The stuff was first rate. When I commented on the quality she beamed as if I had congratulated her on her cooking. ‘I’ll put you in touch with my little Arab,’ she said. ‘He won’t overcharge you.’
Though we had already sampled the drug together in Majorca, Maddy seemed surprised at Signora Sarfatti’s openness. I took it for granted. Our hostess knew we were worldly people like herself. Besides, she was in her own home, doubtless invulnerable to arrest or any other interference in her private pursuits. La Sarfatti was still, after all, ‘the Queen of Italy’.
My attitude had changed towards her once I knew her position in Il Duce’s court. Now it changed again as I realised she was a regular imbiber. We were all comrades of the beneficent coca-leaf. In those days such ties meant something.
For a while La Sarfatti looked around abstractedly, as if Maddy, myself, even her own sitting room were unfamiliar. Then to recover herself, she settled down comfortably on the sofa with a Campari Orange, suddenly ruler again of her own domain. Soon we were all at ease.
Signora Sarfatti spoke expansively of her work. She had had no time for her usual parties. As soon as her salon began again we should be honoured guests. Did we know the anti-Fascist novelist Moravia? He was a friend of hers, as were so many of Italy’s finest painters and novelists. ‘Some people are calling Mussolini the New Charlemagne,’ she told us, ‘but his court is rather more sophisticated, I think.’
In excellent English she asked if we had heard of D’Annunzio’s friend, the American poet, Pound. She spoke rapidly, leaving little chance for us to reply. She told anecdotes about people of whom we had never heard. Yet Mrs Sarfatti described a world we both longed to experience. She knew that I was already an internationally popular film actor and set designer and greatly respected my work as an artist, she said. Film was the art form of the future. My work would certainly be remembered. Already, she hinted, Il Duce himself was familiar with my acting and was an enthusiast. Hadn’t I originally been trained as an engineer? It is as an engineer, I said, that I would wish the world to see me. Signora Sarfatti recalled I had worked for the French, the Americans and the Moroccans on secret military projects. She assumed I had done work for other governments. Might she look at my designs again? I, of course, was only too happy to oblige her for I knew she had Mussolini’s ear and if she were impressed by my plans she might communicate some of this to her lover.
Doing my best to remain casual, curious as to her sudden interest, I was almost trembling as I described what I had built, including my Moroccan aeroplanes now in the service of the Caïd. Listening with polite impatience, she clearly had something specific on her mind. At last, after a few more lines of her first-rate cocaine, she arrived at her point. Fiorello had shown great enthusiasm for one of my designs. Had I seen Fiorello lately? She meant to ask him to ask me for a copy of the plan, it had impressed her so much. A design for a huge war machine capable of crossing large areas of desert? I had spent a long time in North Africa, had I not? Had anyone else considered putting the machine into action? Could she see those plans?
I suppose a lesser soul would have been suspicious of her motives and refused. My copyrights and patents were my only assets since the crash of my California bank. I should protect them. But I sensed she would not betray me. She was genuinely interested in my ideas.
Given my circumstances, I had little real choice. Who could refuse her and in turn risk refusing Il Duce? In any case I found it impossible to resist her charm. Her persuasive powers had helped put Mussolini where he was. I was charmed by her, and only too pleased to get out my plans and explain my massive desert-liner, now redesigned for battle and armed to the teeth with the latest repeating cannon.
She understood I had some idea of the military strength of Morocco and her neighbours. I agreed. For so long in the service of the Caïd and having helped him build his air force, I had become naturally aware of such details. I mentioned that I had worked on several secret projects in America, chiefly in California where my partner had been the well-known entrepreneur ‘Mucker’ Hever.
With sharp intelligence she asked me about the practicality of building such huge war machines. Would not it be better to build smaller, faster land cruisers which could be more readily manoeuvred? I had the impression she had spoken to an engineer of her acquaintance and was testing me. I knew she was a good friend of the great Marconi.
Still a little puzzled by her interest, I explained how any army using several of my ‘Land Leviathans’ would not need to manoeuvre. The machines would simply go where the generals wanted to go, crushing entire cities beneath their gigantic treads if necessary.
This was apparently what she wanted to hear. ‘Could you make copies of your designs for me by tomorrow?’ she asked. I was not sure. I would have to find someone capable of making such large photographs. I would guess there were places in Rome, probably near the newspaper offices. She knew exactly what I needed and gave me the address of a photographic specialist off the Corso d’ltalia. She rose suddenly, an explosion of multicoloured fabrics and conflicting scents, took a large envelope from her pigskin sack and laid it on the table. Her knowing green eyes winked at me. She was flirtatious and not entirely dignified for a woman of her years. Yet I was absolutely under her spell. I knew how she had taken control of the Italian art world as thoroughly and with the same will as her lover had taken over the nation’s politics. She kissed me on both cheeks. She embraced Maddy. Tapping the envelope with her beringed finger, she said: ‘He’s bringing me some more tomorrow. That’s for you.’
I asked if it was impolitic to know the reason for her interest. She offered me that sudden, charming grin. ‘A little!’ She was in far better spirits than I had ever seen her.
Before she left, Signora Sarfatti paused at the door. ‘You could really build those huge tanks, could you, Mr Peters?’
I told her that I was first and foremost a practical engineer.
‘And you’d build them for Italy?’
I assured her it was my one ambition. My whole purpose in being here was to join in the great social experiment revivifying Italy and bringing hope to the world.
She seemed amused, her eyes slitting a little. Maddy moved uneasily, her silk agitated, almost angry.
‘If Il Duce called you to work for him could you, as an American, do so with all your being?’
‘I am a Fascist first,’ I said, ‘and an American second.’
ELEVEN
My first meeting with Il Duce was on 25 December 1930, Christmas Day. Maddy and I had been invited by the Grishams to join them for ‘a real American Christmas’. We arrived on Christmas Eve at their huge apartment off the Via Puccini where they had installed a good-sized fir tree and decorated it in a style I had not seen for years. I was almost in tears as I stared at the copper and silver decorations, the flickering candles, the red and green tinsel.
Ethel Grisham patted my arm in sympathy. ‘We miss Christmas most, don’t we? Billy got us the decorations in Nuremberg when he was there last month. And,’ she dropped her voice, ‘you should see what he found for the kids. He says it’s like Fort Santa, that town. The capital of Christmas.’ A short, pretty woman with strawberry-blonde hair and a matronly manner which made her popular with almost everyone in Rome, Ethel had little interest in her husband’s sphere. She worked for the Red Cross and other international charities as a fund-raiser. One of those domesticated women I have often dreamed of marrying. In the end, they do not seem to be my type, though admirable and attractive in every way.