin’ ‘ow great it woz ‘ere. So I jumped at ther chance, din’ I? Yer orta think it over, this opportunity I’m offerin’.’ She had already convinced me (as she would always convince me) that my ‘gift of the gab’ made me ideally suited to manage the Beauties from Blighty. ‘It only needs a few ‘undred dollars extra cash ter get us orf ther grahnd. An’ you’ve got that much easy, aincha? Give it a try, Ivan, since yer’ve nuffink else on. We got orl the leaflets an’ stuff. Ya could do it! A small stake an’ you own ther Beauties.’

I was too embarrassed to tell her that my money was hard to ‘liquidate’. I promised her a decision as quickly as possible. I was certain I could manage the troupe. She had explained how the important trick was to keep the attention of theatre owners long enough to convince them of the value of the act. But money would be needed for improvements, to pay travel expenses for a while, and so on. It would mean that I should have to risk a visit to my bank. It was only on this point I hesitated.

When I returned to Goldberg’s a youngish man was waiting for me in the alcove beside the desk. He was tall, fashionably dressed and courteous, carrying himself with a straight-shouldered stance suggesting a military or sporting background. I was sure he was from the Justice Department and was on the point of asking how he had traced me when he introduced himself as Harry Galiano and vigorously shook my hand. With relief I realized he was an emissary from Annibale Santucci’s cousin. My message had been received, ‘If you ain’t too busy, the boss could see you tonight.’ He spoke with grave politeness. I asked for a moment to go to my room. There I used some of Mrs Mawgan’s remaining ‘wings’ to ensure I had a few more hours of wakefulness. When I rejoined him he smiled suddenly, with the same cheerful insouciance as Santucci. He was quite as proud, when he escorted me round the corner into Broadway, of the large blue Packard parked there. ‘Be my guest,’ he said. With a flourish he opened the passenger door.

For some time we drove in silence through the diffused, multicoloured night of downtown San Francisco. The fog was growing thicker. Harry was content to concentrate on steering his big machine through the confused traffic of Market, past the cable car terminus, and to the wharf, visible as a series of yellow lights barely piercing the fog. We were guided up the ramp by at least half a dozen shadowy men in blue overalls and then, with a moan, the ferry staggered in the water, lurched sluggishly from the dockside, settling down to a steady speed as she ploughed out into the unseen waters of the Bay. It was only then, as we stood smoking beside the shackled Packard, that Harry became talkative. He and Vince, he said, were ‘buddies from way back’, first in the hotel trade, as chefs, later as restaurant owners. These days his boss ran a select country-club out past Berkeley. That was where we were going. I would like the club. It was very European. Very high class.

We drove off the ferry on the Oakland side. The dark water fell behind us; the steep town dwindled to isolated homes, then we were on a highway, running wide and straight between hilly woods. At last, turning into a shrub-bordered driveway, we approached a large building, three storeys high resembling a marble hacienda. It bore the illuminated legend Gold Nugget Road House. Clearly a fashionable restaurant, the place had at least twenty cars parked outside. Nothing could be seen through the thickly curtained windows from which music and laughter warmed the chill of the night. Harry parked the Packard at the rear, led me to a side door and knocked lightly. We were admitted by another Italian, lugubrious and thin in tight-fitting evening clothes, who said the boss was upstairs and expecting us. Two flights of concrete steps took us to the top of the building and through a fire door. Suddenly we had entered a passage expensively decorated in the latest somewhat jazzy fashion. I was reminded of Italy and her Futurists. We passed through several rooms, all in the same style. Everything was grey, blue or pink, including the glass tables and wall mirrors. Then, on the other side of a soft archway, a squat, swarthy man in middle years, also wearing a tuxedo, came forward to take my hand. ‘Mr Peters? I’m Vince Potter. What can I give you to drink? It’s all McCoy.’ Expansively, he opened the flap of a huge cocktail cabinet resembling one of the more elaborate cinema organs. ‘You do partake?’

