Though I had grown used to women again, Miranda Butter’s healthy young American body stirred a certain memory in my blood. I was reminded a little of Rosie von Bek. Even her perfume lacked ambiguity. She radiated energy and enthusiasm, frequently absent in modern European women. Most women I had met in those days preferred the languid life of a pampered poule du chambre to any active engagement in the world’s affairs.
Ideally one should have two women: a comrade to stand side by side with you in the struggle against Chaos and a compliant sexual partner, always eager to serve your needs. My inability to choose between these equally attractive types has left me the companion-less old man I am today, though Mrs Cornelius was of course a considerable comfort. When she died, there was no one.
Miranda Butter had the same frank sexuality. Like Mrs Cornelius she was largely unconscious of it. Though she was only twenty-two years old, her naivety and directness had evidently opened doors for her in Europe, giving unusual access to the famous people she interviewed for her paper. Another advantage was the sheer romanticism of her origins. Everyone had heard of Texas. Everyone felt a certain romantic yearning for the land of Zane Grey and Karl May whose worlds had been brought to life in thousands of picture-plays, even before the drawling accents of their cowboy heroes were heard and imitated anywhere that a projector could be linked to sound. By addressing Texans through her pages, Europeans knew they were reaching the ‘true’ Americans — the great, open-hearted, idealistic frontiers-men and -women who typified all that was bravest and best in the old race, yet was untainted by Yankee-dollar madness or Albany politics. I often yearned for that American vivacity during my years abroad. The chance to experience it again was a marvellous treat.
I remember my magical evening aboard La Farfalla Nera with great nostalgia. I did not return to Les Bon’ Temps but, at her request, accompanied Miranda Butter to her cabin to discuss a series of interviews in which I would give Houston’s readers the benefit of my predictions about the Future of Europe.
This first act of our charade opened on the settee of her little cabin. We would begin, she said, with some background. She opened her reporter’s notebook and brandished a pencil. Her readers would want to know if I was married.
Sadly, I told her, I am a widower.
At this she became deliciously sympathetic. A small tear brightened her eye as she told me she understood that I must find the subject too painful to discuss. Of course, I was still technically married to Mrs Cornelius, but I returned to Esmé. Indeed, the circumstances of our parting, the cruelty of her ultimate betrayal, were things I am still reluctant to discuss. Sometimes I am too much of a gentleman for my own good. When it became clear to Miranda that I had lost my wife at the hands of a Bolshevist gang I did not elaborate. After all, I had lost my original Esmé in this way and no doubt by now she was dead in some anarchist trench. ‘Maddy’ asked why I had left Russia. I told her my departure had not been voluntary. The Reds were the reason I had left. They had stolen everything.
Estates? she wanted to know.
‘Property is nothing,’ I told her. ‘They stole my future. I share that view, at least, with the great Tolstoy and with Prince Kropotkin. My patents and prototypes.’
Priceless?
She possessed an uncanny understanding of my situation and my values. Such delicious, eager approval from so voluptuous an acolyte was irresistible. Before I embraced her, she was talking of telegraphing her paper to see if they would run a feature in their Sunday section. I saw this as useful publicity should I ever wish to return to my twin careers as actor and engineer in the US. And while I had never made any reference to my aristocratic blood, it seemed no harm would be done if she chose to refer to me, even in the first hours of our lovemaking, as Prince Max. I told her I preferred to be known as simple Max Peters or, in Spain, as Señor Gallibasta, but as Prince Max I was best recognised thereafter in Italy. She asked me if I knew how much I resembled Rudolph Valentino. I told her delicately that I had never considered the comparison flattering.
She added gracefully that my looks were, of course, a far more refined version of his. And she believed there were better actors than Valentino.
‘You must judge for yourself,’ I said. I promised her that I would take her over to Les Bon’ Temps the next day and show her some of the films I rescued from Morocco.
In the morning she paid me the supreme compliment: only Benito Mussolini had a personality as powerful as mine. Had I ever considered seeking political office? I assured her that my political days were over. All I really desired was a chance to serve the world in practical ways, by solving scientifically problems of population and social hardship. Her face shone with idealism. She was my disciple. ‘And you will, dear Prince! You will!’
With such commitment and support, I knew that my stolen future was about to be restored to me.
When I returned to the port a few hours later I discovered to my astonishment that Les Bon’ Temps had upped anchor. Ashore I asked what had happened to her. The hotel manager told me that apparently there had been some urgent business. ‘The coastguard was involved.’ Shura had been unable to contact me but had left my luggage with the baker. I found a note attached to my carpet bag - ‘Sorry, old fellow. I know you’re among friends. We’ll look you up in Rome!’ At first I was depressed, upset at losing my cousin’s company, but clearly his urgent business was dangerous and I suspect Stavisky had encouraged Shura in what he had done. I knew I was something of a liability to the political broker and was not greatly disappointed. I was now free to enjoy the company of my American admirer! Da Bazzanno had already invited me to come with him to Venice. Fate had determined my path for me. Once before, with Esmé, I had set out for Venice. Now at last I would arrive in reasonable style with a paramour almost as delightful as my little sweetheart but more of an intellectual equal. I seemed, at that time, to be ascending, slowly but surely, a golden staircase with my dreams about to be realised. I had journeyed into the Land of the Dead and I had been face to face with the Beast; I had braved the oceans and the deserts and learned to live among savage nomads. I had flown where none had flown before, and I had discovered secrets previously forbidden to white men. Journeying through a dozen different versions of Hell, I had survived. Now these hardships and spiritual ordeals were about to be over, and I was to be rewarded.
There could be no more perfect a candidate for Mussolini’s service. I had been tempered in the fires of the most extreme experience not once but many times. I had died and been reborn in the birthplace of civilisation. I had first-hand knowledge of politics in many countries. I was thoroughly conversant in American and European literature, music and painting, while sharing an aversion to the neurotic obscenities of certain French and Norwegian ‘artists’. Inevitably I would add to Il Duce’s greatness as he would add to mine. His was a mighty soul ready to embrace the future and all its brilliant uncertainties, its monumental rewards. I saw myself in a Griffith film, marching up the Appian Way to the Gates of Rome, striding through the wide streets to the Palace of Il Duce, up the steps and through corridors to that vast hall where at last Mussolini himself stepped away from his desk, from which he directed all affairs of state, and came forward to embrace me.