I saw my keys on the table next to the line of coke Maddy had cut for me.
‘Sorry if I’m breaking anything up,’ I said casually. ‘I was looking for my keys. Ah, there they are! Sorry I have to go. It was nice to meet your friends, Maddy.’
Save for Göring and the Baron, the others were all staring at Il Duce. Ignoring the uncrowned Queen of Italy, Mussolini turned once to stare thoughtfully at an obliviously happy Captain Göring before leading the way back to the car in silence. I heard Margherita’s wounded shriek behind us, but she did not come out.
We got into the car. Il Duce shook his head. ‘What’s Margherita doing with that Hun? I’ve been trying to keep them apart all week. Did you invite them?’
‘Certainly not,’ I said, reflecting privately that Maddy would not take a sanguine, European view of my arrangement. ‘Thinking I would be away, she no doubt arranged to see him there. But who knows? She’s a strange one. Maybe she can seduce him? To be fair, he seems besotted with his wife. Surely Signora Sarfatti wouldn’t attempt —?’
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ said Il Duce. ‘You want to be careful of her.’ An expression passed across his face which, in a lesser human being, I would have taken for terror.
As we drove towards the ministry, Mussolini began to lecture me on the dangers of having anything to do with Germans. ‘They want to gobble us all up. And as for these Nazis — it is a corruption of everything I have ever said or worked for! A mishmash. Family man or not, that Göring is a degenerate. You saw for yourself. They’re all vicious boy-buggering dopers and masochists. Hitler goes everywhere with a nancy boy he calls his secretary. They admit it openly. That fudge-packer Röhm makes no secret of it. He’s even published his love letters to his catamites. They give Fascism a bad name by associating themselves with us. As Italy rediscovers her manhood, Germany becomes feminised. Because they’ve won a few seats in the Reichstag they think they can compare themselves with us. It makes me feel sick. They’re a gang of psychopaths. Not one of them has done an honest day’s work in his life. Believe me, Max, Germany can never be anything but an enemy of Italy.’
If only he had heeded his own judgement. But he was too trusting. In the end, abandoned by all, he swung upside down in a Milanese meat market, one carcass among dozens. It is a tragedy which will be told down the ages, just as Julius Caesar and Caligula are told. At least those ancient emperors weren’t warned by a gypsy they would not die by violence. The last assurance Il Duce clung to. The last betrayal.
Mussolini’s death was symbolic of the entire twentieth century.
And we wonder why our young people no longer understand their history!
Il Duce came with me as I went to my office. He was still talking. He did not seem especially upset with me but was clearly out of sorts. He spoke of traitors, of people he had elevated to positions of power and responsibility and who even now turned against him. How was it possible? What harm had he ever done them? Indeed, he was their benefactor! I could not tell if this was his subtle way of warning me of his displeasure, or if he remained simply aggravated by Signora
Sarfatti’s success at finding her old friend Göring. He paced about grumbling while I hunted for the plans we needed - simplified drawings which would give nothing away.
‘I’m going to have to be more severe with these bastards,’ he said. ‘They’re taking too many liberties, Max.’ He turned his glaring eyes on mine. I blinked. When I looked again he was grinning.
He sucked in his lower lip and stared at the ceiling, the plans in his hand. ‘But meanwhile we have finance for our machines!’
He was extremely pleased with the idea of obtaining Spanish capital. I think he had probably been worrying over fiscal matters. While others slept soundly, Il Duce was up, pacing his lonely corridors, taking Andrews Liver Salts for his ulcers and mulling over the affairs of the day. I had the distinct impression that my Land Leviathan was moving a little closer to reality.
We returned downstairs. As the door of his car was opened for him, he turned, rapping my chest with the rolled-up plans. ‘By the way, I was supposed to ask you this earlier. Signora Mussolini you know. She thinks you’re wonderful. She - well, my son Bruno, who you get on so well with, he’s mad on flying as you’re aware. Your films probably gave him the bug, eh? We talked this over, and she thinks he’s ready for flying lessons. As long as he’s taught by someone we both trust.’
‘An excellent idea, Duce,’ I agreed. ‘No better time for a boy to learn. I was younger than Master Bruno when I first flew. Hand-eye coordination is everything in a good airman.’
‘We knew you’d agree,’ said Mussolini. He tapped the side of his leg as he sometimes did if a weight was lifted from his mind. ’When’s the soonest you could take him up?’
What could I say?
‘Mm?’ asked Il Duce.
‘I’m honoured, Chief,’ I said. ‘I’m at your disposal.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ll discuss the details tomorrow perhaps. Thanks for your time, Professor.’
The door closed.
With mixed feelings I waited for the secret service car to slip out of the shadows and take me home.
Reluctantly I got into the car. I could still not be sure if Il Duce had absorbed the scene at my house or whether he would start to think about it later. I was certain, however, that Maddy Butter was in no doubt about what had been going on.
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN