Roy Belgrade glanced down at the clipboard he dug from the back seat of the plane. ‘Colonel Pallenberg’s you, sir? Welcome to Coast-to-Coast Airservices. That’s me.’ He grinned. We shook hands. He bowed as he was introduced to Mrs Cornelius. At closer inspection, he looked his age. I moved past the big, heavy wings of the DH-4 to peer into the glass-covered interior of the forward passenger cabin. Some attempt had been made to give it a comfortable appearance. There was a rack with a thermos bottle, a little hamper of food, some magazines. It was almost touching, as if a child had arranged it. The seat was padded, with arm-rests and leather upholstery. ‘Everything but ma’s cookin’,’ said Roy sardonically. ‘You’ve flown before haven’t you, sir?’
I nodded. Mrs Cornelius came to embrace me. She was nervous of planes. She had been up once, she said, but it had made her sick. ‘I do ‘ope ya know wot yer doin’, Ive.’
This made me smile. ‘My dear friend, the PXI passed its tests with flying colours. I have a splendid house in Hollywood. My reputation’s completely restored, my name vindicated. In two days’ time my fiancée comes ashore off the Icosium. Meanwhile, I should tell you, Mr Hever wants to propose to you!’
She was unsurprised. ‘Wot’s yore foughts on that?’
‘He’s kind and rich.’ I could not resist a wink. ‘And virtually blind.’
She began to cackle. She pushed me back. ‘I’ll probably do it, jes’ ter spite yer by bein’ faithful! You wicked littel Shnorrer! Yore worse than I am. You be careful nar, Ivan.’ She inspected me as a mother might send her boy to school for the first time. ‘An’ don’t let anyone pull ther wool over yer eyes, eh?’
‘My instincts rarely betray me, Mrs Cornelius. Please put your mind at rest. My future is assured. As is yours. Soon you’ll be as famous as Lillian Gish.’
She was further amused by this. ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘in Whitechapel. Okey-dokey, Ivan. Bon bloody voyage, pal.’
I climbed into the front cockpit of the DH-4. Roy Belgrade whistled through his fingers and a lad in knickerbockers came running from behind the hangar. He was chubby and black. For one dreadful moment I thought he was accompanying us. But he merely stowed my bag between me and the pilot. I drew the safety straps across my body, settling into the soft seat with some pleasure. To one side of my legs was a locker stencilled parachute, emergency only. Curiosity made me try to open it. It seemed stuck. When I did manage to pull the door back I saw that the whole compartment was crammed with Mexican liquor. As well as the mail, Roy was taking a little private cargo to New York. I was not bothered by this. The DH-4 could only be shot down, it was virtually impossible to crash. Dershvartseh vos kumen spins the propeller, his sleeves falling back from muscled arms, his skin alive with dancing sweat. Mrs Cornelius waves vigorously, her left hand moving from hat to skirt and back again as she attempts to hold her clothes in place. For the engine has caught. The blade ahead of me cackles and snores, whirling faster and faster until all is wailing, frustrated energy. The black boy suddenly appears on the other side of my cockpit canopy. He’s laughing. Ikh hob nisht moyre! Vemen set er? Ver is doz? Ikh vash zikh. Di kinder vos farkoyft shkheynim in Berlin ... He has gone. Does he still cling, like a mocking demon, somewhere upon the fuselage? The night creatures are in the pay of Carthage. Mrs Cornelius has disappeared. But I see Brodmann briefly. Does he step from the hangar and approach my car? Or is it the shvartseh I see. Do they all conspire? Have I never known free will? What forces took me to Byzantium and Rome? Did I make my own decision to sail for New York? The plane’s note changes and we are released from the Earth. This is the great Escape of Flying. We circle the diminishing field. A pink scarf waves from my little green Peugeot. I will be back with Esmé within the week. My blood is singing. I adjust the buckles of my helmet and goggles, drawing on my gauntlets. Wir empfangen es schlecht. Er ist zu viel Störung. I crane my head backwards. Der Flugzeugführer sitz im Führersitz ... He nods his reassuring helm then pulls his stick to send us upwards, banking towards jagged rock and distant snow, the High Sierras. Brodmann, if he was ever down there, can no longer be seen. The little black creature continues to cling to the fuselage for all I know, threatening to drag us down. Carthage will not let the individual fly.
I shall come back to the City of the Golden Dream. I can still smell California with her ocean, her gorgeous crops, her precious metals and floral boulevards. I can smell the promise of Utopia, almost realised. Esmé will think she is dreaming. Wo sind wir jetzt? Es tut mir heir Weh. Ich weiss nicht was los ist. Es tutsehr Weh! Wir haben drei Jahre gewartet. We shall return to the citadel. Its substance changes so frequently it can neither be attacked nor destroyed. Barbarians believe they have conquered it but it is they who dwell in illusion. Der flitshtot vet kumen. Even if I am in mortal danger, the city will find a means of saving me. I never became a Musselman. My mother was swallowed by their red lava. How can I trust Brodmann? He has followed me too long. No one has the right to steal my future! The little black body loses its grip and is flung away, tumbling towards the foothills which now rise from the plain. Nit shuld! Nit shuld! They always claim that everyone shares guilt for those great crimes. But I say: We are all innocent! If one is true, then so is the other. Ikh blaybn lebn ... I shall survive. Carthage shall no longer threaten me with her whips nor shall she push my face into her mud. I am too old and proud to let her grin and point and mock unchallenged.
Outside the night street is deserted; the black rain shines and hisses, mingling with grease from a dozen cheap cafés, with everything a dog or a man can pour from bowels or stomach; and the upstairs lights go off suddenly above the pub. There are sirens, of course, and distant war-cries; the occasional rising note of a curse, a condemnation, a self-advertisement. I think there is something wrong with me. I have eaten nothing, yet the pain starts in my stomach. I turn down my oil lamp (power strikes grow so frequent) and look through the curtain again. Head down, arms limp, shoulders slumped, some happy drunkard tries to piss into the doorway of the Greek take-out. He seems almost as old as me. He wears a stained tweed jacket, grubby grey flannels, a shirt without a collar. He is addressing himself in a furious undertone, accusing himself of some fartsaytik crime. How can I condemn any of these? At least I know the enemy and understand what is destroying me. They could not keep me for long. I was always too slippery for them. Tomorrow is early closing. I shall put this gelekhter and this glitshik fantazye behind me and go south instead of north, into the salubrious parks of their other Kensington. I was truly a luftmayster, a lord of the air, long ago when it was heroic. All they want now is long hair and guitars. Well, I disdain their zoot-suits. And I am the one who has to close my window against the stink of their vomit when they have all gone home. Ikh bin a Luftmayster, N’div auf der Flitstat. Firtmikh tsu ahin, ikh bet aykh. Firt mikh tsu ahin . . .
The DH4 gains height to fly through the wide spaces between the taller peaks. I can see the snow blowing like an eternal tide across their flanks. I am fleeing out of paradise; but it is not true you can never return. We shall cross the plains and the Rockies, Esmé and I; the deserts and the Sierras; and come into our valley again. Here they have no Schutzhaft, ni Buchenwald, no Gulag for me, only for the Japanese. The future can be created swiftly here; there are people who devote themselves entirely to engineering problems involved in realising vast dreams. My cities shall begin here. Hollywood shall be my flagship. The old cities of Europe and America are noble and must be honoured, perhaps preserved. The cities of Asia Minor, Africa and the Far East: these, too, have some interest. But if Constantinople cannot rule as Emperor City, then a New Byzantium must be built to resist Carthage. I can make this a fact and do not seek even to be balebos. Eybik eyberhar? Vos is dos?