The Vengeance of Rome (28 page)

My third, as the door opened to admit a glowering Benito Mussolini, was to fall against the wall with a groan.

‘That's awfully good of you,' said Captain Göring, in his best English. ‘I can't tell you how much I've been in need.' Bending forward over the marble table, he put the little silver tube to his nose and inhaled his lines in a single bovine snort. He seemed to expand to twice his size, threatening to burst the walls of the room. He sat back on the couch. ‘I love my wife,' he said. ‘I love her with all my soul. But a man is a man.'

Mussolini regarded the scene in disgusted silence. His smouldering eyes glared from face to face.

‘
Caro!
' cried Margherita Sarfatti, rising like a blustering pheasant from cover. ‘
Caro mio!
Thank God you are here!'

I looked for Fiorello. He had disappeared.

Where Fiorello had been standing a moment ago, there was Mussolini. Hands on hips, a look of irritable disapproval on his features, he turned his back pointedly to the others. He spoke quietly. ‘Are you ready?'

I saw my keys on the table next to the line of coke Maddy had cut for me.

‘Sorry if I'm breaking anything up,' I said casually. ‘I was looking for my keys. Ah, there they are! Sorry I have to go. It was nice to meet your friends, Maddy.'

Save for Göring and the Baron, the others were all staring at Il Duce. Ignoring the uncrowned Queen of Italy, Mussolini turned once to stare thoughtfully at an obliviously happy Captain Göring before leading the way back to the car in silence. I heard Margherita's wounded shriek behind us, but she did not come out.

We got into the car. Il Duce shook his head. ‘What's Margherita doing with that Hun? I've been trying to keep them apart all week. Did you invite them?'

‘Certainly not,' I said, reflecting privately that Maddy would not take a sanguine, European view of my arrangement. ‘Thinking I would be away, she no doubt arranged to see him there. But who knows? She's a strange one. Maybe she can seduce him? To be fair, he seems besotted with his wife. Surely Signora Sarfatti wouldn't attempt—?'

‘You don't know the half of it,' said Il Duce. ‘You want to be careful of her.' An expression passed across his face which, in a lesser human being, I would have taken for terror.

As we drove towards the ministry, Mussolini began to lecture me on the dangers of having anything to do with Germans. ‘They want to gobble us all up. And as for these Nazis—it is a corruption of everything I have ever said or worked for! A mishmash. Family man or not, that Göring is a degenerate. You saw for yourself. They're all vicious boy-buggering dopers and masochists. Hitler goes everywhere with a nancy boy he calls his secretary. They admit it openly. That fudge-packer Röhm makes no secret of it. He's even published his love letters to his catamites. They give Fascism a bad name by associating themselves with us. As Italy rediscovers her manhood, Germany becomes feminised. Because they've won a few seats in the Reichstag they think they can compare themselves with us. It makes me feel sick. They're a gang of psychopaths. Not one of them has done an honest day's work in his life. Believe me, Max, Germany can never be anything but an enemy of Italy.'

If only he had heeded his own judgement. But he was too trusting. In the end, abandoned by all, he swung upside down in a Milanese meat market, one carcass among dozens. It is a tragedy which will be told down the ages, just as
Julius Caesar
and
Caligula
are told. At least those ancient emperors weren't warned by a gypsy they would
not
die by violence. The last assurance Il Duce clung to. The last betrayal.

Mussolini's death was symbolic of the entire twentieth century.

And we wonder why our young people no longer understand their history!

Il Duce came with me as I went to my office. He was still talking. He did not seem especially upset with me but was clearly out of sorts. He spoke of traitors, of people he had elevated to positions of power and responsibility and who even now turned against him. How was it possible? What harm had he ever done them? Indeed, he was their benefactor! I could not tell if this was his subtle way of warning me of his displeasure, or if he remained
simply aggravated by Signora Sarfatti's success at finding her old friend Göring. He paced about grumbling while I hunted for the plans we needed— simplified drawings which would give nothing away.

‘I'm going to have to be more severe with these bastards,' he said. ‘They're taking too many liberties, Max.' He turned his glaring eyes on mine. I blinked. When I looked again he was grinning.

