From within his scarf his voice was soft, vibrant. His eyes were intense and respectful. I stammered some admiring banalities. He patted my arm rather as one would try to calm a nervous child.
‘Professor Peters! It is Mussolini who should be honoured. I am an enormous fan. The popular cinema is our most powerful instrument for social change. I am also your country’s greatest admirer. The kind of wholesome films you make, Professore, remind us that there are still some decencies left. Let one man of the New Renaissance greet another as an equal!’
Those deep, reassuring tones soothed me at once. Soon my symptoms were forgotten. He spoke a rather pleasant English, occasionally drawing on French and German for vocabulary, and was perfectly easy to understand. I in turn tried to speak in Italian, which is by no means an easy language for me. I know he appreciated my attempt.
Il Duce went to every effort to put me at my ease. He was amiability itself. He insisted on treating me man to man, the surest sign of greatness, for he needed to prove nothing. I suspected he had only been ‘briefed’ on my career and knew few of my films, but that resume gave him an exceptional understanding. He spoke with great admiration of my roles. He assumed I had directed myself. He said the Masked Buckaroo should be a role model to all American youth, rather than the seedy gangsters, the worst scum of Italy, who now filled her press and cinema. America was too tolerant of these people, whom Mussolini’s Italy had rejected. In ridding herself of her social poisons, in hardening herself in the fires of radical revolution, the new Italy had no room for such human rubbish. America would be wise to follow Italy’s example in cracking down on all the so-called secret societies. I agreed wholeheartedly.
Signora Sarfatti took no part in our talk. She remained near the marble bench, smoking and staring up into the night sky, her breath silver in the harsh air. Il Duce murmured that I was the type of man the state was looking for to head the new Italian Renaissance, the rebirth of a greater Roman Empire. ‘Miss Sarfatti tells me you, like many Americans of the first class, are a committed admirer of the Fascist cause. We already have several Americans in our ranks, as you know. I hear rumours of some new leader rising to save your country from her present unhappy crisis. Weren’t you in politics over there, for a while? I am a huge admirer of your Birth of a Nation. The Knights of the Ku Klux Klan are such romantic heroes. America needs more such heroes, eh? But I understand there was trouble?’
I stammered some reply, explaining the circumstances. I was astonished at Il Duce’s intelligence. The newspapers spoke of his remarkable head for detail, the breadth and depth of his understanding. For once they published only the truth.
‘And who will be America’s new Duce?’ he wanted to know.
I was adamant. America could never produce a Mussolini. The country was far too corrupt. He had a quick, alert brain in those days. I was profoundly impressed. He spoke of El Glaoui as if he were an old friend. He asked me what I thought of France’s chances of holding Morocco without the Caid. He asked how many planes I had produced in Marrakech. I said there were about ten types, with perhaps ten of each now in production. Il Duce was impressed. He clapped me on the shoulder.
‘Quite a fleet. And these engines which dispense with oil - how practical are they?’ I told him that they were extremely practical. In most designs it took time for the steam to reach full pressure. My special designs addressed this problem. I could produce steam engines for planes and airships, speed-planes, fighters and all kinds of land vehicles. The engine was as efficient and as manoeuvrable as anything currently run by gasoline.
Il Duce nodded gravely as we walked, his chin lowered, his hand on my arm, guiding me over the rough ground where my long overcoat trailed. He asked me to describe my Desert Liner. This I now called the ‘Land Leviathan’. During my long stay in Tangier I had attempted to adapt my inventions to the needs of the day.
I soon realised that the Land Leviathan was Il Duce’s chief interest. Margherita Sarfatti had passed on all I had told her. I did not know then, of course, of Mussolini’s plan to reconquer Carthaginian Africa, any more than I knew that Signora Sarfatti, nervous of being displaced in her lover’s affections, had found in my ideas a new way to win Il Duce’s approval. The more we discussed my machine, the more enthusiastic he became, striding about like a happy schoolboy, barking questions at me and listening intently to my answers. His greatcoat was thrown back, his uniform jacket unbuttoned and his shirt undone, but the great scarf still swathed part of his face. He was afraid of catching cold, he said, and apologised. He had to be careful. All his family were short-lived. He asked me to confirm my landship’s enormous capacity, its speed, its efficient firepower. Every inch of her was a revolutionary new design, with parts simplified and systemised so that one spare could do the work of many. I showed where the huge boilers would be and how they would in fact cool the rest of the Land Leviathan, together with powering her electrically operated gas-cannon. Such a machine could penetrate well into enemy territory without need of a long supply chain. ‘Imagine the effect of just one of these gigantic raiders entering a modern city,’ I said. ‘They would think themselves attacked by monsters from Mars!’
Benito Mussolini’s eyes kept their expression as he paced in silence beside me. He thought over all I had told him. He tested my engineering and technical knowledge against his own and realised very quickly the special genius of my designs. Il Duce shared ideas with his good friend Signor Marconi. He knew what he was talking about. What were the measurements of my treads? What steam pressure did I propose? He listened to my answers with a deeply furrowed forehead and a forward thrust of his jaw, every inch the ancient Roman Emperor, the widely informed modern statesman. Sometimes, quite unconsciously, he struck a pose already familiar from film and magazines - fist on hip, scratching the back of his head as if in disbelief, his step full of energy, his eyes forever alert. I could not help but compare him to another great hero of mine, the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius, whose common sense and wisdom has come down to us.
If I had awakened that moment from a dream I should not have been at all surprised. I could never have asked God for a more perfect reward than this. All my privations, disappointments and struggles seemed worthwhile and all my frustrations were at last at an end, for here was a man who understood genius — precisely because his own genius was as great if not greater than mine!
Stoic philosophy was a model for the New Italian man Mussolini wished to create — hard, disciplined, efficient — like the Roman legions of old. The legions which had conquered the world.
One could not help emulating his manner. Like his, my own style became laconic. It was clear he appreciated a companion who was not long-winded. Happily, I have always been a man of action first and words second. It is my nature. It is in my blood. We Slavs are moody and neurotic if we are not busy. We turn to drink and the writing of depressing novels. But we rise nobly to meaningful action, such as the defence of our homeland.
Hitler’s greatest mistake was to underestimate the Slav. In the end he came to respect us and see us quite differently, but by then it was too late. The Bolshevik standard was raised above the ruins of the Reichstag. They had consolidated the victory they had begun to win in 1933. Now they rule everywhere and the map of the world drips crimson with their casual infamy. Once I was proud to wear a uniform, but now I sell them as fashion items to young people with no memory. They have not even heard of Mussolini.