EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
When I arrived back at the cottage our courtyard lamp was still burning. In the circle of orange light Mrs Cornelius and Captain Göring were leaning heavily against the wall laughing uncontrollably while between them they attempted to lift the groaning Seryozha, who had taken on the colour of a cadaver. Baron ‘Huggy Bear’ Hugenberg was nowhere in sight. I dismissed my driver and hoped I was not otherwise under surveillance. My Chief would not, I guessed, be pleased to learn I was continuing to hobnob with foreigners. As the car disappeared, da Bazzanno emerged from the shrubbery like the newly risen dead and joined us, wearing one of my best summer suits and a fresh silk shirt. Göring appeared to notice him for the first time. ‘My God,’ he said sympathetically. ‘You look like you were caught by a bunch of Sozis!’ But Fiorello didn’t understand him. He shrugged and I think he winked. ‘Hello, Max. We’re looking for a cab.’ My friend put his ruined hands in my pockets.
“Ow was the boss?’ Mrs Cornelius hiccupped. ‘Pissed off, was ‘e? I ‘ope we’re not letting you down socially, Ivan.’ She and the fat German shook with a fresh wave of spluttering and giggling. In their state everything was comic and ridiculous. Even Fiorello was infected by their mood. From the beaten pulp of his face he seemed to be grinning.
I would be glad to be rid of them all. I was impatient to see Maddy and try to explain myself. Surely she would understand when I told her how Signora Sarfatti had blackmailed me. The likely hostility of Sarfatti was also imminent. It would lose me the protection of one powerful patroness, but, assuming my flying skills had not deserted me, I had another in Rachele Mussolini. She was even more powerful and effective because she hardly ever used her influence. Unless Mussolini mentioned my liaisons to his wife she would certainly remain my ally. If she did not, Mussolini would inevitably turn against me. My dilemma seemed to become more complex with every passing moment. A Borgia courtier would have sympathised.
I had so much at stake. Within a year one of my most cherished inventions would become reality. At last I was on the brink of world recognition. Already my name was whispered in the higher echelons of the world’s foreign services. In scientific circles, too, there was much talk of Mussolini’s new engineering genius. Margherita Sarfatti had made no secret of her ‘discovery’ of me and, of course, the high-ranking Fascists accepted me as an equal. I was on excellent terms with Farinacci and Grandi. I was a member of the fascist’s most exclusive order. I had sworn a personal oath to Il Duce. If I broke that oath I would pay with my life! The fate of poor Turati reminded me that I could lose all I had won as rapidly as I had gained it. Not long before Turati’s disgrace, Il Duce had spoken of him with affection and admiration. Now his name was never mentioned. As far as the stern Duce was concerned, Turati had never existed. Yet only months earlier before that able man’s dismissal at Rachele’s suggestion, Mussolini had praised him in the Autobiography. Turati, a courageous veteran of the World War, was a man of clear mind and aristocratic temperament, Il Duce had said, able to give the party the style of the new times, the consciousness of the new needs. ’Hon. Turati’ had accomplished a great and indispensable work of educational improvement of the Fascist masses.’ He was a precious element in the party. Yet Rachele had taken some minor sexual peculiarities as signs of a bad character. She had told me so herself. No doubt she had given me a gentle warning.
Almost weeping with anxiety, I saw everything being snatched away. ‘Why didn’t you phone for a cab?’ I asked Fiorello, growing angry. They threatened to wreck all my dreams!
I walked past them. I put my key in the lock. It turned but the door would not open.
‘She’s bolted it, I think,’ said Captain Göring.
‘Madame Sarfatti?’ My panic rose.
‘Still in there,’ said Fiorello. ‘They threw me out.’
My heart sank.
I made one or two efforts to call through the door in case Maddy intended to hear my side of things. I instinctively knew there was little hope of cool discussion that night.
Eventually a huge taxi turned up guided by the jubilant Hugenberg. I accepted Mrs Cornelius’s offer and returned to their hotel as their guest. ‘For a nightcap,’ said Mrs Cornelius. ‘It’ll give ‘er a chance to cool down.’
The Excelsior Hotel was all silvery chrome, gold and green marble. Rather than try to enter its subtly guarded portals, Fiorello murmured something about having caused enough embarrassment and slipped away. I hoped he had not attracted the attention of the OVRA, Italy’s answer to Stalin’s Cheka.
I was not sorry to see him go. His lack of self-discipline astonished me. He was, after all, a leading Fascist. The kind who should be setting an example. He had sworn an oath, as I had sworn an oath, to serve Mussolini and the Italian state above all else, including life and liberty. Then he had allowed the sickliest of sentiments to weaken his Fascist resolve so severely he was prepared to help a communist, an enemy of his nation, evade justice! How could I believe anything he told me? Had he actually been beaten up by his communist friends? Captain Göring had instinctively put his finger on it. An experienced flying ace and soldier, Göring had led his own defensive squadrons in the streets of Munich. He had learned at first hand to recognise the hallmarks of leftist brutality.
The rest of us hesitated in the lobby. I, of course, was still in uniform, as was Captain Göring, so we received the most courteous attention. We planned to have a drink in the bar but the place was still crowded with foreign delegates. Obviously we could not drag Seryozha in with us. Tiring of our discussion, Mrs Cornelius said she was done in. She needed to get to bed. ‘Which reminds me,’ she said. ’I think this is yours, Ivan.’ She put my box of cocaine into my hand. ‘I certainly don’t need any more o’ that nasty stuff.’ And with a prim goodnight she took her baffled Baron off.
Looking at his massive wristwatch, Göring, too, declared his intention of retiring. ‘Regretfully, I am expecting a visitor in an hour. A matter of politics. We must stay in touch, Professor Peters.’ He took my hand in a serious embrace. ‘The delegation will be in Rome for a few days more. Give me a ring. We must talk aeroplanes, eh?’ He asked me to oblige him by making sure Seryozha was comfortable. Then he, too, entered an elevator, filling it at a single step.
As soon as the lift doors had closed, Seryozha’s vast body suddenly shook all over as he became alert. ‘Hermann?’ He turned to me. ‘I think fate has once again thrown us together, Dimka, dear. It’s OK. It’s all this rich Italian food. I feel so much better now.’ He offered me a vast leer.