Some of Italy’s most prestigious magazines ran long articles on me and my exploits. I still have a few of the cuttings. They tended to be vague about my present position, saying that I was in charge of a number of top-secret projects. I knew, of course, that Brodmann and his friends in Moscow were noting all this. I considered asking the Chief for a bodyguard. However, I would have had to make too many explanations, since he believed me to be a Russian-born American. All the leading Fascists were no doubt targets for Bolshevik assassins. I had to hope that our own OVRA were doing their job behind the scenes. Sometimes I thought that I had noted a car following me and hoped it was only a discreet bodyguard.
What if it were Brodmann, armed with a silent gas-gun, stalking me? I am a man of sanguine patience and sanity. I rarely let such fantasies gain the upper hand, but sometimes the effort to sustain common sense can be considerable.
Official functions actually came to be some of the least boring duties. The whole world came to Italy to see how Mussolini’s Fascism was performing. Once again I was introduced to Marion Davies when she came to Rome with William Randolph Hearst. She did not recognise me in my uniform or my beard. She was a pretty, agreeable woman, a little inclined to gush. ‘When you come to America, Professor,’ she said, ‘you must give me or Mr Hearst a call. If there’s anything you need, just ask. I hope you’ll have time to stay with us at San Simeon.’
I had no particular dislike for the woman, but this was the second time she had issued such empty invitations. I think it was a habit with her. She had no real power of her own, of course. She either forgot to relay these invitations to Hearst or demurred when he objected. I don’t know. That said, Miss Davies was a far better actress than Anita Loos gave her credit for, but much of that talent was probably reserved for private life. She hid behind her blonde curls and long eyelashes like a panther behind a curtain of foliage.
Hearst himself, almost as elephantine as my old backer, the turncoat Hever, simply breathed and grunted at me and uttered some platitudes about America needing a taste of Fascist discipline and so on. Their goodwill was flattering, of course, but they had no real idea of the weight of responsibility we bore. I met Corinne Sweet again and several stars whom I had known as bit players. All were familiar with my films and rather extravagant in their praise. I think some of them were simply astonished that a professor and member of the Italian Academy, a minister of the state, could also have been a successful film actor.
Much of their response was of what I called the ‘talking dog’ variety. That is, they didn’t actually listen to my words. They were merely amazed that an actor could talk at all. My experience made me invaluable at receptions where these actors and actresses were entertained. Maddy and I went to them all. And because we went everywhere, we were invited everywhere else. It became second nature to get home from the office at about six, relax a little with Maddy, change into a fresh uniform, or civilian evening clothes if appropriate, and be off out again to a reception. At one of these I met the poet Pound, a fierce, sickly, unkempt little man with no sense of humour and a tendency to create causes from the most casual material. I also met Marshal Petain, Zaharoff, the armaments king and Sir Anthony Eden, the dapper dandy and famous lover of Princess Margaret. For all that Hitler was an enormous admirer of Mussolini, there were relatively few German visitors in those first months, though this was to change.
I met Karl Nertz and Isolde von Koln, the dancing team, who were part of a visiting troupe. They knew Seryozha, though not well. He was now in Berlin, but they were not sure what he was doing. They had seen him at the fashionable bohemian Café Schmetterling about two days before they left Germany. Full of admiration for what Mussolini was doing, they feared Germany still faced some form of civil war. ‘It is almost inevitable,’ he said. ‘The fighting between the Nazis and the Sozies has become epidemic.’
Mussolini, although he gave a little help to them and the occasional encouraging nod, did not really take the Nazis seriously. He thought they aped the crudest of his ideas. He had not yet been alerted to the dangers of International Zionism. He believed Hitler and all his people were homosexual and always referred to the future Führer as ‘that garrulous little German rouge boy’.
Mussolini was sometimes as susceptible to believing antagonistic propaganda as anyone. The only Nazi he had any time for at all was Göring, whom he described as an officer and a flying hero. They had met briefly, once or twice, I think. Hitler habitually used his friend Göring for diplomatic missions. Göring also knew Margherita. She had helped him buy modern paintings through her various friends in the gallery world. He had also bought a few old masters. She had no great respect for his taste.
Margherita was furious at not being invited to the first big reception attended by Göring and his Nazi entourage. My Chief insisted, with uncharacteristic vehemence, that I come but that Margherita (or Maddy, for that matter) did not. He allowed no excuse. ‘It is a man-to-man affair,’ he explained soberly.
I had planned to go on to a special ‘powder’ party with Maddy that night. Now she would have to go without me. I would try to meet her there later. She, too, was unhappy at being excluded. The function was being very carefully orchestrated, I explained. The Nazis were doing well at the polls. They might be a force to be reckoned with. She was unreconciled. It sounded to her as if Mussolini was muzzling the press. The idea was ludicrous. I pointed out that Tom Morgan would be going, as well as other top reporters, including Billy Grisham.
The reception was in fact a rather large affair. I doubt if many more people could have been crammed into the vast halls of the Villa Trajanos, with its countless galleries and staircases. With the significant exception of Margherita, everyone who was anyone in Rome was there. No wonder she understood herself to be out of favour with Il Duce!
I spent the first hour or two being introduced to one ambassador and his wife after another. Eventually I met Captain Göring himself. He seemed a little detached, chuckling a great deal but in response to nothing in particular. Possibly he could not understand me. His Italian was minimal — kitchen Italian, as we used to call it — good enough for instructing the cook. He was even then rather fat and wearing a suit cut in such a way as to hide the worst of his bulk. His vanity was second only to his self-indulgence, though he was an amiable fellow of the old South German type which is nowadays dying out.
Like so many of those early Nazis, Göring worshipped Hitler. Mussolini found his enthusiasm irritating. The German, true to form, did not notice. Ethel Grisham, drifting up in an incongruous ocean of green tulle, eventually saved us and bore Göring off to meet ‘this delicious English woman’. ‘She’s just your type and she’s dying to meet you.’
Mussolini muttered something to me about the crassness of the ‘German bumboys’ and was then forced to do his diplomatic best with the ambassador and his dumpy wife while I talked to Tom Morgan, Billy Grisham and one or two other pals from the press corps. Everyone but Tom was rather mocking about my uniform. I told them that they were lucky to earn such good salaries. They could afford suits. We servants of the state had nothing to wear but black serge.
‘And nothing to eat but black bread, I suppose,’ said Billy, amiably popping half a gram of caviar into his mouth. They were pleased with my elevation but like good friends saw no harm in ribbing me about it. That and their knowing winks around La Sarfatti, they reserved for me alone. When I was with Maddy they were more respectful. I regretted she was not there. Tom Morgan, a little drunker than the rest of us, told us some leering story and then nodded across the hall. ‘That Hun looks like Fatty Arbuckle playing the lead in The Merry Widow.’