As if he had learned all he needed for the moment on the subject of my Land Leviathan, Il Duce suddenly changed tack. He asked was I, as Signora Sarfatti had told him, a convinced Fascist? I hesitated, for I could not lie. At last I answered levelly. I looked him full in the eyes. ‘My Duce, I am as convinced of the rightness of your convictions as I am of the heroic destiny which guides you and makes you the inspiration and aspiration of the entire world. I count myself your most loyal follower. But as to the detailed philosophy of Fascism, I must admit myself deficient.’
‘Professor Peters,’ said Il Duce embracing me, ‘you are a perfect Fascist. I believe you are the kind of metal we need in our Fascist Inner Council. This is a group of men whose sense of justice and moral purpose binds them together in a common cause. Although dedicated to the establishment of a glorious new Roman Empire, they are not all Italians. Some, like yourself, are American. Some are French. Still others are Austrian or Albanian. Together we convene to determine the direction and purpose of our empire. We pool our common wisdom for the common good. We are above worldly considerations. We are incorruptible men of great social influence. Those who join the Council must forswear all other loyalties save to myself and, through me, the Italian state. Are you ready to take that oath, Professor Peters, and join our brotherhood?’
Obviously Signora Sarfatti’s recommendations were taken seriously by Mussolini. Now I could understand why their relationship had lasted so long. She was not merely Il Duce’s sometime lover, she was his eyes and ears where he could not, these days, go. Mussolini’s questions had been astute. With her instincts confirmed, he had made up his mind with his usual speed. Naturally I had no option but to accept! I did not experience a moment’s reluctance as I took the heavy responsibility he offered. I was enormously elated! I had been granted the prestige, possibly even the power, which I believed my right! The frustrations and humiliations, disappointments and betrayals, faded in my memory. My dream had come true! I can scarcely remember my reply, but of course I agreed. Arrangements would have to be made, said my Duce. He asked if I could be ready to start work the next day. Naturally I would receive an adequate salary and so forth. He waved an expansive hand.
I had enough remaining sense to murmur of commitments — minor business in the US and so on (actually, I needed time to catch my breath) and he was generous. Again the grave nod, the assurance of that gesture, and I was given until 1 January. Who could now deny my destiny?! That date was my birthday, both as a man and as a Fascist.
Once again his firm hand was placed in mine. The interview was over. Mussolini walked with deliberate, thoughtful pace, back towards the great house, a pale shadow in the deepening mist.
Margherita Sarfatti, her usual riot of scents and scarves, clutched excitedly at my arm. ‘You made a wonderful impression. He likes you. He normally doesn’t give me that amount of time these days. He trusts you. He believes in you. You have come at exactly the right moment. You bring him exactly what he needs: a machine which will overawe our enemies and reduce our casualties. We have taken another major step towards the establishment of a truly Fascist world. We shall harness all that is good about our modern age and place it in the service of the ideals and traditions of our noblest ancestors.’
Rather foolishly, I mentioned to Margherita I needed to find a toilet. Apparently my entire system wished to void itself at one burst. She smilingly told me to use the lake. She would keep guard. A little self-consciously, though hidden by mist and bushes, I relieved myself into the freezing waters of the ornamental pond. Before I could pull up my trousers against the near-zero chill, Signora Sarfatti was upon me. Did I feel grateful, she asked, for what she had done for me? I was indeed very grateful. She pressed close to me, her breath smelling of violets and Turkish tobacco, her dyed hair escaping from under her fur.
I was horribly conscious of who she was. Surely Il Duce’s mistress would not consider jeopardising everything for a sordid, carnal moment? The place was suddenly silent. I heard a car driving away.
He has gone, she said. She sounded angry, disgusted. He has to get back to his wife and family. He had found an excuse to be free of his peasant brood for a few hours. My private parts in her heated hand, I stood beside the freezing water with my trousers down. Then I found myself turning suddenly to vomit. I heard her crooning behind me. I heard her telling me it was all right. Meanwhile, her hand held tight to my genitals as she stroked and whispered and at last let me raise my trousers and accompany her to her waiting car.
‘We’ll need a couple of hours,’ she said. ‘You can tell them whatever you like.’ She spoke in a rather detached, casual way, as if to a relative. ‘But we’ll need at least two hours.’ She flung herself back into the cushions of the limousine, scratching her prominent stomach. I was glad that she favoured dim lighting. Yet part of me really did love her at that moment. She was the medium through whom my dream had come true.
However, no matter what I told myself, no matter how I found ways of making Signora Sarfatti attractive, there was one terrible obstacle to my ever achieving a state of lust sufficient to satisfy her. That obstacle would not leave my mind. It informed every action involving my benefactress. Even as she took me back to her extraordinary apartment, which she shared with children and servants, all of whom stared at me from hiding as we arrived, the knowledge kept pounding in my head. I was about to enjoy sexual congress with the ‘uncrowned Queen of Italy’, whom some called the new Lucretia Borgia, my hero’s long-established paramour, the mistress of a superman. A superman, I believed, who would not be entirely sympathetic to my circumstances and would take appropriate Italian action if he ever found out.
It occurred to me, as Margherita settled herself upon me without bothering to take off most of her clothes, that I had become a character in a Greek drama. The irony did not console me.
I became reconciled to my destiny.
My last thought before that extraordinary, fleshy scarecrow began her unusual and somewhat terrifying ministrations was ‘What happened to Fiorello?’
TWELVE
I could only hope that Signora Sarfatti’s passion would fade with her act of conquest. I was in a state of silent exhaustion when she returned me to my friends’ flat at around two in the morning. To my dismay, they were all waiting up for me. The Christmas tree candles had gone out, but the fire was high. Billy, in a dressing gown which could have swaddled Africa, made me a hot toddy. Ethel carried off my street clothes, commenting sympathetically on their condition, while Maddy murmured comfort and enquiry.
My silence was taken for weighty thought. Ethel told her husband to be quiet and suggested we all needed sleep. We could talk, if necessary, in the morning. Billy, with his journalist’s nose for news, was, of course, the most eager. But he was a gentleman through and through, the best kind of old-fashioned American, so his courtesy triumphed over his curiosity.
Grateful for this, I allowed Maddy to lead me to bed. Insistently, since Margherita’s conflicting scents filled my own nostrils, I stumbled into a bath. From there I remember almost nothing. I awoke in the pink haze of a perfect afternoon with a few soft clouds in the pastel sky and two slender poplars framed in the window whose curtains a smiling Maddy drew back for me. I smelled coffee and croissants. I was filled with an emotion I can only describe as untranquil well-being. My elation at meeting my hero and discovering his respect — indeed his need — for me was almost overwhelming, as was the knowledge of the price I had to pay La Sarfatti for my good fortune.