Leaving the water behind, the tram approached another, coming from downhill. I thought they must certainly crash head-on. The two vehicles passed so close, swaying wildly in the narrow street, that their sides almost touched. There was a general clanking and whining and ringing of bells. Our tram swung round a corner to the left then almost immediately took another to the right. I was shaken, disoriented, uncomfortable, but happy to be in a city again, no matter how strange. Everywhere I looked the unstable wooden buildings, several storeys high, often unpainted, their foundations shaken by half-a-dozen earthquakes at least, seemed about to collapse into the street, yet from time to time appeared a magnificent Islamic dome, a mosque which had stood like a rock for centuries; elsewhere were marble towers, a little green park; and everywhere, suddenly, were clumps of poplars, cypresses and pines. We passed ragged, blackened gaps where houses had been razed by fire; there were piles of rubble, as if from shelling, new buildings half-constructed then apparently abandoned; elsewhere grandiose modern façades were already cracking and crumbling. Pera might have been the back lot of a run-down cinema company. What was substantial was in poor repair, what looked imposing was a sham, what looked most theatrical was probably the best piece of architecture in the town. This ‘new’ ghetto, where successive Sultans had confined their foreign visitors since the treaty with Genoese traders in the sixteenth century, had been allowed to exist in deliberate contrast to the Moslem city on the Golden Horn’s opposite bank. I glimpsed Stamboul occasionally through gaps in the buildings as the tram swerved this way and that. From Pera the view of ancient Constantinople was unspoiled and magnificent. I was reminded of some dreaming, elegant Caliph swaddled in sensuous luxury, carelessly unaware of the noise and poverty, the common stink from which he was separated only by a short expanse of water, a couple of narrow bridges.
The tram now began to move up a wider street containing better proportioned, more evidently European stone buildings. There were well-ordered trees, shops selling better-quality goods, yet still thoroughfares were crowded, smelly, full of vagrant noise. The conductor yelled at me from the far side of a dozen greasy fezzes. ‘Arrive,’ he shouted. ‘Arrive, monsieur!’ He gestured towards the wall of a small park which I could just see through the windows. I pushed through hard, unhelping flesh towards the exit, climbed down the tram’s wooden steps, checked my possessions were still about me, and as the vehicle moved on, stood upon a broken flagstone looking up and down the street. I was in the Grande Rue de Pera, the avenue of embassies, hotels, and popular legend. My childhood thrillers had not properly prepared me for the reality. I had expected something closer to the Nevski Prospect or the Nicholas Boulevard, something wide, imposing, secluded. But I had forgotten the cleverness of Turks, who put all foreigners together where they might fight amongst themselves, where they could be subjected to daily inconvenience. I wandered back and forth across the street, dodging bicycles, horsemen, dogs, a kind of rickshaw, and at last recognised the wrought-iron balconies of the Pera Palas, said to be the best hotel in the city. (And also, I was soon to discover, a notorious haunt of Kemalists and foreign agents.)
Lack of serious trouble in finding my hotel, however, dispersed the remains of my poor temper. I had become almost jaunty as I walked into the cool lobby, going straight to the reception desk. The place was relatively peaceful after the noise outside, and fairly clean. The cacophonous streets were somehow muffled, giving the place that proper sense of untroubled tranquillity and security, the mark of any first-class hotel. In common, too, with many other hotels of its day, the Palas had a tendency towards plush, black rococo cast-iron and gilt. Uniformed porters, in frockcoats, tarbooshes, and wearing white gloves, were in abundance. Even the Greek manager, waxed and fat, contrived to look French. I announced myself. He consulted his register. At length he nodded. ‘So pleased you were able to find us, m’sieu.’ He handed my key to an Armenian porter and the man, looking like some janissary from the Sultan’s guard, strode to the lift with an air of quiet dignity. We ascended smoothly to the third floor. My room was displayed with a touch of ceremony by the porter who appreciated my mumble of approval. The room was small, looking out over the Grande Rue, and was opulently comfortable for what it was, with its own wash-stand and toilet facilities. Again I used a silver rouble to tip the porter. Silver of any currency was perfectly acceptable to Turks, though I learned French Napoleons and British sovereigns were (perhaps since Lawrence) the common coin of larger dealings.
I ordered some hot water. The bed, with its carved and gilded headboard, its red velvet coverlet, was luxurious. I had an armchair, a little writing-desk, a box-room for my trunks and a large wardrobe. The little dressing-room had solid, if old-fashioned, facilities, including a full-length mirror. While I waited for the water, I took from my toilet case my razor, hand-mirror and a packet of cocaine. For the first time in a month I could enjoy my drug in relaxed and pleasant surroundings. A good-looking youth brought my water, some fresh towels, and soon I felt completely myself again. I had on a clean shirt, a smart dark brown three-piece suit, and I had oiled my hair. Now I was myself again: Colonel M. A. Pyat, late of the 13th Don Cossack Regiment, scientist and man-of-the-world.
I was arranging my brushes and boxes in the dressing-room, when there came a knock on the door. Adjusting my tie I went to answer. It was only the bellboy with a note on a salver from Mrs Cornelius. Welcome ashore, Ivan. Sorry I’m not here to show you around but I know you’ll do all right by yourself. Back in couple of days. Love, H.C. I was disappointed. Doubtless she was visiting her Frenchman. But I refused to become depressed. I would have time now to see something of the city before we continued on to England via the Orient Express (or by another ship). I had of course looked forward to having my first meal with her, but consoled myself: Soon I would be dining with Mrs Cornelius as often as I liked in London. All that really mattered was that I was at last in a true metropolis. There was no immediate threat from an invading enemy for the police of five Allied nations kept the peace. In Constantinople, too, one might enjoy every conceivable form of pleasure. I remembered the old saying that here the Moslem lost his virtues and the European added to his vices. There is nowhere quite as thrilling as a city recently emerged from War. Men and women develop eager habits of living to the full. From my window alone I could see dozens of restaurants, little theatres, cabarets. It was not yet lunch-time and already music came from the cafés. Fair-skinned, uniformed young men walked up and down the Grande Rue with unveiled, laughing Turkish girls on their arms. Everyone seemed so carefree. It would never be possible to capture the joy of my youth in Odessa, but Constantinople promised at least a taste of that old exhilaration. In fact it would be here I really discovered my ability to become quickly at home in any great metropolis. It would take me a few hours to learn the chief streets, a few days to discover the best restaurants and bars. A cosmopolitan city has a common language frequently making speech unnecessary. People come to be entertained, to buy and sell, to exchange ideas, to be artistically replenished, to embark upon sexual adventures. The complexity of trade is in itself the central stimulus. This is true of the poorest citizens as it is of the well-to-do. Only the very rich seem to know the kind of boredom which comes upon me, for instance, in the countryside; but such people would be bored anywhere; they have nothing to buy, nothing to sell, no nemesis save the ennui itself. To my joy I could hear Russian being spoken in the Grande Rue de Pera; I could hear French and English, Italian, even Yiddish, Greek and German. My blood quickened as it recognised its natural environment and I began to experience the rush of pleasure which accompanied the almost immediate revival of my complete old self. For too long I had experienced a half-life. Now I was about to set elegant patent leather upon real streets again.