The rituals by which we order and contain our terror of death are as varied as they are immutable. Before we ever dare to re-examine and perhaps change them we defend them by herculean efforts of the imagination, sometimes to the very death we most fear. I remarked on this to Kolya. ‘Is there a vicious circle of terror and tyranny which is destined to enslave forever even the most enlightened of us?’ He thought this was a pointlessly pessimistic question brought on by my ordeal. He saw in everyone, no matter how degenerate or immoral, a spark of goodness which would always respond to what he called the ‘reasoning voice of love’. Only rarely did there emerge a truly terrifying intelligence which could take even that spark of goodness and corrupt it.
I was relieved, when he mentioned this idea, that I had been unable to kill the blind boy. I remember an old rabbi telling me that when he was asked, ‘Where was God in Auschwitz?’ he would say ‘God was there with us, violated and blasphemed. Ask rather - Where was Man in Auschwitz?’ For my own part, I never became a Musselman. I still know exactly what he means.
I told Kolya how Esmé had betrayed me; how I had given up the chance, nevertheless, of escape without her. I still hoped to find who had bought her. He was oddly unsympathetic, but he had not known her as well as I. I was surprised, however, at his next response. ‘I doubt if you will ever realise the extent or the nature of her suffering. I would imagine that, perhaps on a level she dare not admit, her anguish is now nearly unbearable.’
I laughed. I might imagine him to be in love with her himself! But now I think he meant, like Mrs Cornelius, that it might have been better if I had never taken her from her Constantinople whorehouse to offer her a future in Hollywood. She did not possess the character for it. But at least she had more than most girls of her type who are merely promised such things!
This was to be the last rigorous step of our journey into the desert. At night, when it grew chill, tents were pitched for almost a mile along the trail and fluttering fires disappeared into infinity. From everywhere came the aroma of cooking, of hot charcoal, of dung and urine, of spices and perfumes, of animals mid men. I wondered if it had been like this in the Old West, on a wagon train, or perhaps more closely a great cattle-drive such is the brothers Butch and Hopalong ramrodded into Mexico. I saw it on the television. The cowboy films are the only things that have any real morality, these days. Sometimes I hope in all the Hoot Gibsons and W.S. Harts they will turn up one of mine. But those days are too distant for them. Our work is no longer entertainment, it is now a social archive. They want to forget those old lessons, I suppose. Even John Wayne seems happy to play some Falstaffian lawman in mockery of all he ever stood for, so I do not hold out much hope. The Western no doubt descends into sensational bloodshed, substituting violence for technique, like the detective story, the exotic romance and the chiller.
At this time of year the day’s heat was not unbearable; for Russians, used to the most modest summers, we adapted well. We took the precaution of wearing thick headcloths and veils against the glare and dust while we did everything ‘Arab-fashion’. We were sparing with all our supplies, even the cocaine. I was surprised at the quantity and quality that he carried. He was amused. He told me mysteriously that the hump of the camel was the choicest part of the beast. Had he murdered al-Habashiya for his drugs? He laughed. ‘That fat pervert got into a business dispute with someone who had his measure, that’s all. Nobody will mourn him. But yes, I think we are probably both hoping to escape, if that was your implication. I need to be my own man again, Dimka dear. I would like to be free of Stavisky and there could be an opportunity in the offing. I could still be his agent. It depends who is waiting for us at al-Khufra. Meanwhile no one will spend much time searching for us, even if they see our tracks. They will not know who we were. The news will travel through the underworld, as it must, and those who do know us will assume us killed in the dispute. There was, you know, quite a quantity of corpses and general shambles in the end. Poor, silly Sir Ranalf was left holding a somewhat messy baby. But he’s been a lazy beneficiary of al-Habashiya’s bounty for many years. He’ll no doubt be paying a proper price for his pleasures.’