Slowly but surely, and often by my own efforts, I began to put together a team of boat-builders from Agadir and Mogador, local carpenters and metal-workers who had the skills and intelligence required to turn them into aeroplane-makers. They were all masters of improvisation and set to with a will creating the beautiful shapes I had visualised. My lovely designs - art nouveau in practical machinery - were formed with bent woods and heavy silk, coaxed into reality by loving Moorish craftsmen until the great shed came alive with a dozen gigantic, brilliant dragonflies. All this of course quickened my blood, yet to my growing frustration we had not yet received instructions for engines. I explained to the Pasha that if we were to make our own engines we would need a number of subsidiary factories. He said he did not want more factories so had decided, after much thought, to purchase complete Portuguese engines through a firm in Casablanca. However the Casablanca people soon proved to be having ‘problems with customs’ (obstruction from the Sultan) and so further delays resulted until, from sheer impatience, I took matters into my own hands. I had heard of a machine found by Tuareg herders out on the jol towards Taroudant. Clearly it had landed safely enough, for its undercarriage was only slightly damaged, but the pilot was never found. The machine was an old French Bleriot monoplane and could well have been sitting in the desert since before the War. Lieutenant Fromental failed to trace it from any reports and concluded that the plane had probably belonged to a gentleman flyer who merely abandoned it when its engine, which was even then no doubt clogged, jammed up. The flyer might well have joined a camel-train to Marrakech and from there returned to his own country. Or, even more likely, some Tuaregs caught him and sold him in-country. I never discovered the truth of it, but at least I now possessed one good, if antique, engine. Once I had worked on it for a few days, glad to get back to the practical business of spanners and plugs and cylinders, it functioned perfectly. It was a heavy old Martinez Blanco, of a type which had not been thought particularly suitable even in 1912, but it was all I had, and very soon I was able to instruct my people how carefully to fit it into my own favourite machine, the slender Sakhr el-Drugh, my Hawk of the Peak. And now I had a working aeroplane! Within a week or two I would be airborne again. I could then (I secretly thought) please myself as to whether I remained with the Pasha or went on my way to Rome with Rosie von Bek. I did not intend to betray my employer, but I felt considerably happier that I now had a working machine, a means of escape. I looked forward to testing her. She had an unusually long wing-span of some fifty feet and a slender body covered in scintillating multi-coloured silk. She resembled a magnificent insect. Her body rose on thin hydraulic rods which supported an axle for her wheels. The heavy dark engine looked a little out of place, but I improved the plane’s performance by adding a longer than usual propeller which it was possible to fit thanks to the taller undercarriage, but this increased the insect-like appearance. Sent by El Glaoui to film this fantastic nativity, the production of our new Moroccan air-works, Mr Mix was the first to see her. He said she looked marvellous, like something Douglas Fairbanks might have thought up. I was flattered. Fairbanks remained my film hero for many years, even after it was revealed that the perfect marriage between himself and Mary was a sham and that he was a Hälbjuden. I can’t say I was greatly surprised. She was never suited to adult roles. I had taken the liberty of painting the slogan ‘Ace of Aces’ on both sides of the plane, behind the wings, since I thought this would appeal to possible American buyers while our Arabic recognition symbols exhorted the glory of God and the Glaoui. My workers were forever amazed by every tiny development, by every fresh marvel I had them create. I think they were as proud of our first bird as I. They could foresee a time when, perhaps led by Ace Peters himself, their veiled cavalry would take to the air, to fight with the same valiant cunning they had displayed for centuries on horseback. For my part I saw, somewhat selfishly, and more prosaically, an advertisement for my own genius which was bound to be noted in Italy. I now had, through my patron’s intervention, a fresh passport in my American name as well as my Spanish passport and Moroccan papers. I could travel without fear anywhere in the world. I remembered how I laughed at Shura’s ‘two names are better than one, Dimka, and three are better than two’. Now I realised the wisdom of the maxim! - not for reasons of criminal expansion, but for ordinary insurance in uncertain times. Perek Rachman was a friend of mine. He was much maligned. He said most people were like cattle, neither good nor evil. But they had no imagination. They are shocked by a boy who pays a penny too little for his tram ticket. To them, one’s ordinary precautions for survival are absolute proof of evil. To those of us who have been forced, stateless, from a nation upon which Satan Himself squats - feeding off human blood and souls, His mad red eyes rolling back in His bestial head, His claws reaching for fresh bodies to devour - it merely displays a prudent nature. It is the same with people who claim they have never known a whore, but they talk to one at the bus-stop and think what decent, right-thinking human beings they are, as Mrs Cornelius says, ‘an’ never fuckin’ guessin’ they’re suckin’ cocks fer a livin’.’ Judge not lest ye be judged is something we should all remember.
I began to feel secure for the first time since we had ridden out of Egypt. I felt that the true God was once again my guide.
I go every Easter to Ennismore Gardens, to the Cathedral, for the Vigil. It is the most beautiful service, the Service of the Resurrection sung in Church Slavonic, and there is no more intimate contact with God while it is taking place. I used to watch those little girls singing the Kyrie eleison. Such an optimistic experience. And yet they make some story up in the newspapers and suddenly I am a dirty old man. No one could feel more sentimental than I - who have been brought low by a love of children, after all, and yet still feel no bitterness towards them, they sing so sweetly. I shall magnify Thee with everlasting love. Such spiritual beauty! What harm could I ever bring myself to perform against that beauty, that innocence? But they say I am guilty and bind me over. It was in The Evening Star and nobody locally blamed me. They all said she was a little trollop. Mis Cornelius said her mother had been on the game in Talbot Road since 1958. But nobody cares how they damage the honour of an ‘old Pole’. I tell them I am Ukrainian. They think it is still a province of Poland. Anyway, they call everything over there ‘Russia’. I despair of the ignorance of youth.
I stopped Mr Mix one evening as he came towards me across the guest courtyard. He seemed embarrassed for a moment, as if I had caught him in some private act, such as picking his nose. He offered me the largest smile I had seen for some time and said he heard I was going to test The Hawk of the Peak next week. I asked if he would like to come up with me and he surprised me by saying that he might. ‘I wouldn’t have to fear a plane crash if you were with me, Max.’ But he said he thought his first duty was to keep his feet on the ground and film the event. ‘I am the Lord High Grand Recorder, you know. What?’ Whenever he talked of his duties or his titles he adopted a chortling English stage accent which I never found becoming or dignified.