Free The Laughter of Carthage by Michael Moorcock Page A

carabinieri) I told him I was English. My sister and I were on our way to Corfu by steamer from Genoa when Esmé became ill. At my insistence the captain had put us off here. Perhaps there was a large city closer to Otranto than Venice?
     
    Doctor Castaggagli said it would be far easier to head for Rome or Naples, particularly with all our luggage, and presuming us to be returning to London. He did not think Esmé should travel for several days or for very far. She must be installed in a good hotel room where she could have tranquillity and rest. Then she would soon recover. If I needed a specialist opinion (which he admitted was unlikely) I should certainly make for Rome where it was ‘very modern’.
     
    Although regretting I should not see the beauties of that famous old city, I was already thinking it would be better to travel to Rome and thence to Paris. From Paris I could obtain legitimate papers and then proceed to London. I still had enough to pay our fares and a few more weeks at moderately priced hotels. Even if our money ran out we were in a law-abiding country. I could earn what we needed.
     
    In Paris, if he had not yet gone to America I would find Kolya. He would help me. And there would be other friends: St Petersburg alive again on the banks of the Seine! In a mounting mood of optimism I made my decision. In spite of the doctor’s advice, I was certain that familiar comforts, streets, traffic, crowded cafés, would revive Esmé more thoroughly than any rural retreat. However, I thanked Doctor Castaggagli warmly; I knew that he meant well. He asked if he could be of further help. I needed to change money and buy tickets. He took me in his pony and trap to the town’s bank and there my sovereigns became lira: huge, magnificent, flamboyant notes. Next we went to his house. He insisted I wait in the trap while he dashed inside to return with the promised hat and scarf. They were both of good quality and, in spite of having several suits, coats and other accessories (though the bulk of our luggage was Esmé’s) I was grateful to him. At the little station, which looked as if it had been in Otranto since the time of Christ, I bought two first-class tickets for Rome.
     
    The doctor insisted upon purchasing a bottle of wine, to enjoy a farewell drink. Reassuring myself that Esmé still rested and was content, I joined him in the courtyard of the little inn. We sat down together. The old marble bench might have come originally from a Roman villa. In the little garden beyond the courtyard the landlord’s wife clipped her evening roses. Doctor Castaggagli stretched his long legs out before him, his heels describing cryptograms in the dusty earth whenever he shifted position, and spoke of his love for this little town, his birthplace. In some ways I was envious of him. Over the years I have longed so for simplicity: the one gift God refused to grant me. However I enjoyed a certain contentment that evening, looking up at the crenellated Moorish castle and its monument to slaughtered victims of the Turks. The Osmanlis had raided Otranto in 1480, killing everyone they could find. I was reassured. No longer need I fear immediate threat from Islam, Israel or, indeed, Bolshevism. I was securely on Western European soil, and everywhere saw confirmation of progress; a civilisation I had always yearned to know. Here, such things were taken as casually as the weather, as the ubiquitous old monuments to an enduring history.
     
    My own past thoroughly behind me, I felt I had entered the future. I was, amongst these ancient hills and vineyards, truly about to take part in the twentieth-century adventure. For this civilisation was not decadent as was Turkey’s. It had continued to grow; it marched confidently on, paying decent respect to the past but never yearning for its return. I felt a distinct contrast between this world and the crumbling monuments of Islam, the noisy, stinking, degenerate streets of Pera, whose denizens