I stammered my approval. I had felt like this only in the presence of Hollywood’s greatest producers. I understood how, with so many functions to supervise, so many things to consider, such men steadfastly refuse to give someone they respect merely half their attention. They wait, as I do, until their full attention can be employed.
Again Mussolini stressed his admiration for my film work, his love of America, his admiration for, in particular, her fine engineers. He was shorter than I remembered him, a little below my own height, but very stocky and radiating masculinity. He shared Margherita Sarfatti’s taste for colognes and sometimes seemed to wear several at the same time, but nothing could disguise that radiant, animal quality which came off him in the way the stink of power comes off a lion’s hide. Il Duce arrived directly at the point. He wanted to see what my Leviathan might look like in action. Italy had some of the greatest modellers in the world. Would it be possible to make a large-scale model, complete perhaps with a desert scene of some kind. As realistic as possible? I said I would be delighted to provide such a model, but I had no idea when it would be completed.
Mussolini was affability itself. He grinned at me in that ugly, comradely way he had and punched me lightly on the arm. In ten days, he said.
I said I was amazed at his powers of prediction. ‘If I say ten days,’ he told me, ‘then it will be ten days. You will see.’
He had inspired and empowered me.
Sure enough, in ten days’ time, the entire main boardroom of my ministry had been given up to a vast table on which we had prepared a complete desert scene, down to the smallest detail. The only thing we had not had made were the railway trains which were the best German type, and the model soldiers, which were also German and very lifelike.
Sitting in the middle of this scene was the massive model of my mobile ziggurat, the greatest war machine ever designed. I showed an excited Mussolini how it could be moved by remote control. I ran the trains and I set off the little gun batteries in the forts and towns. As the guns popped, flashed and smoked, Mussolini’s massive head split in a great grin. It was that attractive grin only his intimates were ever allowed to see. That grin, I think, made Mussolini human. The charming, uncalculated expression of a happy Romagnan peasant, it spoke of a big, generous, boyish heart. It was our Duce’s best-kept secret. His tragedy. He could not afford to let a rapacious world know that he was a man of sensitivity and fun.
We played with our new models the whole day, yelling like children. The massive machine crushed fortresses and towns, its guns fired in all directions, its huge treads turned. I was extremely proud of the realistic effect. Clearly Il Duce could not have been more pleased. He had a photographer and a cinematographer come in to take close-up pictures. ‘This will convince them,’ he said, sticking out his chest and bringing his fists together as our Land Leviathan rolled over trench positions, crushing whole battalions of tiny clay soldiers.
Towards the end of the afternoon Benito Mussolini turned to me, eyes shining. We were both invigorated, united in a bond of fellowship. Our tunics were off, our shirtsleeves rolled up; we drank glasses of fizzing water and contemplated the scene of our miniature triumph. Both of us at that moment could see the grand reality ahead. He shook my hand. ‘Professor,’ he said in his vibrant, musical English, ‘we are in business. I want you to come home and meet the wife.’
My heart sank.
I prayed Mrs Mussolini did not have her rival’s predatory tastes.
THIRTEEN
On the way to the Villa Torlonia Mussolini seemed a little gruff. I wondered if he felt embarrassed by his earlier enthusiasm. But he remained friendly enough. The big limousine took us through the busy streets of lunchtime Rome. We travelled with an almost supernatural smoothness. We stopped at a traffic light and were again surrounded by our motorcycle escort. My chief cleared his throat and moved his mouth in that almost comical way so many found endearing. ‘My boys are great lads,’ he said. ‘I allow them no special privileges. The same demands are made on them as on all Italian children. We are raising them as decent, gentlemanly Fascists. I take no credit at all. My wife is the best in the world. She tells me, “You stay out of my kitchen, and I’ll stay out of your politics.” She’s from a very political family. You heard about my daughter’s wedding! Never again! She’s in Shanghai now. Very happy. Thank God I needn’t go through all that with the boys. We have a cinema in the house. The boys are flying-mad, too. I told you they’re great fans of “Ace” Peters? They’ve watched all your films. White Aces, The Flying Buckaroo. They’d be enchanted if you’d tell them a bit about your film days.’ He shrugged, almost apologising. ‘I told them I knew you. They made me promise they could meet you. I hope you don’t mind, Professor Peters. Perhaps an autograph as well? They’ve been studying very hard. If it would not embarrass you too much . . .’
‘On the contrary, Chief.’ I was honoured. Almost no one was allowed into the Mussolini family sanctum. This invitation demonstrated how I was truly valued by Il Duce. I was relieved to hear, moreover, that the reason for the privilege was something as wholesome and simple as a papa’s promise to his sons!
At last we had negotiated the great press of Roman traffic and arrived at the gates of the Villa Torlonia. It was my second visit, of course. Now I could see the security police everywhere. The wide street was deserted. Ordinary Italians avoided it, together with the nearby cafes, in case they should be arrested as suspected assassins. I understood the identity of the shadows I had seen in the grounds. We went through a couple of anterooms until we entered a pleasant, spacious room with windows looking out on to the garden and the lake beyond. A large table had been set with a white cloth. On it were the usual breads and condiments found on any comfortable Italian board. The linen, cutlery and tableware were of good quality but not at all pretentious. From nearby came the smell of cooking. Mussolini called a greeting and suddenly the place filled.
First came two boys of about eight and eleven in their black-shirt school uniforms, a little dishevelled. Following them was a stocky woman with a wide, cheerful face, her brown hair drawn back in a tight bun, a linen apron covering her cotton print dress. After them entered another pleasant young woman whom I took to be a secretary or governess. She had charge of two younger children. She was followed by a black-clad maid carrying a large tureen and another carrying plates.
When everyone was around the table, having greeted Il Duce affectionately much as they would greet the head of any respectable household, they stood by their places looking expectantly in my direction. After a pregnant pause, for the Chief was incapable of any action without an element of drama, I was introduced.
The servants curtsied. Mrs Mussolini came up to me, grasped me in her powerful, motherly hands and kissed me on both cheeks. I looked as handsome off the screen as on it, she said approvingly, and sat me down between herself and her sons, who eagerly asked me questions about my stunts. Not since Morocco had I found such an adoring audience. I must admit I rose to the flattery, describing all the people I had known in Hollywood, telling them of amazing feats and impossible escapes. Laurel and Hardy (whom they loved almost as much as me)? Laurel remained an Englishman. Hardy was shy. I described the daring of Tom Mix and Hoot Gibson and confirmed the angelic beauty and off-screen generosity of Clara Bow. Meanwhile Rachele Mussolini helped us to the soup, first me, then her husband and then the others. I enjoyed her sturdy minestrone made without wine and served with excellent fresh bread. Signora Mussolini assured me she had baked the loaf that morning.