When I told him I did, he seemed to hesitate. Then he shrugged and poured me the McCoy. It tasted like scotch.

He was solicitous in a humorous, slightly bantering way. ‘So what happened to you? I get a wire from little Annibale in Rome to say to look out for you. Then nothing. We thought you was dead, you know? From where was it? Minnesota? St Paul? Now you need a job or what? You got experience? What experience?’

‘I’m fundamentally a scientist and engineer.’ I explained a little of my career, how I had run up against both the Ku Klux Klan and the Justice Department through no fault of my own. I needed employment under a fresh identity for a while ‘I can work on planes, boats, cars. Anything mechanical.’ I thought it best to play down my lecturing career, seeing no point in offending an immigrant who had almost certainly been raised as a Catholic. Besides, it had no relevance to my current situation.

When I finished talking he was frowning but seemed impressed. ‘Let me get this right,’ he said. ‘You can start an engine, for instance. Okay? Without keys?’

‘Of course. That would be easy.’ I could not quite follow his reasoning.

He shrugged and poured me another McCoy. ‘Always a good talent. But what was your main racket? In the old country, I mean. With Annibale, you must have been selling and buying, you know. That’s what he does mainly.’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘So you were in Paris. What was your line there?’

‘Aeroplanes, chiefly.’ I did not want to raise the matter of the airship company scandal.

At this, to my surprise, he began to grin. ‘Jesus Christ! How the hell do you get rid of a hot Curtiss? No, don’t tell me. Over there, sure, it’s all governments and revolutions and what not. Like in Mexico and down in South America generally. Okay, I should tell you, the rum-running business is small bananas in comparison, though I will admit it gets competitive. We’ve got a pretty large territory to protect.’ He displayed mild, friendly puzzlement. ‘What can I say to you? A job? You could always have a job. But I don’t want to insult you. We got boats and cars need fixing, sure, but there’s plenty of mechanics. Start as a driver. You’re welcome. But you don’t want that. Another year, we could offer better for someone like yourself. I’m expanding, going into legitimate business. Now, short of starting a war with Panama, I can’t see how else I can help you out.’

I reassured him before he became even more apologetic. I could easily find work. What I really needed was a new identity, a passport, preferably as an American citizen. He brightened at this. He was a warm hearted man and felt obliged to be useful to his cousin’s friend. He could not put me into a job worthy of my skills, because it would offend other employees, but he dearly wanted to show his concern in a practical way. ‘That’s no big deal. You got a name you want? Or do you care? A few photos and we’ll give you a whole new history.’

I told him I was currently using the pseudonym Michael Fitzpatrick. He seemed surprised by my choice of an Irish name. After some consideration, he said: ‘You don’t think maybe that’s stacking the odds just a little against yourself?’ I took his meaning. I, of all people, should know the suspicion with which Tammany was viewed. ‘What about Manny Pashkowitz?’ he said. I used to know a Manny Pashkowitz who passed on recently. That would be useful in itself, since he copped a John Doe tag in the morgue.’

‘I would prefer something a little less Jewish.’

‘I understand.’ He hummed to himself, staring off into space. ‘Then how does Pallenberg sound? Matt Pallenberg, a Swede. Nobody hates the Swedes, except maybe Finns and Danes. But who cares what they think? A nice name. He lost an argument with a Customs cutter near the Santa Barbara islands a couple of months back. I know for sure he never had no ID on him when he checked out. He’d be about the same age. Born in Stockholm, I think. Came over with his folks twenty years ago. A piece of cake. What could be neater?’

‘I’m very grateful, Mr Potter.’

‘Don’t mention it. A pleasure. Stay in touch. We’re sure to have openings soon for an educated person like yourself. Some day we’ll do business, I’m certain. Now, is there anything else?’

