The Vengeance of Rome

ELEVEN

My first meeting with Il Duce was on 25 December 1930, Christmas Day. Maddy and I had been invited by the Grishams to join them for ‘a real American Christmas’. We arrived on Christmas Eve at their huge apartment off the Via Puccini where they had installed a good-sized fir tree and decorated it in a style I had not seen for years. I was almost in tears as I stared at the copper and silver decorations, the flickering candles, the red and green tinsel.

Ethel Grisham patted my arm in sympathy. ‘We miss Christmas most, don’t we? Billy got us the decorations in Nuremberg when he was there last month. And,’ she dropped her voice, ‘you should see what he found for the kids. He says it’s like Fort Santa, that town. The capital of Christmas.’ A short, pretty woman with strawberry-blonde hair and a matronly manner which made her popular with almost everyone in Rome, Ethel had little interest in her husband’s sphere. She worked for the Red Cross and other international charities as a fund-raiser. One of those domesticated women I have often dreamed of marrying. In the end, they do not seem to be my type, though admirable and attractive in every way.

She spoke enthusiastically of Signora Sarfatti as an indefatigable holder of what she called ‘The Women’s Banner’ and never deaf to any American in need. Billy admitted that she was one of the few interesting Italian women in Rome and extremely well educated. Her pleasure in modern art, for instance, was absolutely genuine and extremely sophisticated. She knew every living painter of any importance.

Over drinks the Grishams asked how we had met. We told them. I said how much I had admired da Bazzanno’s aeroplane. ‘Isn’t it a shame about that,’ said Ethel Grisham.

I was mystified. Billy explained how the plane had made a forced landing on Lake Lucerne. It still had fuel, needed only minor repairs, but its pilot, da Bazzanno, had disappeared. So that was why we had not seen our friend recently. I said I was surprised I had read nothing about it in the newspapers or heard anything on the radio. Billy pursed his lips at this. He reminded me that not everything which went on in Italy was reported.

I gathered that da Bazzanno had been involved in some business of state and that was the reason for the silence. Maddy Butter was shocked. She continued to ask questions which poor Billy struggled to answer. The massive American was as baffled as anyone. In a characteristic gesture of embarrassment, he pushed his fair hair from his face and fiddled with his sandy moustache. I had learned to read him. When these gestures became frequent, as now, he had something on his mind he would rather not discuss. I did not entirely believe him when he promised to let us know anything he heard. Now I had two missing aviators to consider. Perhaps all of us who have grown up in the age of flight have had such experiences. They no doubt become increasingly commonplace as aviators are replaced by ‘flight crew’. But in those days such occurrences were rare. To lose two friends to flight in peacetime was something of a tragedy. My hosts had no particular interest in pursuing the subject. In order not to spoil the occasion I did my best to put da Bazzanno’s fate from my mind.

A gourmet cook who had trained in Paris and Boston, Grisham was determined to prepare for us a traditional American meal, and although their cook helped him, he was in complete charge of the kitchen. As our host wielded his spoons and pans, we played games with the boys, admiring their new sets of soldiers, their wooden stallions and glittering tin swords, all of the finest workmanship and impossible to find in Italy. Then at last the Christmas bird was brought out by Grisham wearing a huge red cap and a cotton wool beard, singing some appropriate ditty. The huge, glistening golden turkey, surrounded by chipolatas (as a nod to the Italians) and smelling of heaven, came floating into the room like the fatted calf itself.

I was reminded of a scene from one of those magnificent Italian films set in the Renaissance, a mixture of masque and feast then delighting the public. Behind Billy came the cook and the maid with bowls of squash and casseroles and potatoes and beans. Assembling eagerly at the table, we applauded the traditional placing of the bird on the waiting trivet. The whole room was alive with dancing candlelight, rich, exotic smells of the food, the happy sound of children, glittering decorations and the excited talk of adults.

‘Merry Christmas!’ cries Pa Grisham, his huge hands plucking up the silver carving set with all the delicacy of a matador. ‘Merry Christmas! Ho, ho, ho!’And then the first, magnificent slice is carved and laid with easy ceremony upon the waiting plate. Intense, wide-eyed, wide-mouthed, the boys bend eagerly to study the distribution of the meat. Vegetables are passed with a sense of joyous urgency over which Ma Grisham, content in her sense of the rightness of things, presides, directing a little here, helping a little there, so that eventually all plates are heaped and now we are to bow our heads in a simple grace before pouring the gravy and spooning the cranberries, picking up the hot rolls with wincing fingertips and at last addressing the feast with knife and fork in hand.

