We entered a room whose walls and windows had all been lined with black velvet drapes, edged with scarlet and gold. The only decoration in the entire room was above the ornamental fireplace. Over it hung a magnificent portrait of Il Duce holding in his hands the Sword of Islam and the Roman fascisti respectively, ready to bring justice, dignity and honour back to his empire. An inspiring portrait. One I had not seen reproduced before. This showed the inner strength of Il Duce glowing from his determined, aggressive head. Every man gathered there around a huge oak table, wore an identical uniform — black jacket, black jodhpurs, black boots and a black cap. The only decorations were the epaulette buttons, the belt buckles and the silver fascisti at the collar.
The others greeted me in silence, contenting themselves with bringing their heels together and raising their arms in the Roman salute. I replied in kind. This seemed to meet with their approval. Without any further ceremony, the ritual began. I was made to stand upright before them at the table while each of the men there fired questions at me. For the most part these were telling queries concerning my background and my abilities. Clearly they had been briefed by Tom Morgan. Some of my interrogators, their keen eyes boring into mine, were American. Others were French, Spanish, German, Swedish, even English. They were from all walks of life. No doubt between them they represented most of the professions. This was the Fascist answer to the Freemasons and the Jews, the Communists and the Moslem Brotherhood, who swore secret oaths and were the enemies of everything we held dear. In a future world, perhaps, we should have no need for such secret gatherings. But for the moment, with the world on the very brink of the final chaos, they were extremely necessary.
My ordeal over, the uniformed men sat down around the table. I was led away to a small anteroom, also smelling strongly of damp. Here, two batmen helped me out of my ordinary clothes and into my uniform including the black silk shirt worn under the jacket. It had been delivered in anticipation of this visit. I looked at myself in the mirror. In those days I was young and vibrant and cut an extremely handsome figure. I had been hardened by my ordeals. My pain had given my already attractive features extra character. I was at the height of my physical beauty as well as my intellect. I had the good looks of the best type of Italian.
Now in the flickering light of great flambeaux which burned on either side of Il Duce’s portrait, I was inducted into the Fascist Inner Council. I swore to abjure all other loyalties and oaths and serve only Il Duce, His Excellency the Dictator Benito Mussolini. I would lay down my life, if necessary, in his service. That oath rang around the rafters of the ancient villa, bringing vibrant new energy to the old stones. The very firelight seemed to tremble to its rhythms. Then, to a man, we lifted our arms in that noble salute, which a Roman legionnaire reserved for his peers or his superiors, and roared, ‘Hail, Mussolini! Hail, Il Duce!’We were a single, powerful unit. Nothing could hurt us. Nothing could disturb our security. Nothing could stand in our way. We had control of the future. We were going to make it unrecognisable!
The rest of the meeting was highly congenial. I was truly among friends.
I returned home to my Miranda. She did not fail to be impressed by my new uniform, the insignia glittering in place. She fell into my arms, hungry for sexual satisfaction. And in my newly energised state, I pleasured her again and again. She admitted she had been jealous. Now she realised she was foolish. How could she be jealous, she said, of a monument, an inspiration.
A few days later, on 1 January 1931, my thirty-first birthday, I took up my position as Minister of Overseas Development in the Inner Cabinet of Benito Mussolini. My tailor had made me five identical uniforms so that I should have fresh ones at all times. My offices were a vast suite on the second floor of the Villa Valentino, into which light poured, creating long black shadows and pools of blinding whiteness. I was reminded of the best type of movie set.
During the first weeks of my new position I paced in and out of these great shadows, frequently alone. My appointment had been announced in all the newspapers. I had begun to receive invitations from the highest sources. My status was never greater. However, I was without any kind of assistance or practical furniture. The rooms had been empty for years, and the taste of the minister who had occupied it, perhaps when the place was first built, had been fussy and showy and full of ugly little stuffings. I wanted office furniture in keeping with my modern position. Clean Austrian lines. Plenty of light.
I wrote out my suggestions in longhand and gave it to Margherita Sarfatti, my only visitor. She came frequently. I was always glad that I was able to shower at the office and return home to my Maddy in one of my spare uniforms. Apart from that occasion at the Villa Torlonia, I had yet to meet my chief. On one level I was glad, for I was not sure I had enough emotional energy left to cope with Mussolini’s raw vitality. But I have to say I was growing impatient.
The first weeks of 1931 were a round of parties at which I met many of the most important heads of state, film stars, actresses and designers. In common with my colleagues, I wore my uniform a great deal of the time. Only Tom Morgan did not wear his. Instead he sported a silver fascista behind his lapel. He told me that American public opinion was not quite ready for the news of his elevation. .
I grew a little apart from Billy and Ethel Grisham, although Maddy continued to see them. We were so busy with official functions that somehow we were now always announced together as Professor Peters and his fiancée Miss Butter. I had attempted to stop this, but Maddy of course was delighted. I had loved my Esmé. I had loved my Rosie. I loved Mrs Cornelius. But I did not love Maddy with the same profundity. I made it very clear to her that I had no intention of marrying her. She argued with me. I compromised. We should not marry until my work for Mussolini was well under way. She understood completely. I must be sure to get plenty of rest and relaxation, or I would kill myself in Il Duce’s service. That would do nobody any good. I reminded her that our new lifestyle was a result of Il Duce’s favours. We owed him a great deal. Our social life and our status had improved enormously. She had not come to Italy, she said, to improve her social status. She had plenty of that back home in Texas. What she was interested in was politics, engineering advances, social progress - everything Mussolini was achieving in Italy. As her country wallowed in Depression. What was needed there was the same kind of dynamic leader. I understood her viewpoint very well. I shared it. However, I pointed out, things moved at a different pace in modern Italy. She should not make the mistake of confusing American simplification with efficiency.
I think she was suitably chastened by my little lecture. By then things had begun to move at last. Not much later, after some conference which Il Duce attended, I came to my offices one morning to find them fully furnished and thoroughly staffed, with aides, secretaries, office boys, filing clerks and everything, to go with them. Clearly the Supreme Leader of Italy was ready for me to start work.
I had a huge modern desk to sit at and brass fittings to catch the light, deep carpets to pace upon, polished panelling to admire, familiar works of art to ease my soul and great armchairs to lounge in. I found myself nervously awaiting the arrival of Margherita Sarfatti, wondering which piece of furniture she would choose to use first, when suddenly the door opened and Mussolini walked in, his hand outstretched, his eyes full of concern. He was a gravely sympathetic bull. ‘Professore. We have some work to do, eh? I am so sorry you have had this trouble. Everyone involved has been chastised. You must let me know personally if there is anything else you need. Is the furniture to your taste?’