I had no trouble in stealing Bolsover’s notebook for a few hours and sharing its contents with Captain Quelch. That astonishing list of crimes even suggested unnatural acts amongst the laskars and members of the film crew - something which I knew Quelch had carefully discouraged. (‘A buggered laskar is a lazy laskar,’ was his familiar motto.)
There came a sudden scent of roses as Esmé flung herself from the saloon while Seaman stared gloomily out towards the bow. I thought to follow her to comfort her, for I knew my refusal to let her go ashore had upset her, but in such moods she preferred to be alone. Mrs Cornelius was singing a duet of Rose Marie with the wonderful Oscar Lavern record as she peered again through the porthole towards the tiered orderliness of distant Tangier and speculated if Captain Quelch had yet heard something about Mr Mix. Although reluctant to touch upon the subject at all, I was forced to disabuse her (for I knew the actual nature of Captain Quelch’s expedition, which was to replenish our supplies of shney). ‘He will not go immediately to police headquarters,’ I said.
‘Buyin’ ‘isself a bum-boy ‘is ‘e? Thass gonna send yer ter ther five-fingered squeezebox ain’t it, Ivan?’
To this day she refuses to tell me what she meant, but she shakes with laughter whenever I bring it up. It confuses me to find her so frank in so many ways, and so ambiguous in others. I think she believes she is saving my feelings, but she must know that I have always preferred the harsh facts to obfuscation, no matter how comforting. If it sometimes makes me less happy than many people, I am also more realistic.
In answer to my question at that moment, she pointed out of the window to a local launch, its varnish flaking like leprosy, which pushed through the busy water traffic towards the Hope Dempsey. At the tiller was the obvious owner, a native in filthy golfing pullover and battered fez, while Captain Quelch was seated amidships side by side with a younger man who wore the latest in exaggerated suit fashions, including a wide-brimmed cream-coloured hat, and had something odd about his left sleeve. Their backs were towards me. I was intrigued. Captain Quelch had said nothing of returning with a visitor.
I went on deck to greet them as they clambered up the side. The young man’s hat continued to obscure his face until he was actually standing beside me. He wore smoked glasses, which he removed and slipped into his pocket as he grinned at me, holding out a sun-tanned hand. He was as handsome and as full of himself as he had ever been, as large as life! I scarcely believed it. I burst into tears.
‘But your arm!’ I could not avoid noticing the empty sleeve. ‘What’s wrong?’
He knew a few seconds’ sadness. ‘There was shelling in Odessa. I was hit. Then I was shot trying to get to a ship. I’ll never know who got my arm - Reds or Whites! Maybe both.’ And he shrugged in that old insouciant style of his, bringing a flood of wonderful memories.
It was Shura, who they told me was dead, killed by the Red Cossacks. It was my cousin, my old mentor and playmate from Odessa with whom I had quarrelled over nothing more important than the affections of a common little Moldavenka whore. All that bitterness was long since vanished and my soul sang out with joy! I embraced him! Kissed him! Held his strong, arrogant body close to me and wept again! Shura restored to me! It was all I needed to bring my normal optimism flooding back. Shura, my childhood friend! I had such a story to tell him and such a story to hear! ‘How long can you stay?’
‘Until Tripoli!’ Shura was as moved as I. Tears ran down his cheeks and he dashed them from the corners of his full lips with his remaining arm while he laughed at my own tears. ‘Little Max the Hetman. You’re a film star now, I hear. Doing all kinds of wonderful things. You told us you’d be famous. We should have listened, eh? Le plus fameux des chics types! Wanda was your best friend, you know. She predicted a great future for you. You look well, mon joli bagage.’
Realising Captain Quelch had only a little Russian we both slipped into French, to inform him of our gratitude at this extraordinary reunion. ‘What a marvellous, unwitting catalyst you are, captain,’ I said.
‘I’m happy you approve, old boy. Actually Shura’s boss is an old business associate from the Marseilles days. I was hoping to do him a favour. Sure you don’t mind?’
Only Bolsover or Seaman would object to an unauthorised passenger, but Captain Quelch and I were already in the process of concocting a plan which would get Bolsover arrested as soon as we had berthed in Alexandria. Captain Quelch had purchased the necessary morphine when he picked up our sneg. Seaman would grumble. His film was paramount. In the saloon Mrs Cornelius was immediately charmed by Shura, who kissed her hand and introduced himself as my cousin and an old university comrade.
She was not deceived. ‘Yore one o’ them Slobodka mobsmen, ain’t yer? Ya ‘ad style, you fellers. It’s orl that French yer tork, innit?’ Shura was baffled by her English and delighted by her Russian, which he understood scarcely any better but he loved, he said, the melody of it. I was pleased that they got on so well at first meeting. Even Captain Quelch seemed charmed by Shura’s company. With two arms he was a winning rogue. With one he was irresistible.
The only cabin available for Shura was Mr Mix’s vacant cubby hole. It took no time to fill the negro’s suitcase with the few books, toilet articles and clothes he had left behind. I was not greatly pleased to see The Martyrdom of Man among those effects and joked to Shura that at this rate we should soon find a copy of Das Kapital under every camel blanket! (I was innocent enough in those days not to believe my own fantasy.) My cousin was swiftly supplied with bed-linen and toiletries, then we spent a few minutes in the cabin sampling the cocaine he had brought with him. I reminded him that it was he who had first introduced me to this natural stimulant. ‘There’s scarcely a sniff goes by that I do not think of you, darling Shura!’