It was a scene from one of the happiest Hollywood films, when directors were not ashamed to show human beings enjoying themselves in wholesome, simple ways. I only regretted that Esmé was not here with me, and perhaps my mother. How Esmé would have loved it all. True, my mother might have disapproved a little. Our own Christmas fare had rarely been so plentiful or rich. Easter, of course, was our big feast. I still remembered my mother’s face looking after me as I took the train to Odessa, never to return. She had died, I was told, in the famines which followed the Civil War. At least she was spared the Bolshevik conquest. As for the Auschwitz story, it was obviously nothing but lies meant to drag me into the Red net. My mother was everything to me. My only reality. Why would I turn my back on her?

Afterwards, when we had all pulled crackers and donned fancy hats and paper masks, we were served with our choice of plum puddings or hot coddlings, mince pies or pumpkin tart. The boys went outside into the courtyard, busy with their new bicycles, their airguns and their Elastolin infantry. Billy wound up the gramophone and played us carols, traditional songs and the latest numbers from Broadway and the talkies. He bought his records at enormous expense, he said, in a shop off the Via Napoleon III. All the Americans and English people went there. One of the new numbers was ‘The Singing Buckaroo’, from the film of the same name. ’You have your imitators now, Max,’ said Ethel. ‘You should be flattered.’ In a way I was, but it is depressing to see one’s best work badly imitated and the imitation come to represent the original. One is subjected to ignorant condescension by the young who know only those who stole from you. We live in a world where thieves are rewarded as a matter of course and honest men are degraded and mocked.

At about eight o’clock, as we danced to the rhythms of the latest orchestras, the telephone rang. Ethel Grisham cried, ‘Oh, no! Not the paper!’ and Billy went grimly to the hall where he answered the instrument. We heard only a few words, which offered no clue to the conversation, and then Billy was back, grinning in a rather mysterious way and frowning at the same time. ‘It’s for you, Max,’ he said. ‘A woman. She preferred not to give me her name. She said it was very urgent. Would you mind speaking to her?’ And he led me back to the telephone, leaving directly I had picked it up.

I thought it would be da Bazzanno’s mistress. I had been reminded of her by my friend’s disappearance and for some reason had expected her to contact me. But it was not Laura. The woman was Margherita Sarfatti. I was sure Billy had recognised her distinctive English. Rapidly and apologetically she asked me if I could be ready to see her in about two hours. I hesitated. She was insistent. ‘This is a matter of considerable importance,’ she said, ‘and I suspect you will find it in your interest.’ Enraptured by the glow of this American Christmas, I remained reluctant. ‘Mr Peters,’ she said at last, ‘I have to tell you that I speak on a matter of state. I am permitted to say no more.’

Of course I could only agree to her request. She informed me that a car would call for me at ten o’clock. It might be wise to wear a topcoat and some gloves, since it was cool tonight. She would be obliged if I said as little as I could to my host and hostess. I told her I had no problems with discretion.

In truth I had little to report. My eager friends awaited an announcement. I shrugged as I returned to them. ‘I am supposed to wear an overcoat,’ I told them. ‘It is a cool night. A car’s coming at ten. I can tell you nothing else.’

They were all solicitude. I was prepared against the winter night. Outer clothing was made ready for me. The children were sent to bed but we found it rather hard to get back into the Christmas swing. Maddy contented herself with a whispered ‘Be careful’, and it was clear Billy had already told her the caller’s identity. Our small talk was strained and it was a relief when the time came for me to leave. We watched through the curtains. Eventually a midnight-blue Mercedes pulled up in our courtyard below and waited, its engine thumping. I kissed Maddy goodbye, shook hands with my friends and ran downstairs. My borrowed overcoat, too small for Grisham, caught at my heels as I went downstairs. He called it his ‘Bavarian Raglan’, bought in a fit of enthusiasm without trying it on in Munich, in dark green wool with matching Tyrolean hat. The gloves, too, were a little large but I think I looked dignified enough for whatever it was I was supposed to do, in spite of Maddy’s observation. She said the gloves made me look like Mickey Mouse disguised as a human.

When I arrived in the chilly courtyard I knew I had been well advised. Though clear, the night was very cold. His breath boiling, the chauffeur sprang from his cab and opened the door for me, offering me the Fascist salute, to which I replied in kind. A very comforting sensation attends this type of acceptance and respect. I have known it several times in my career. I miss it so much these days.

