The Laughter of Carthage by Michael Moorcock Read Free Book Online Page B

checked. This is all a ritual. The Customs people don’t care who leaves. They only worry about who comes in. And everyone makes a decent profit this way.’
     
    I heard a motor revving in the street, then whistles and revolver shots. Electric torches flashed in the alley. Someone shouted in Turkish. There was a shriek and the sound of running. ‘What was that?’
     
    Kazakian dismissed it. ‘Someone who couldn’t find his fare to Venice, maybe. There.’ He straightened himself and pointed. ‘Your trunks are coming.’ To my relief I saw half a dozen Greek and Albanian sailors crossing the gangplank with our trunks on their backs. ‘Is there a chance we could take one of the cabins?’ I asked him. ‘My sister is unwell. Nothing catching.’ He was regretful. They had all been sold long since. But it was a warm time of year, a calm sea. I should enjoy the journey. It was easy to sleep on the benches.
     
    I was more cheerful when I returned to Esmé. But she had sunk into her clothes and stared desperately back at the wharf. ‘I don’t think we should go,’ she whispered, ‘I have a premonition.’
     
    I scoffed at her. ‘You’re upset at leaving, that’s all. You’ll feel better when we reach Venice.’
     
    ‘The ship makes me so sick.’ She got up. ‘Really, Maxim, I must get off!’
     
    I restrained her, conscious of the curiosity of the other passengers, frightened lest we draw the attention of the police still on the quay. In panic, I hissed at her. ‘Sit down, you little fool!’
     
    ‘You’re bruising my arm.’ Her eyes came to angry life.
     
    ‘Then sit down!’
     
    The launch was rocking. Very loudly the engines exploded to full throttle. Wind caught at the canopy. It flapped like an applauding seal. The paddles churned and spray hit us suddenly from the starboard side. I heard rods connecting, pistons turning. Almost losing her footing, Esmé cried out, half falling heavily onto the bench. The other passengers, muffled in coats, were noisy and cheerful, pointing out exotic aspects of Stamboul’s rich skyline. Her palaces and mosques had turned to pale grey against the blue-black night. I forced Esmé to sit where she was. She began to struggle, to moan. She was hysterical. While the other people on deck turned to admire the massive outline of the Suleiman Mosque coming up on our port, I gathered my strength and dealt my child a controlled but powerful blow to the jaw. Instantly she collapsed in my arms and started to breathe deeply like a tired dog. We pulled clear of the wharves. By the time we entered the Sea of Marmara the steam launch was vibrating dramatically. A few night gulls squawked curiously overhead, a variety of inhuman voices called from the harbours and the dark, surrounding water. Hidden ships hooted and shrilled. The air grew thick with the heavy, heated perfumes of Byzantium; with brine, with a hint of sweet fruits, palm trees and exotic gardens; the stink of the stirring beast that was Asia.
     
    More shots and explosions sounded from the Pera side of the Galata Bridge: a rising cacophony of police whistles and sirens. Motor horns hooted. There was a confusion of shouts that rose and fell only once. The launch rattled like a cheap mechanical toy as she adjusted her course for the Hellespont. I believe I probably saved Esmé’s life, as well as mine, by silencing her. If she had begun to scream we could well have been arrested.
     
    The boat’s vibrations were now less violent and water was a reassuring rush in the paddle blades. The shore fell away from us on all sides as we headed for Gallipoli and the narrow straits for which so many men of the British Empire had died in vain. Beyond Gallipoli lay the Aegean, that most hallowed of seas, where civilisation had been born, where the philosophy of Christ was created. From the Aegean grew the Mediterranean and Italy, from which Law and Justice were carved out of the Chaos of pagan barbarism. I was sorry Esmé was not