Everyone enjoyed themselves, though I found it all a little vulgar and chaotic. They received write-ups in the Kilburn Advertiser and the Kensington Post, and Moorcock came to interview them at Blenheim Crescent. He lived round the corner in Colville Terrace and worked for the magazines as a freelance. His piece appeared in Plays and Players, but it was too short, made fun of the whole thing and got half its facts wrong. He thought it heralded a rebirth of the old-fashioned panto. Personally I would have sued him. Mrs Cornelius was pleased with it. Frank and Jerry hated it. Catherine said she thought Moorcock meant well.
The pantomime, The Crock of Oil; or, Harlequin Imperator, was put on at the old Kilburn Empire. We walked there from Ladbroke Grove, across Harrow Road up to Kilburn High Road. The traffic is terrible on the Harrow Road. We had attempted to find a taxi, but it was impossible. You can spend hours trying to cross against that noisy traffic. It comes in from the west and north, all lorries, buses and vans. It is filthy there. We were late for the performance but were allowed to stand at the back until the first interval when we found our seats. People were very kind. We still enjoyed that atmosphere of camaraderie which has since vanished from the neighbourhood. Nobody has any manners these days since Labour came to power. Once they used to die in church in that good old-fashioned way, celebrating mass. These days they clutch at their hearts as they leave the pub or get on a bus. They die in the street, like animals.
‘You take one day at a time, Ive,’ Mrs Cornelius tells me. She smiles in reminiscence. ’There’s somefink abart your Aye-taye airmen, say what you like. They’re sexy.’
She is talking about her time on Majorca after she left Berlin. She stayed with Desmond Reid after she went there with Major Nye, who was acting as an observer for the British government, but all the Italians thought he was a military spy. They treated him with cheerful goodwill. They were euphoric, he told me. They had tremendous morale. Later I was to experience a little of this myself.
We stop on the bridge to watch Concorde go over. What a beautiful plane she is, I say. I never received credit for her, but I am so glad to have seen her fly before I die.
‘Wot d’yer mean, yer morbid old bugger?’ she says.
That ship is the future, I tell her. One day the airways will be full of such beautiful craft.
‘One day,’ she says, ‘we’ll be able to afford a ticket on ‘em.’
Sometimes I think she has no poetry. I sigh. ‘You are a cynic.’
‘If yer say so, Ive.’
‘Think what that plane symbolises, dear Mrs C. What her name promises. Unified Europe. A balance of power against communism and rank American materialism. One day all planes will fly beyond the speed of sound. They will be graceful and beautiful again.’ We hear the distant bang as she reaches her cruising speed and disappears. ‘They bring harmony back to the world.’
She puts her arm through mine. She is affectionate. ‘Yer silly ol’ sod,’ she says.
Mrs Cornelius is modesty personified. She continues to insist she was neither my guardian angel nor my saviour in those pre-war days. She was never in prison, and they lied to me to stop me escaping. But I do not believe her. She was arrested by the Gestapo, I know, for helping me. Pure coincidence, she says, that she left Berlin for Spain. She knew there was a war on, but she’d thought the Balearics would be all right. She’d had such a nice time there before. She had already left Berlin before I was taken to the Institute. Then when Reid went back, she was stuck in Majorca with, as she puts it, that rather jolly bunch of Italian airmen. She didn’t see much of Major Nye. He was busy in Palma, and she did most of her entertaining in Andratx, well away from any politics. I think she protests too much. Her influence saved me. My love for her never falters. My faith is always refreshed. My gratitude never fades. She is my muse and my ideal. Technically we are still married, but I will not formalise the matter until I can bestow my true name and title upon her. I have explained this to her, and she accepts the problem with her usual generosity.
Some years ago when I had sold the icon I discovered and had some decent money, I wrote away to one of those genealogy people who make you your family arms and trace your ancestors. I gave them what information I could. They sent me back an heraldic shield. In one quarter were the arms of the Romanoffs, in another the arms of the Pyatnitskis, but the other two quarters they left blank. They said the Soviets had made it hard to trace my relatives. So many had died. So many were in exile. If I could give them more information they would be happy to continue the search. And continue taking my money! I said. To tell me what I already know. Mrs Cornelius agreed. She read their letter. ‘It’s a racket, Ivan.’
Most people round here call me Peters, a name they can easily remember. Peters is on my bills. Only formally will I give my name as Pyatnitski or Pyat, and even this is not my actual identity. She knows I am a colonel. Sometimes she still introduces me as Colonel Pyat. Her little Cossack. I would be so proud if, before I died, I could make her a princess. I would take her on a honeymoon around the world aboard the Queen Elizabeth 2. We would fly home on Concorde. One can still enjoy life in a civilised way, if one has money. There remains a chance that someone will take up one of my patents.
Mrs Cornelius never speaks of her own ordeal as a prisoner of the SS when she was used to ensure my own cooperation. I had no choice but to obey them, or she would have suffered.
After I left the Institute, I was put on a train, together with a crate containing my machine, to Burgos, which Generalissimo Franco had made his capital. The old town was teeming with military people, including many Italians and Germans. I even found a German graveyard beside one of the churches. I was introduced to Herr von Stohler, a gaunt, introspective civilian in charge of my project, and he explained how he wanted to test the Luftgeist. The machine would have only Spanish markings, he said. He wanted no hint of its being German, and since I was also a Spanish citizen, I would be able to pilot her without arousing suspicion. ‘We are very grateful to you, Professor Gallibasta.’ He was rather relieved to see me, he said. He was courtesy personified. I almost wept with gratitude to be treated as an equal again. At the moment most of the German squadrons were deployed further south. In the north the Italians were far too undisciplined as flyers and they possessed no useful observation aircraft themselves. They were as likely to frighten the enemy off before the Reds could be engaged. My machine was just what the doctor ordered.
Von Stohler was a civilised, worldly fellow with fine features and elegant manners. He was highly respected by the Spaniards. I dined with him in his private apartments while he sketched in the background of the war situation. Tomorrow, he said, I would be sent on to Zaragoza. Franco was about to make a big push against the Republicans, and my machine would be needed to fly silently overhead relaying back the enemy positions. Reassured that I could remain aloft for several hours in this way while coming and going at will, von Stohler sketched out the kind of territory I would be scouting.
‘We have tanks and aircraft at our disposal,’ he told me. ‘But the Spanish generals are of the old school. They scarcely know how to use such ordnance to advantage. If you can give us Republican positions, let us know roughly what kind of armaments they possess, how well defended they are and so on, we can then deploy our fighters, heavy arms and mobile forces. Do you foresee any kind of problem with this?’
I did not. I was eager to demonstrate my one-man airship. If I did well in this theatre, I would almost certainly be allowed to expand my activities and build some of my larger machines. I could further develop my idea of flying infantry. I became very cheerful at the prospect of taking to the air again.