I asked if he would mind my having mail sent to me care of his restaurant in North Beach. He said it would delight him. With the joviality of the embarrassed host to the untimely guest, Vince Potecci slapped me on the back, insisting I take one of his Havana Corona Coronas before he returned me into the keeping of Harry Galiano who chatted nostalgically on growing up in Toledo as he drove rapidly to catch the last ferry back to San Francisco. It was only as we arrived outside Goldberg’s I realised he had been referring to Toledo, Ohio. Harry promised to come the next evening and collect my photographs. He assured me, it would be three days at most before I was completely fixed up. I asked him how he would get back to Oakland with the ferries shut down for the night. He laughed. He looked after the North Beach businesses, he said. It was five minutes to home. His parting words were significant. ‘Take care. Best to keep yourself to yourself until I get back to you. In this town you have to be careful. Never believe anyone’s who they say they are until you’ve checked them out.’ I think he knew Brodmann was looking for me. It was possible he had even heard something about Callahan, the Federal agent. Without wishing to alarm me, he was trying to warn me to be wary of them.

In my bedroom I settled down to think. I could again begin to make plans for the future. I found Mrs Cornelius’s suggestion by far the best, of course, but remained uneasy about cashing a check. Shortly, it was true, I should soon be leaving San Francisco behind me and with it my old Peterson persona. Nonetheless, it was scarcely sensible to give my pursuers an idea of which coast I was on, let alone which city. Without the ‘float’ Beauties from Blighty would almost certainly collapse, leaving Mrs Cornelius and her friends destitute. With a few hundred dollars, there was a strong chance of going from strength to strength and, moreover, making my living in a reasonable way. The chief attraction was that I would earn my old friend’s gratitude (after all, how many times had she saved me from death, let alone discomfort?) and be close to one of my two enduring loves. That alone, surely, was worth the risk?

The following evening Mrs Cornelius invited me to her rooming house to ‘talk things over’. Having given my photographs to Harry Galiano, I felt somewhat more relaxed as I entered a building which made Goldberg’s seem like the Ritz. It was disgusting that so fine a woman as she, who had been the intimate of princes and world leaders, should be reduced to this roach-infested hovel! No wonder she needed financial reinforcement! It was morally wrong. A woman of her sensitivity and breeding, talent and beauty, should not have to concern herself with keeping the bedding as far away from the floor as possible in order to reduce the number of verminous creatures running over her body at night. ‘Oh,’ she said courageously, ‘I’ve known a lot worse, Ive. Still, I must say, ther wages might not be much bigger over ‘ere, but the bleedin’ insects certinly are!’ And she laughed, offering me some gin she had bought for the occasion. She asked if I had given any further thought to becoming ‘chief share’older an’ manager of our littel troupe’. I refused to burden her with my own problems. I merely said I was waiting to hear from my accountant. ‘Better make up yer mind soon, Ivan,’ she said, ‘or I’ll ‘ave ter look up ther nearest nunnery an’ take ther vow!’

I was horrified at the notion of her becoming enslaved by the Church. I asked if there were alternatives. ‘It’s gettin’ darn ter ‘awkin’ me ‘a’penny,’ she said ambiguously, ‘or bein’ picked up on wot I gather they corl in these parts a “vag rap”. Ter vamp or ter vag. thass ther question. Ive!’

There was desperation, I was sure, beneath her light-hearted words. I was the only one who could save her. She said as much to me that night as she kissed me on the cheek and waved me good night.

A little drunk, doing everything I could to disguise the fact, I made my way up steep, unfamiliar streets in the small hours of the morning. Somehow I found myself on Stockton, in the no man’s land between Little Italy and Chinatown, foolishly wondering whether to go North or South when, had I considered the problem sensibly for a moment, I should have gone East. At last I got my bearings, thankfully recognising a late-night drugstore on Dupont. This part of the city was virtually deserted. It was three o’clock. A light drizzle had begun to fill the air and the street lights shivered and grew dim. I wore no topcoat or hat, so turned up my jacket collar and pressed on until I could round the corner into Kearny Street. My head was down. I did not look up until I was less than a block from Goldberg’s. As I raised my eyes I recognised a figure, in heavy leather coat and wide-brimmed hat, who moved abruptly from the yellow circle of gaslight and walked with unnatural speed towards Broadway. It was as if I had disturbed a thief. Then, as the figure pressed on, labouring through the rain until it was out of sight, I knew I had seen Brodmann! He had been watching the hotel and had not expected me to surprise him from the rear!

