Pujol’s passionate idealism might seem strange to the contemporary listener, but in those days we were desperately looking for certainties in a dangerously uncertain world. Fascism offered those certainties. The pure form was a response to the soul’s yearning and to honest, human needs.
‘To fight Stalin,’ I suggested, ‘we need a champion of the same metal. And with one exception we have only pygmies. The planet is crying out for a paladin, for some new Charlemagne, to drag Christendom from the Dark Ages. Or are we too far degenerated into chaos to be rescued?’
Lieutenant Pujol passionately hoped that this was not the case. It was the duty of men of conscience to discover such leaders and give them the power they needed to restore a new world order.
We talked often of such matters. Many of the Italians in Majorca seemed reluctant to discuss the ideas and ideals of Fascism, except in a very general way. These were the individuals burdened with the task of making the national dream a continuing reality. They were sober about the practicalities of their task. They admitted, however, that Mussolini was a singular force, the driving inspiration behind their movement. Most of the men we met were regional ras, or governors, without much direct contact with Rome and unrepresentative of the intellectual wing of their party. They were on vacation from their considerable responsibilities, so we did not press them. For a while they were here to enjoy the simple beauties of the island and escape their cares.
During that season, we made the social rounds of the various yachts. Gradually I became part of a set whose relish for politics was as considerable as its pursuit of pleasure. The nightmares of my life in the Middle East and North Africa were put behind me. My scars might never disappear, but at least my wounds were healing. The atrocities and humiliations I had suffered had tempered me in the fires of experience, given me a subtler understanding of the world and those who suffered in it. Perhaps this is how God chooses to educate those He favours?
My trials had invested me with a kind of clear-sighted innocence which some of my new friends chose to take as simple-mindedness. They did not always treat my contributions to the conversation very seriously, but I was content to be their Simplicissimus while it suited me. The ease of Majorcan life was hugely rejuvenating for one subjected to such horrors and hardships in the past couple of years. I had been forced to live an almost feral existence. Now I had rediscovered the European way of life I had lost and almost forgotten. It was a joy to experience again, although I still felt the occasional pang, missing my Esmé who, in the old days, had shared so much of my social round. To have had a sophisticated woman like Rosie von Bek at my side would have done much to make those occasions perfect.
Of course, we knew who had made money out of the War and who was still making money. We knew that the real villain was international finance which was bent on centralising its operations in New York (or New Jerusalem as we called it), controlling a secret empire more powerful even than Stalin’s, with which it had well-defined links. Alone, Mussolini was not strong enough to challenge Stalin, but if Il Duce were to gather some strong European allies to him, we knew that a pre-emptive strike on Moscow would be possible. We needed to pull society’s disparate forces together and turn them into one mighty modern social machine which benefited all, not just a few rich businessmen who drained our nations of their wealth and hid it in Swiss banks. We believed education would raise the consciousness of the masses, but we had been wrong. Now people must be disciplined into putting the common interest before their own short-sighted greed.
I was to appreciate later how thoroughly Majorca helped in my restoration. I still revisit my old haunts occasionally. Mrs Cornelius takes the OAP specials to Palma Nova and sometimes I go with her. I would stay in Port d’Andratx if I could, but it is so expensive now. I am forced to rub shoulders with lager-swilling ‘tomatoes’ as the locals call the English. I, of course, do everything to maintain my standards. I always wear a good linen suit and a panama. When Mrs Cornelius prefers to spend time on the beach or in the pubs, I take cultural bus trips. I called on Graves, last time I was there. I only had about an hour before the bus left Deya, which is nothing but Germans now. Apparently Graves wasn’t in. I hear these days he’s a slave to marijuana. This has happened to several of the intellectuals who remained. Others left for Ibiza or Formentera. But before its vulgarisation the island was to prove a benign friend to European gentle people.
During the time I was with Lieutenant Pujol, Shura came and went from the harbour. Very infrequently Shura asked me to join him on Les Bon’ Temps and remain aboard to check periodically with the radio operator while my cousin made a visit ashore. Stavisky kept a permanent hotel suite at the Bristol and while we were in port we used it, transferring from our cabins on the yacht to the suite. We lived like kings. Because of his old wound, Shura was fond of morphine and marijuana as well as cocaine, and he was a great drinker, but I lacked his capacity. Meanwhile, and I do not remember how, I again became known by my Odessa nickname, translated into French as ‘the Colonel’ or ‘the Cossack’, and because this gave me a frisson of secure familiarity I did not object, even though it did not go especially well with my new nom de guerre. Of course, there were few who believed me a native-born son of Spain. Many accepted me for what I actually was — a Russian aristocrat preferring not to use his title and so reveal his true ancestry. I had many reasons for keeping quiet about such things in those days. I had become used to a certain kind of anonymity.
Imagine, therefore, the considerable shock to me one morning when, having rowed myself from the yacht to the quayside, still a little bleary, I walked up the cobbled lane to the bakers for my usual cup of coffee and croissant and heard, as if from nowhere, someone shout: ‘Max! Max Pyatnitski! Still in the airship business?’ I detected mockery in the tone.
Had Brodmann found me at last? Feeling sick, I turned, seeking the source of what was surely my nemesis.
SIX
There are patterns to our universe. Patterns so vast and at the same time so minuscule that we rarely detect them. They present a problem of unimaginable scale. If we could detect them they could explain the mysterious movement of all creatures across the face of the planet. I am convinced that physically or spiritually, though quite unconsciously, men and women of a particular disposition travel broadly similar routes. Those of us who move about the world and are active in its business know how coincidences occur in life far more than in fiction. Cautious, incurious people after all rarely travel. As in Malory, when one bumps into a fellow knight errant, another Seeker of the Grail, one might well greet him with joy, but with only a modicum of astonishment.