He sucked in his lower lip and stared at the ceiling, the plans in his hand. ‘But meanwhile we have finance for our machines!'

He was extremely pleased with the idea of obtaining Spanish capital. I think he had probably been worrying over fiscal matters. While others slept soundly, Il Duce was up, pacing his lonely corridors, taking Andrews Liver Salts for his ulcers and mulling over the affairs of the day. I had the distinct impression that my Land Leviathan was moving a little closer to reality.

We returned downstairs. As the door of his car was opened for him, he turned, rapping my chest with the rolled-up plans. ‘By the way, I was supposed to ask you this earlier. Signora Mussolini you know. She thinks you're wonderful. She—well, my son Bruno, who you get on so well with, he's mad on flying as you're aware. Your films probably gave him the bug, eh? We talked this over, and she thinks he's ready for flying lessons. As long as he's taught by someone we both trust.'

‘An excellent idea, Duce,' I agreed. ‘No better time for a boy to learn. I was younger than Master Bruno when I first flew. Hand-eye coordination is everything in a good airman.'

‘We knew you'd agree,' said Mussolini. He tapped the side of his leg as he sometimes did if a weight was lifted from his mind. ‘When's the soonest you could take him up?'

What could I say?

‘Mm?' asked Il Duce.

‘I'm honoured, Chief,' I said. ‘I'm at your disposal.'

‘Well,' he said, ‘we'll discuss the details tomorrow perhaps. Thanks for your time, Professor.'

The door closed.

With mixed feelings I waited for the secret service car to slip out of the shadows and take me home.

Reluctantly I got into the car. I could still not be sure if Il Duce had absorbed the scene at my house or whether he would start to think about it later. I was certain, however, that Maddy Butter was in no doubt about what had been going on.

Why do you cry?

I am hungry.

No, you are merely greedy. A Jew.

I am in agony.

A complaining old Jew.

I beg you on my life for help!

A melodramatic Jew.

My soul is being destroyed.

An exaggerating old Jew.

I am not a Jew.

That's what they all say.

I am not a Jew.

Then you are nothing.

My mother is
Juno
. She is the goddess of the golden ship.

My mother does not exist.

My sister is
Esméralda
. She is our city's most glorious jewel.

My sister does not exist.

My brother is
Odysseus
. He is the wanderer between the worlds.

My brother does not exist.

My brother is
Isaac
. He is the recorder of all our deeds.

My brother does not exist.

They called him the Jew-Greek and they reviled him.

Their coarse, violent laughter brought bile to my throat. I lost control of my bowels.

Here is another Jew-Greek, they said. What shall we do with him?

Meyn Schiff is called
Der Heym.

Meyn Schiff is called
Der Heym.

My ship does not exist.

My father is called
The Turnface
. He is mentor to the dead.

My father is called
The Negotiator
. He bargains for the dead.

My father is called
The Trader
. He is the speaker for the dead.

My father is called
The Word
. He is the memory of the dead.

My father does not exist.

My city is called
The Hero
.

My city does not exist.

My land is called
The Dream
.

My land does not exist.

My nation is called
The Just
.

My nation does not exist.

My empire is called
The Soul
.

My empire does not exist.

When I arrived back at the cottage our courtyard lamp was still burning. In the circle of orange light Mrs Cornelius and Captain Göring were leaning heavily against the wall laughing uncontrollably while between them they attempted to lift the groaning Seryozha, who had taken on the colour of a cadaver. Baron ‘Huggy Bear' Hugenberg was nowhere in sight. I dismissed my driver and hoped I was not otherwise under surveillance. My Chief would not, I guessed, be pleased to learn I was continuing to hobnob with foreigners. As the car disappeared, da Bazzanno emerged from the shrubbery like the newly risen dead and joined us, wearing one of my best summer suits and a fresh silk shirt. Göring appeared to notice him for the first time. ‘My God,' he said sympathetically. ‘You look like you were caught by a bunch of Sozis!' But Fiorello didn't understand him. He shrugged and I think he winked. ‘Hello, Max. We're looking for a cab.' My friend put his ruined hands in my pockets.