Closing Goldberg’s street door and moving carefully across the ragged linoleum in the gloom, I considered this new factor. If Brodmann were working on his own (or with his Chekist comrades) I might have a little time; if he was in league with the Justice Department or the Klan, I would be wise to leave the city immediately. Whichever was the case, I now had relatively little to lose by obtaining the ‘float’ for Mrs Cornelius. I grinned carelessly to myself. I would give them the slip again. I was to become an actor-manager. A Sir William Shakespeare. A miniature Flo Ziegfeld. A travelling player in the footsteps of Dickens and Oscar Wilde! And the wonderful, the eternally feminine Mrs Cornelius was to be Juliet to my Romeo, Frankie to my Johnny!

The following afternoon I went round to Stranoff’s to tell her of my decision. She need no longer feel torn between Skid Row and the Little Sisters of St Francis. A living death in the service of the Pope would never be her lot while I could still draw breath. She was overjoyed, like Lillian Gish saved at the last minute from the clutches of the evil mulatto, and she hugged me, telling me I was ‘a brick’ and ‘a godsend’. She immediately began to make plans and suggest suitable locations for our future performances. I offered her $500, saying she could invest it in whatever she believed was of paramount importance to the continuing existence of Beauties From Blighty. ‘Well,’ she said, almost skipping with delight, ‘number one’s gotta be a decent motor! Don’t worry. Ive. Ya won’t regret this, I promise.’

Next day my new identity had arrived, more detailed and more convincing than any previous one. Still making sure Brodmann had not returned to ‘shadow’ me. I hurried to the Nob Hill branch of my California bank. There I presented a legitimate check for $750 made out to Matt Pallenberg and signed ‘Max Peterson’. At least nobody would automatically guess we were the same man. A check to cash would have made it immediately clear I was in San Francisco. I must admit I was a little clammy as the clerk, learning I had been mailed the check from Milwaukee (a further obfuscation), significantly recruited advice from hushed nether regions, bore the check to invisible arbitration, conferred in pious murmurs with various other officiates, then eventually returned, inspected my identification (even the address was in Albany), found it satisfactory and at last briskly demanded my choice of denominations as if I had handed him the check only a second or two before. I asked for $500 in large bills. This I would hand immediately to Mrs Cornelius for our Company. The rest I had in ones, fives and tens, for various emergencies, including the purchase from a source in Chinatown of high quality cocaine. The money made me substantial again and gave me the feeling of controlling my own fate. I was no longer a foreigner with suspicious Romantic blood but a Nordic descendant of Vikings (like, indeed, all the old families of Kiev), that hardy, adventurous race who, discovering America long before the Spanish Jew Columbus, had carved their runes on the sea-battered cliffs of Long Island and Nantucket, claiming the land for their wholesome, self-sufficient deities Odin, Freya and Thor; far more practical gods to rule a vital subcontinent than that repressive Jehovah of palefaced, constipated puritanism.

I put the Ku Klux Klan behind me. Those fools had missed their chance of greatness by petty internal bickering, by turning on their best friends. They would destroy, through further stupidity and quarrelling, everything they had gained. For a while Indiana might have been the first Klan state, but another scandal ended that dream. Colonel Simmons, Eddy Clarke, even Major Sinclair and myself, were martyrs, destroyed by small-minded, cautious people or by treacherous friends like Mrs Mawgan. My own gifts, so cynically abused by money-grubbing politicians of the kind who destroyed idealists like Roffy and Gilpin, could still make America the world leader of technological innovation. If they wanted me in the future, they would have to crawl and beg. I was determined to renounce the false lures of their world and devote myself to play acting and private scientific speculation. I would not let them hound me. I would choose for myself when and where I left America, when to reveal my true identity. How astonished they would be! How I would laugh at them as my efficient steam-powered airship, my own refinement of the Avitor Hermes Jr which had flown from San Francisco in 1869, swam through the skies above the Golden Gate, outsped the great locomotives of the Southern Pacific. When the fiery cross next burned, a thousand feet high, on Mount Shasta, it would be the signal to all that the Invisible Empire was purified and ready to ride out once more on its holy purpose, to free America from the Orient’s envious chains! But this time I would be at the head.

