When we had savoured la neve we opened our curtains to look at the dark hills and occasional lights of the evening landscape. Maddy wept, held me in her arms and told me how concerned she had been for me. ‘Those people almost killed you! If it hadn’t been for that doctor, heaven knows what might have happened.’
I considered what his motive had been. She was surprised. Still the innocent American, she thought the Jew had acted out of nothing but kindness. I agreed that this was possible. I had experienced the phenomenon before, in Russia.
‘You spoke much of Russia last night,’ said Maddy Butter. ’I could hardly understand a word. But sometimes you used English. Sometimes French. German, I think. I couldn’t make much sense of it.’
Anxious in case I had inadvertently betrayed a trust or been indiscreet, I asked her what I had said.
‘You spoke of Odessa and Kiev, of your mother. You were going to meet her in London. She is with a Mr Green. Who is Esmé?’
‘Esmé is dead,’ I told her.
‘You cared for her. Was she your sister?’
I nodded. ’Killed by anarchists in Ukraine, 1921.’
‘And Kolya?’
‘Dead,’ I said. ‘Lost in the Sahara.’
Her sympathetic fingers touched my hand. ‘And Mrs Cornelius? What happened to her?’
‘She’s a friend. My Hollywood co-star.’ If I was uncomfortable with this questioning, at least it gave me the opportunity to explain any mysteries to her and protect whatever secrets had to be protected.
‘Your father gave you a bad time, didn’t he?’ Her voice was balmy with sympathy. ‘Was he a monster? What did he do?’
‘He took a knife to me,’ I said. ‘He cut my future out of me. He cut the mark of the Jew on me. I have already explained all this.’
‘He was a mohel?’
‘Of course not! He was a class traitor. A socialist. It was his notion of hygienic science. He believed in rationalism as others believe in Christ. He put the mark of death on me. It is hard to forgive him for that. But he, too, is dead now, I’m sure.’
‘He wasn’t a Jew?’
I smiled at this. ‘There are no Jewish Romanoffs, Maddy. Isn’t that something of a contradiction in terms?’
My gentle sarcasm chastened her. She apologised. She knew very little of what she called ‘White Russian’ politics. I had been reluctant to talk of my more painful past, I said. While I was by no means of a secretive disposition, there were too many others who had not escaped. I had to watch what I said. Again came the memory of Seryozha’s suspicion. I could not believe her a Bolshevik agent. But I had heard of more unlikely things. The Bolsheviks had a way of seducing young people and making them do things they would never normally contemplate. A small part of me remained sensibly cautious. What if her own father were somehow under threat?
Still, even as we moved closer to the very heart of the new Roman Empire, I felt the shadow of Brodmann falling over me. Was it possible for him, or one like him, to follow me to paradise? I honestly prayed that my fears were groundless. I must admit it was not difficult to relax and forget any pursuit within the security of Mussolini’s great citadel of humane and self-respecting Christendom, that model to the rest of Europe.
In the Popolo d’ltalia, the newspaper the steward brought us the next morning, we read how Italy was now the envy of the world.
From Austin, Texas, to Zagreb, Yugoslavia, Mussolini was emulated everywhere. Foreign politicians were constantly calling on their governments to follow the lead of Il Duce. In Bali, for instance, he was known as Il Tigre della Roma. In homes as far apart as Australia and Finland portraits of Mussolini took pride of place.
Everywhere the flags of a reborn and defiant Italy were raised. As we looked from the window, we saw the reality of smartly painted stations, bold posters and well-ordered countryside. We opened the windows and breathed warm air laden with the smell of corn and oil, of poppies and horsebells. Cheerful peasants would pause at their labours in the fields and wave to us; smartly dressed blackshirts would offer us the Fascist salute, and wholesome young girls would smile, full of that spirit of hope which had swept the land.
Miranda remarked how all the colours seemed so much brighter and sharper, how even the blue of the sky was more intense. She said that, though she had already fallen in love with Italy, returning with me made her feel more fully alive than she had ever imagined possible. I was a magician. My example had taught her to listen to her blood, to follow her heart and enjoy the great relish for existence which now suffused her mind and body. She was beginning to understand, she said, how I was one of the world’s great teachers. She was privileged to be with me as I journeyed to Rome.
‘In Rome,’ she said, ‘you will be able to fulfil your genius.’
I assured her that such faith sustained me. I would not disappoint her. Da Bazzanno had promised me an audience with Mussolini. All I needed was half an hour with him. Then I could explain all my plans for the scientific wonders I could offer which would continue to enhance Italian prestige.
As a celebration of success to come we enjoyed some more of Shura’s first-class cocaine. Locking the door of our compartment and closing the curtains, we made love while the fields and villages of Umbria sped by in all their golden glory, painting our bodies with their almost mystical light. We might have died in Venice and been transported to heaven.
The powerful train made steady progress through the mellow afternoon. At last, exhausted, we slept.
Our steward awoke us, tapping politely on the door to warn us that we were now soon to pull into Rome Central where the train terminated. I drew the curtains. We dressed and packed. I felt the train slow significantly. Looking out of our compartment I saw uniformed porters and police moving slowly by, watching the train’s arrival.
Having at last completed our preparations, we descended somewhat belatedly from the train, our baggage carried by a handsome young porter. I paused for a moment to admire the great colonnades, soaring into misty arches and beams. This was merely a taste of the magnificence that was modern Rome.
Under Mussolini’s personal guidance old buildings were being torn down. Fine new avenues were created. The enduring monuments of the ancients had been restored and the roads around them cleared. Our taxi took us past all the signs of this enormous project. When it was completed, it would rival anything the classical world had known. It would make New York or Paris seem like mere sketches for cities. Where others erected molehills, Mussolini made plans for great shimmering pyramids!
The whole of Rome was like a huge Hollywood stage, full of busy carpenters, masons and technicians, all working around the clock to create a reality from the fantasy. Sometimes the taxi had to steer around a heap of rubble where some old church had stood or a pit prepared for the foundations of some great modern skyscraper. You could smell the fresh sawdust, the stone chippings, the heat of drills and the drying paint. Sunshine flung great shadows across the broad streets. Everywhere we saw the face of Il Duce, a model to all who followed. These posters encouraged Italians to keep their aspirations high and never settle for the second-rate.
Every other person proudly wore a smart uniform. Women were elegantly dressed. Their children were in the very latest styles. Even the dogs seemed to walk with dignified self-respect, while the cats that, as in Venice, were everywhere, regarded the passing show with a kind of lazy hauteur. Overnight every feline in Rome had been turned into a noble lion.