‘‘Ow was the boss?' Mrs Cornelius hiccupped. ‘Pissed off, was ‘e? I ‘ope we're not letting you down socially, Ivan.' She and the fat German shook with a fresh wave of spluttering and giggling. In their state everything was comic and ridiculous. Even Fiorello was infected by their mood. From the beaten pulp of his face he seemed to be grinning.

I would be glad to be rid of them all. I was impatient to see Maddy and try to explain myself. Surely she would understand when I told her how Signora Sarfatti had blackmailed me. The likely hostility of Sarfatti was also imminent. It would lose me the protection of one powerful patroness, but, assuming my flying skills had not deserted me, I had another in Rachele Mussolini. She was even more powerful and effective because she hardly ever used her influence. Unless Mussolini mentioned my liaisons to his wife she would certainly remain my ally. If she did not, Mussolini would
inevitably turn against me. My dilemma seemed to become more complex with every passing moment. A Borgia courtier would have sympathised.

I had so much at stake. Within a year one of my most cherished inventions would become reality. At last I was on the brink of world recognition. Already my name was whispered in the higher echelons of the world's foreign services. In scientific circles, too, there was much talk of Mussolini's new engineering genius. Margherita Sarfatti had made no secret of her ‘discovery' of me and, of course, the high-ranking Fascists accepted me as an equal. I was on excellent terms with Farinacci and Grandi. I was a member of the
fascisti
's most exclusive order. I had sworn a personal oath to Il Duce. If I broke that oath I would pay with my life! The fate of poor Turati reminded me that I could lose all I had won as rapidly as I had gained it. Not long before Turati's disgrace, Il Duce had spoken of him with affection and admiration. Now his name was never mentioned. As far as the stern Duce was concerned, Turati had never existed. Yet only months earlier before that able man's dismissal at Rachele's suggestion, Mussolini had praised him in the
Autobiography
. Turati, a courageous veteran of the World War, was a man of clear mind and aristocratic temperament, Il Duce had said, able to give the party the style of the new times, the consciousness of the new needs. ‘Hon. Turati' had ‘accomplished a great and indispensable work of educational improvement of the Fascist masses.' He was a precious element in the party. Yet Rachele had taken some minor sexual peculiarities as signs of a bad character. She had told me so herself. No doubt she had given me a gentle warning.

Almost weeping with anxiety, I saw everything being snatched away. ‘Why didn't you phone for a cab?' I asked Fiorello, growing angry. They threatened to wreck all my dreams!

I walked past them. I put my key in the lock. It turned but the door would not open.

‘She's bolted it, I think,' said Captain Göring.

‘Madame Sarfatti?' My panic rose.

‘Still in there,' said Fiorello. ‘They threw me out.'

My heart sank.

I made one or two efforts to call through the door in case Maddy intended to hear my side of things. I instinctively knew there was little hope of cool discussion that night.

Eventually a huge taxi turned up guided by the jubilant Hugenberg. I accepted Mrs Cornelius's offer and returned to their hotel as their guest. ‘For a nightcap,' said Mrs Cornelius. ‘It'll give ‘er a chance to cool down.'

The Excelsior Hotel was all silvery chrome, gold and green marble. Rather than try to enter its subtly guarded portals, Fiorello murmured something about having caused enough embarrassment and slipped away. I hoped he had not attracted the attention of the OVRA, Italy's answer to Stalin's Cheka.

I was not sorry to see him go. His lack of self-discipline astonished me. He was, after all, a leading Fascist. The kind who should be setting an example. He had sworn an oath, as I had sworn an oath, to serve Mussolini and the Italian state above all else, including life and liberty. Then he had allowed the sickliest of sentiments to weaken his Fascist resolve so severely he was prepared to help a communist, an enemy of his nation, evade justice! How could I believe anything he told me? Had he actually been beaten up by his communist friends? Captain Göring had instinctively put his finger on it. An experienced flying ace and soldier, Göring had led his own defensive squadrons in the streets of Munich. He had learned at first hand to recognise the hallmarks of leftist brutality.