We should ride in machines of gold and brass and blinding silver and our enemies would know the helpless thrill of absolute terror. We should take our vengeance, but we should take it honourably. Wake up, America! Your skies fill with an avenging army and only the just shall survive! The first phase of my Kampfzeit had drawn to a close. The second would soon begin. Meanwhile, as a simple, strolling player, I would mingle with the ordinary people, drawing my strength from the grassroots, the backbone of America. I had flown too high, too soon, through no fault of my own. Now I must restore myself, plant my boots firmly on the ground and begin again. You would not hear my voice whining Amerika! Twoje dzielo. Our little band would grow, but not by many, and I would continue to remain true to my ideals. For a while, however, they would have to be adapted to the requirements of the musical comedy. Erst waren es Sieben. Sie kämpften und blutetan für Amerikas Freiheit.

Mrs Cornelius had bought an old Cadillac ambulance for a song. Slightly refitted, with the name of our Company painted in the latest modernistic lettering on her sides, the machine was a bargain. Mrs Cornelius and the other two girls were all that remained of the original troupe, but she was confident we should swell the ranks back to seven by recruiting as we travelled. They had bought material and made new costumes, some of which would be for the new sketch I had outlined to Mrs Cornelius as my first contribution. Within a very short time we were ready to begin our northward journey along the Pacific Coast. I was excited, of course, but also more than usually nervous, uncertain of my abilities as an actor-manager. Mrs Cornelius constantly reassured me that it was ‘a piece of cake’ and ‘far easier than it looks’. Nonetheless, I twice came close to giving the idea up and taking the first tramp to Tahiti.

Eventually I rallied. I wrote further letters to Esmé, to Kolya and one to Santucci, thanking him for his help. I told them all I could be reached in care of the Ristorante Venezia, Taylor Street. I had given up politics because I was disgusted with the corruption I had discovered. Eventually I planned to resume my scientific career.

I should not have delayed as long as I did. Coming out of Goldberg’s on my way to meet Mrs Cornelius, who already had my suitcase packed in the back of the van, I saw Brodmann - or rather his leather coat - slip from view round the corner of the bakery across the street. I ran after him but he was already flying down the pavement to disappear below the horizon. I could not decide why he should go to such pains to avoid recognition. There was no telling what complicated game he was playing with his allies as well as his quarry. Rather than go directly to where I had told Mrs Cornelius to pick me up, I took a series of sidetracks, moving in and out of alleys doubling back on myself, and so arrived outside the little Dupont Street drugstore rather later than I had said. Everyone else was ready in the van. The two girls sat behind while Mrs Cornelius, a little drunk, waited in the seat beside mine. The engine was started and we were, in her words, ‘ready to roll’. With a great sigh of relief I let off the brake, engaged the gears and began the labouring journey towards Market Street. The van had an excellent engine for its age, but was somewhat overloaded. Mrs Cornelius was full of her old exuberance, leading the other girls and myself in the choruses of her favourite songs.

By the time we were on the road to Salinas we had sung our way through most of her repertoire and I was teaching her My Old Kentucky Moon which I had learned only a month earlier from the treacherous Mrs Mawgan. Occasionally I would glance back the way we had come, but saw no driver resembling Brodmann. I was childishly happy to be with her again and travelling. Es dir oys s’harts! I could put the past entirely from my mind and concentrate cheerfully upon the future. I kissed her cheek affectionately.

Mrs Cornelius giggled. ‘You’ll do, Ivan. We’re on our way ter Glory, mate!’ A moment later, with an astonished groan, she threw up in my lap.