She turned the lamp down when I explained it hurt my eyes. Did I wish her to read to me? I asked if it was possible to find a newspaper, preferably an English one, on the ship. She had seen a Times of Cairo somewhere and left to look for it. Whoever had undressed me had put me in a pair of pyjamas not my own. I searched for my clothes to see if I had left any cocaine in the pockets. But they were presumably being disinfected. I wondered why our quarantine was to be so short. Now it is obvious they were afraid of starting a typhus scare. For that reason they chose to diagnose my attack as ‘nervous exhaustion’. I was too naive then to realise how frequently authorities acted from motives of straightforward expediency.
Leda returned with the paper. It was all news of Peace Conferences and temporary solutions. There were a few references to Russia, how Mr So-and-So sought negotiation with ‘Mr Lenin’ or ‘Mr Trotski’. More informative were ordinary reports from London: the King opening a new airship works, a rabid speech from Lloyd George, propagating that intemperate radicalism which eventually destroyed him and his Party. Many were warning of Socialism in England. Already Germany was threatened by a Red take-over, as were France and Italy (where the Vatican was in league with the communists). Few had learned from Russia’s present agony. Did people actually envy us our death-struggles? I told Leda I wanted to hear of human achievement, not human folly. She could find little enough to read after that.
For two more days I remained in the captain’s bunk, drinking tasteless soup, sipping vile medicine, until a pasty-faced, fastidious Medical Officer, who could barely bring himself to touch me, pronounced me well. Mrs Cornelius had by then gone ahead to Pera and was staying at the Palas. The ship had crossed from Scutari to the European side, my documents and trunks had been cleared. I could leave the ship whenever I chose. Jack Bragg had helped the Baroness find temporary lodging with a German family near the Artillery Barracks. My own destination was closer, in the main part of Pera. There were no cabs easily available at this particular part of the Galata docks (Galata and Pera lay on the Bosphorus shore of the pontoon bridge) and I was advised to use public transport. Captain Monier-Williams shook hands and promised my luggage would be sent on to the hotel. I asked to be remembered to Thompson and Bragg, who had already gone ashore. I packed the small bag, still feeling a little weak, and made my way along the decks of the deserted Rio Cruz, down the gangplank and onto the stone flags of the quayside. On solid ground after so long it took time to regain my land-legs. Handing me a little coin, a Marine sergeant escorted me through the barriers, past the grey respectability of the Customs offices and up the steps to the busy street where the buildings were immediately far more disreputable-looking, with peeling whitewash, layers of posters, flaking paint, broken windows. The sergeant pointed to the hand which held the coin. ‘You can get the tram here,’ he said. He indicated a filthy green sign. ‘You’ll want the Number One.’ He did an about face and swung off. In the hills overhead there was a little sunshine, but down here were only the remnants of mist.
For a moment I felt deserted by everyone. Bitterly, I thought the captain could have had the grace at least to instruct a rating to take me to the hotel. Later, however, I was grateful. It is always best to be thrown into the middle of a new city; then one quickly learns how to get about, which languages are understood best, and so on. French was the weakest of my tongues, but I found it appropriate to remember as much as possible when I noticed the signs and advertisements everywhere. Half were in French. The Number One, I had been told, went to the Grand Champs des Morts, the Foreign Cemetery. I must get off at the Petit Champs. I waited on the narrow, dirty pavement, hemmed in by dozens of ramshackle buildings, trying to get my bearings. The dockside offices obscured my view of the harbour, but I could see some masts and funnels and glimpsed the nearby Galata Bridge. This was perpetually full of human traffic streaming back and forth between Stamboul and Galata. Near the tram-stop were a few shops with unwashed windows, selling shoddy household furnishings, bric-a-brac, lamps and inlaid tables. On all sides the crowds moved slowly yet were marvellously animated; a spectrum of the Levant: Turks, Armenians, Caucasians, Jews, Russians, as well as sailors from all the great European nations. Not a white man on the street, however, could go more than a few yards without some Jewish beggar accosting him. No matter how hard the Jews were beaten down, they still continued to lift crooked, imploring fingers.
The gloomy streets leading steeply up to Pera were mysterious canyons. Many were broken by crazy flights of steps to ease their sudden ascent. They sheltered mendicants of every description, sellers of carpets, oil-jars, sweets. In some of them boys on bicycles with car-horns attached to their handlebars tried to clear a way through the press of automobiles, donkeys, bullock carts, elegant carriages and even an occasional sedan chair. These alleys stank of horse-droppings, dogs, human urine, coffee, roasting mutton, tobacco, spices and perfumes. Veiled women with swift eyes like pebbles on a tide were almost as numerous as men. Since I knew it was unwise for foreigners to show interest in Turkish ladies I avoided looking at them. I already risked having my throat cut for my gold; I did not want it cut for a misplaced glance.
At long last, crackling and sputtering, the dirty green Number One drew up at the stop. Its brass and wooden sides were so battered it might itself have served at the Front. As I made to mount the footboard I was engulfed. From everywhere suddenly came Turks in fezzes, Greeks in bowlers, Armenians in astrakhan caps. I was swept upward, having time only to offer my silver piastre piece in exchange for a first-class ticket printed in French. The conductor carelessly accepted my money, took me by the arm and pushed me towards the back of the tram where there were fewer people. As I began to sit on one of the wooden benches, there came a great wave of hissing from behind me. Black eyes glared over veils. I realised with horror that I was in the Ladies Only section. The conductor had seen me. He shouted in Turkish, pointing a severe finger at the sign so faded it was unreadable. Blushing, I eventually settled beside a dignified Circassian, in bandoliers, long-skirted coat, soft riding boots, who held a brief-case in his lap and stroked at grey moustaches, which lay against his nose like suckling rodents, and stared out into the teeming street. I said ‘Good morning’ to him in Russian, but he made no response. It began to drizzle. The tram juddered, whimpered, then continued its painful journey up steep, winding streets. On all sides of the vehicle men and women, youths and girls, swarmed apparently at random. Most wore some form of Western clothing, frequently blended with Oriental dress, and none was particularly clean. But at least I was witnessing ordinary life; life as I had known it in, say, the backstreets of St Petersburg and in my native Kiev before the War. Conquered though they were, the Turks continued about their ordinary business. They had not been forced to creep cautiously, looking over their shoulders in terror for their lives and liberty, as was the case in so many Russian cities now. Indeed the contrast was increased for me since Pera was also Constantinople’s main Russian quarter. Many of my countrymen still wore their uniforms. Others wore suits of typical Moscow and Petersburg cut. Aristocrats and peasants were equal here as they would never be in Russia, all desperate for passports or work, for someone to buy what remained of their treasures. I would have recognised them as easily from their dazed expressions, their haunted eyes, their uncertain movements, as by their clothes. I put one hand into my coat pocket to grasp the butt of a pistol. I had looked at such faces for too long and was determined my own should never again resemble them.