Major Nye agrees with me that standards are down everywhere. He believes it began when he was a young officer and ladies started smoking in public. He could be right. Small things reflect the larger issues, after all. I found Mrs Cornelius’s smoking increasingly distressing, but Major Nye says that most human beings prefer familiarity to anything else. If a custom becomes familiar enough, no matter how disgusting it was once found, people will defend it and preserve it as if it were a cause. I agree. A habit is not a principle, I say. You will not hear that distinction from these fools. They believe that parroting a popular prejudice makes them philosophers.

People vote for the man who offers them what is most familiar. That’s why they voted for Hitler. Not for his policies but for his promise to make everything the same as before. Major Nye says: ‘This is something we all conspired in. We must all bear a degree of shame.’

‘Shame?’ I ask. ‘Why should I feel ashamed?’ I was one of those trying to do something about the situation. Say what you will of Benito Mussolini’s later excesses, he saw the world’s problems and he came up with a solution. He was not corrupt. He was careless of money. I can vouch for that. He never had any use for it. He understood the responsibilities of power and was able to bear them more stoically and capably than anyone alive!

I had taken the trouble to fortify myself with some of Billy Grisham’s fine brandy, some excellent wine and a sniff or two of the first-rate cocaine I had obtained from Margherita Sarfatti.

The car took me through the better class suburbs, through silent, tree-lined prospects and well-lit avenues, concourses deserted save for the ever-vigilant police and the occasional car like our own doubtless speeding on special business in a capital which only appeared to sleep. I knew from the newspaper articles how Il Duce managed to keep an eye on every detail of the state’s maintenance. Floodlights picked out ancient monuments and statues, huge billboards of Il Duce looking stern and decisive and bearing the simple slogan ‘Mussolini Is Always Right’. Whoever it was designed the sets for that multimillion-pound essay into communist propaganda 1984 stole every one of their ideas for Big Brother from Mussolini, without acknowledgement, of course, as they so frequently steal from me. All the best ideas were decades old! Mrs Cornelius says I should be flattered.

When Mrs Cornelius became ill I tried to get her to the hospital, but she would not go. She said anyone who went into St Charles never came out alive. I found a doctor for her and made her as comfortable as I could, then I telephoned her son. I had the shop to run. He was very good and went round right away. He was with her, at least, when she died. He brought me some papers, some photographs, but I suspect he kept certain things for himself. I know his brother, the antique dealer, has his eye on my pistols but I intend to be buried with those guns rather than let him have them. Should Mrs Cornelius have kept them in trust for so long? They were given to me by a fellow Cossack, and they are my birthright. They are all I have left.

After taking what seemed a circuitous route, the car at last turned into a long, white avenue, lined with carefully groomed poplars and cedars standing dark against the cold, sharp sky. Most of the houses had guards. They seemed to be deserted. Their occupants had gone away for the holidays, but one house, standing back from the road in its own considerable grounds, had a few lights shining. The car entered a driveway. It paused at a pair of elaborately ornamental iron gates. Passing through a cordon of dogs and armed guards we reached another almost identical set of gates. We endured a similar procedure. Hard eyes looked me over carefully before allowing us to go through. I was mystified and not a little nervous. Did this have something to do with da Bazzanno? Was it an elaborate joke? Had Signora Sarfatti tricked me for some horrible purpose of her own? Or had she struck a deal with the Cheka? Was Brodmann involved? Were they deceiving me as El Glaoui had deceived me by making me walk into my own prison?

I had been a fool to go so trustingly into the car. Too late now to reconsider. I looked back at the guards and the gates. It began to dawn on me that this was to be no ordinary meeting with Signora Sarfatti. Perhaps she had not lied. Could I be on a genuine errand of state?

The drive curved, flanked by tall hedges, and for a second, in the yellow lights of the car, I had the impression of water, of mist and of shadowy figures. Then the headlamps were turned off. The chauffeur got down from his wheel and opened the door for me. I stepped out. A moment later, behind me, the car drove away. I was alone, walking down an avenue of poplars. I was walking, though I did not know it then, towards my destiny.

Once or twice, in my overlong coat, I tripped a little. I admit I was flustered. My heart began to pound. My hands sweated. Where was Signora Sarfatti? Who were the figures I could just make out ahead of me? They were obscured by the heavy mist rising from the waters of what I took to be an ornamental lake. There were three of them, perhaps four, their bodies swathed in scarves and heavy coats, their lapels turned up so that it was impossible to distinguish faces. My next thought was that maybe through his mistress da Bazzanno had arranged a secret meeting. Neither outline reminded me of my friend. Another fear: I had offended the Mafia. But the Mafia in Italy was no longer a power. Mussolini had seen to that. Besides, I had no reason to distrust Signora Sarfatti. Wasn’t she a supporter of mine?

