They were all solicitude. I was prepared against the winter night. Outer clothing was made ready for me. The children were sent to bed but we found it rather hard to get back into the Christmas swing. Maddy contented herself with a whispered ‘Be careful’, and it was clear Billy had already told her the caller’s identity. Our small talk was strained and it was a relief when the time came for me to leave. We watched through the curtains. Eventually a midnight-blue Mercedes pulled up in our courtyard below and waited, its engine thumping. I kissed Maddy goodbye, shook hands with my friends and ran downstairs. My borrowed overcoat, too small for Grisham, caught at my heels as I went downstairs. He called it his ‘Bavarian Raglan’, bought in a fit of enthusiasm without trying it on in Munich, in dark green wool with matching Tyrolean hat. The gloves, too, were a little large but I think I looked dignified enough for whatever it was I was supposed to do, in spite of Maddy’s observation. She said the gloves made me look like Mickey Mouse disguised as a human.
When I arrived in the chilly courtyard I knew I had been well advised. Though clear, the night was very cold. His breath boiling, the chauffeur sprang from his cab and opened the door for me, offering me the Fascist salute, to which I replied in kind. A very comforting sensation attends this type of acceptance and respect. I have known it several times in my career. I miss it so much these days.
Major Nye agrees with me that standards are down everywhere. He believes it began when he was a young officer and ladies started smoking in public. He could be right. Small things reflect the larger issues, after all. I found Mrs Cornelius’s smoking increasingly distressing, but Major Nye says that most human beings prefer familiarity to anything else. If a custom becomes familiar enough, no matter how disgusting it was once found, people will defend it and preserve it as if it were a cause. I agree. A habit is not a principle, I say. You will not hear that distinction from these fools. They believe that parroting a popular prejudice makes them philosophers.
People vote for the man who offers them what is most familiar. That’s why they voted for Hitler. Not for his policies but for his promise to make everything the same as before. Major Nye says: ‘This is something we all conspired in. We must all bear a degree of shame.’
‘Shame?’ I ask. ‘Why should I feel ashamed?’ I was one of those trying to do something about the situation. Say what you will of Benito Mussolini’s later excesses, he saw the world’s problems and he came up with a solution. He was not corrupt. He was careless of money. I can vouch for that. He never had any use for it. He understood the responsibilities of power and was able to bear them more stoically and capably than anyone alive!
I had taken the trouble to fortify myself with some of Billy Grisham’s fine brandy, some excellent wine and a sniff or two of the first-rate cocaine I had obtained from Margherita Sarfatti.
The car took me through the better class suburbs, through silent, tree-lined prospects and well-lit avenues, concourses deserted save for the ever-vigilant police and the occasional car like our own doubtless speeding on special business in a capital which only appeared to sleep. I knew from the newspaper articles how Il Duce managed to keep an eye on every detail of the state’s maintenance. Floodlights picked out ancient monuments and statues, huge billboards of Il Duce looking stern and decisive and bearing the simple slogan ‘Mussolini Is Always Right’. Whoever it was designed the sets for that multimillion-pound essay into communist propaganda 1984 stole every one of their ideas for Big Brother from Mussolini, without acknowledgement, of course, as they so frequently steal from me. All the best ideas were decades old! Mrs Cornelius says I should be flattered.
When Mrs Cornelius became ill I tried to get her to the hospital, but she would not go. She said anyone who went into St Charles never came out alive. I found a doctor for her and made her as comfortable as I could, then I telephoned her son. I had the shop to run. He was very good and went round right away. He was with her, at least, when she died. He brought me some papers, some photographs, but I suspect he kept certain things for himself. I know his brother, the antique dealer, has his eye on my pistols but I intend to be buried with those guns rather than let him have them. Should Mrs Cornelius have kept them in trust for so long? They were given to me by a fellow Cossack, and they are my birthright. They are all I have left.
After taking what seemed a circuitous route, the car at last turned into a long, white avenue, lined with carefully groomed poplars and cedars standing dark against the cold, sharp sky. Most of the houses had guards. They seemed to be deserted. Their occupants had gone away for the holidays, but one house, standing back from the road in its own considerable grounds, had a few lights shining. The car entered a driveway. It paused at a pair of elaborately ornamental iron gates. Passing through a cordon of dogs and armed guards we reached another almost identical set of gates. We endured a similar procedure. Hard eyes looked me over carefully before allowing us to go through. I was mystified and not a little nervous. Did this have something to do with da Bazzanno? Was it an elaborate joke? Had Signora Sarfatti tricked me for some horrible purpose of her own? Or had she struck a deal with the Cheka? Was Brodmann involved? Were they deceiving me as El Glaoui had deceived me by making me walk into my own prison?
I had been a fool to go so trustingly into the car. Too late now to reconsider. I looked back at the guards and the gates. It began to dawn on me that this was to be no ordinary meeting with Signora Sarfatti. Perhaps she had not lied. Could I be on a genuine errand of state?
The drive curved, flanked by tall hedges, and for a second, in the yellow lights of the car, I had the impression of water, of mist and of shadowy figures. Then the headlamps were turned off. The chauffeur got down from his wheel and opened the door for me. I stepped out. A moment later, behind me, the car drove away. I was alone, walking down an avenue of poplars. I was walking, though I did not know it then, towards my destiny.
Once or twice, in my overlong coat, I tripped a little. I admit I was flustered. My heart began to pound. My hands sweated. Where was Signora Sarfatti? Who were the figures I could just make out ahead of me? They were obscured by the heavy mist rising from the waters of what I took to be an ornamental lake. There were three of them, perhaps four, their bodies swathed in scarves and heavy coats, their lapels turned up so that it was impossible to distinguish faces. My next thought was that maybe through his mistress da Bazzanno had arranged a secret meeting. Neither outline reminded me of my friend. Another fear: I had offended the Mafia. But the Mafia in Italy was no longer a power. Mussolini had seen to that. Besides, I had no reason to distrust Signora Sarfatti. Wasn’t she a supporter of mine?
My feet left the gravel and sank into soft grass. I walked with some difficulty towards the waiting figures. Increasingly, the scene felt dreamlike. Then I realised that some of the figures I saw were not human at all. They were statues, pale ghosts in the pale mist. Though they scarcely moved as I approached, the living figures were darker. One of them was a woman. The other was a burly man a little below average height. Without knowing why I began to tremble.
Now I had almost reached the marble bench beside the lake where they stood waiting. Both were smoking cigarettes. The smell of their Turkish tobacco swamped my senses. I felt nausea. Their faces could not be seen. Of course I already knew who they were. I heard Margherita murmur something to her companion, throw down her cigarette and stamp it out with her high heel. He, too, dropped and extinguished his cigarette, coughing slightly and raising his scarf against the cold air. I think Margherita introduced me. I do not remember. Bile rose in my throat. I heard her utter the name of Italy’s dictator. I heard his familiar voice answer. Yet I was close to vomiting. As if I faced an enemy rather than my greatest hero. My legs shook. My mouth was dry. I knew all the symptoms of a familiar terror. But then his warm, strong hand was in mine, and I was safe.