After some consideration I decided to wear civilian clothes to my lunch with Rachele Mussolini. I selected one of my most elegant suits with soft hat, gloves and a cane. Over my patent-leather shoes I wore a pair of the elegant spats Il Duce himself had made fashionable. Then I ordered my car. Rome was unnaturally calm for the time of day, and we arrived a little early. I was driven through three checkpoints and the now familiar gates of the huge villa. The car swung round to the back of the house, past the stables and the menagerie, until we reached the rustic gate to the courtyard where Rosa Casalini, Signora Mussolini’s attractive assistant, waited for me. Around her feet swarmed the usual crowd of happy dogs.
Signorina Rosa greeted me warmly. This was a good sign. I relaxed at last. I had allowed my fears to get the better of me. Miss Casalini said she had missed my visits. No doubt I had been very busy with the various foreign delegations now in town. Not to mention this business with the Pope. She hoped all that nonsense was settled. She would be glad to see the back of tourists. They were bad enough in the summer, with their Baedekers and their atrocious Italian. Il Duce, of course, had been especially busy finding time to visit the Pontine Marshes and see how ‘the war for dry land’ was going. Il Duce, she said, might try to drop in for lunch. He was only just back in town, so it was unlikely we should see him. Obscurely, I felt relieved. She took me up to the dining room on the first floor where the mistress of the house was waiting.
Rachele Mussolini had on a pretty dress of dark green silk. It suited her colouring and showed off the large rose pearls at her throat. Her hair had been marcelled and she wore, I think, a touch of make-up. Yet her body and face were still those of a stocky resilient peasant. That same sturdy dignity would see her through all coming vicissitudes. Now it informed her honest smile of greeting. She had none of the court’s hypocrisy. When she came forward to embrace me and kiss me on both cheeks, I felt welcomed by a doting sister. Benito, she said, had told her I had been unwell. A falling-out with my girlfriend, too, she had heard. A handsome fellow like me would easily find another fiancée! I was not to worry. Thousands of girls would break their hearts over me. I must not be weak and allow the first one to come along to claim me. I was both too modest and too good-looking. She laughed easily. A dangerous combination for both parties. But in particular I should watch out for opportunistic ‘vampires’ who attached themselves to men of power and sometimes even brought them down. She continued in this vein as she seated me beside her while I exchanged affectionate greetings with the Mussolini boys. The younger children were absent. Only rarely were they brought to these lunches. They were looked after by a Romagnan girl, Carla, from Il Duce’s own village.
After seeing him almost daily for weeks, I said, I had not been in touch with Il Duce for some time. She was sympathetic. ‘He’s like an overgrown boy. He pursues passing enthusiasms, then another distraction comes along and the previous craze is forgotten. Yet never forget, dear Max, that my husband is a serious person. He always returns to matters of substance. He telephones me regularly, of course,’ she added. ’I know he has been very busy with affairs of state. These German events and so on. And he had to go off for a few days to the country, to see to things there. The French are being their usual contrary selves. He has so much to do. So many weighty matters. I believe he is also reforming the judiciary this week.’
I enjoyed her familiar blend of domestic anecdotes and passing references to her husband’s sometimes world-shaking political decisions. She followed his arguments perfectly and could repeat them. Contrary to what many later said, she was completely behind Il Duce’s policies, at least up to the late thirties when Hitler began to have a stronger influence. The only reason she did not speak more about politics was her own sense of propriety. She was naturally discreet about Mussolini’s business and equally silent about his affairs. She always blamed the women but would block any attempt to speak of such things. She loved him as only a Romagnan woman can and remains intensely loyal to his memory to this day. Margherita Sarfatti painted this retiring and intelligent woman as a savage. Rachele sometimes said little, but she had been known to drive off overenthusiastic lovers with a stick. She had a strong territorial sense. Only two women ever ‘defeated’ her: Sarfatti and Clara Petacci, who died with Mussolini at the hands of the communist ‘partisans’.
The meal was delicious. I said how much I had missed her table and our conversations. She apologised. She had left town herself for a little while. She had also been talking to Grandi about aeroplanes and airfields, she said. He had been a little vague. Did I have any thoughts on the matter?
Of course she wanted to discuss Bruno’s flying lessons. It emerged she had dissuaded her husband from giving the lessons himself. ‘He is too daring! Too erratic. He flies by instinct, but such instincts are hard to communicate. I wanted someone more experienced. Like you.’ For about half an hour, with Bruno present and making enthusiastic suggestions, we talked about the relative merits of Fiats and SVA-4s for training. We discussed basic flying routines. I pointed out my unfamiliarity with modern controls. The planes in my films, for instance, were all from the Great War period, mostly Spads and Albatrosses. Virtually all the machines I had known since then were my own! I would not like to take the young man up without first being thoroughly familiar with the machines in question.
She was pleased with my remarks. ‘Flying, I think, is his vocation,’ she said, after Bruno had been sent off to school again. ‘I must let him follow it. I would be a fool not to. And Il Duce, you know, is very pleased. But a mother fears . . .’
I understood. I reassured her that I had been flying since before the War. I would do nothing to jeopardise her son’s life or my own! ‘I am inclined to err,’ I told her, ‘on the side of caution.’
I must admit I was not particularly happy with the responsibility. It would have been unwise of me to broadcast the fact, but I had very little conventional flying experience up to that time. Most of it had been fairly disastrous. I knew that even a minor bruise or a bump to Bruno’s head would bring the full fury of the family down upon me.
Eventually it was agreed. A Fiat would be the best plane to train in. I would set about finding one. .
‘I would like to begin as soon as possible,’ she said. ‘Perhaps an initial “hop” this coming weekend? And more intense lessons once the school vacation begins?’
I could only agree.
Later Signora Mussolini linked her plump, muscular arm in mine. She asked me if I had much work waiting for me at the office. Before I could answer she said, ‘Never mind. I want a handsome young escort for the pictures this afternoon. Would you mind?’
She was my strongest supporter. How could I disagree? We went together to her cinema, a luxurious little theatre designed after those private viewing rooms used by directors. I soon knew why she had invited me. The first film was one of my own, A Buckaroo’s Courtship, which, she said, was her personal favourite. Side by side in the red plush seats we watched an Ace Peters who belonged to a more innocent age. Gloria Cornish was my leading lady. Both Rachele and I enjoyed the scene where, kneeling in my saddle and drawing down my bandanna, I reached to kiss my love as she leaned over the rail of the train’s caboose. Inwardly I mourned for my lost youth. I had forgotten how wonderful those days had been. The next film was a romance, Her Secret Man, a locally made confection of the kind that appealed to women. Il Duce’s wife wept lavishly through the final reel. Then, with Vittorio back from school, we watched several cartoons, including a Mickey Mouse I had not seen. I think it was one of the talkers, but the Villa Torlonia was not yet equipped with sound apparatus. Vittorio was as keen on the cinema as Bruno on flying. He wanted me to teach him to become an actor. I felt I would rather be tutoring him at that time than his brother.