My feet left the gravel and sank into soft grass. I walked with some difficulty towards the waiting figures. Increasingly, the scene felt dreamlike. Then I realised that some of the figures I saw were not human at all. They were statues, pale ghosts in the pale mist. Though they scarcely moved as I approached, the living figures were darker. One of them was a woman. The other was a burly man a little below average height. Without knowing why I began to tremble.

Now I had almost reached the marble bench beside the lake where they stood waiting. Both were smoking cigarettes. The smell of their Turkish tobacco swamped my senses. I felt nausea. Their faces could not be seen. Of course I already knew who they were. I heard Margherita murmur something to her companion, throw down her cigarette and stamp it out with her high heel. He, too, dropped and extinguished his cigarette, coughing slightly and raising his scarf against the cold air. I think Margherita introduced me. I do not remember. Bile rose in my throat. I heard her utter the name of Italy’s dictator. I heard his familiar voice answer. Yet I was close to vomiting. As if I faced an enemy rather than my greatest hero. My legs shook. My mouth was dry. I knew all the symptoms of a familiar terror. But then his warm, strong hand was in mine, and I was safe.

From within his scarf his voice was soft, vibrant. His eyes were intense and respectful. I stammered some admiring banalities. He patted my arm rather as one would try to calm a nervous child.

‘Professor Peters! It is Mussolini who should be honoured. I am an enormous fan. The popular cinema is our most powerful instrument for social change. I am also your country’s greatest admirer. The kind of wholesome films you make, Professore, remind us that there are still some decencies left. Let one man of the New Renaissance greet another as an equal!’

Those deep, reassuring tones soothed me at once. Soon my symptoms were forgotten. He spoke a rather pleasant English, occasionally drawing on French and German for vocabulary, and was perfectly easy to understand. I in turn tried to speak in Italian, which is by no means an easy language for me. I know he appreciated my attempt.

Il Duce went to every effort to put me at my ease. He was amiability itself. He insisted on treating me man to man, the surest sign of greatness, for he needed to prove nothing. I suspected he had only been ‘briefed’ on my career and knew few of my films, but that resume gave him an exceptional understanding. He spoke with great admiration of my roles. He assumed I had directed myself. He said the Masked Buckaroo should be a role model to all American youth, rather than the seedy gangsters, the worst scum of Italy, who now filled her press and cinema. America was too tolerant of these people, whom Mussolini’s Italy had rejected. In ridding herself of her social poisons, in hardening herself in the fires of radical revolution, the new Italy had no room for such human rubbish. America would be wise to follow Italy’s example in cracking down on all the so-called secret societies. I agreed wholeheartedly.

Signora Sarfatti took no part in our talk. She remained near the marble bench, smoking and staring up into the night sky, her breath silver in the harsh air. Il Duce murmured that I was the type of man the state was looking for to head the new Italian Renaissance, the rebirth of a greater Roman Empire. ‘Miss Sarfatti tells me you, like many Americans of the first class, are a committed admirer of the Fascist cause. We already have several Americans in our ranks, as you know. I hear rumours of some new leader rising to save your country from her present unhappy crisis. Weren’t you in politics over there, for a while? I am a huge admirer of your Birth of a Nation. The Knights of the Ku Klux Klan are such romantic heroes. America needs more such heroes, eh? But I understand there was trouble?’

I stammered some reply, explaining the circumstances. I was astonished at Il Duce’s intelligence. The newspapers spoke of his remarkable head for detail, the breadth and depth of his understanding. For once they published only the truth.

‘And who will be America’s new Duce?’ he wanted to know.

I was adamant. America could never produce a Mussolini. The country was far too corrupt. He had a quick, alert brain in those days. I was profoundly impressed. He spoke of El Glaoui as if he were an old friend. He asked me what I thought of France’s chances of holding Morocco without the Caid. He asked how many planes I had produced in Marrakech. I said there were about ten types, with perhaps ten of each now in production. Il Duce was impressed. He clapped me on the shoulder.

‘Quite a fleet. And these engines which dispense with oil - how practical are they?’ I told him that they were extremely practical. In most designs it took time for the steam to reach full pressure. My special designs addressed this problem. I could produce steam engines for planes and airships, speed-planes, fighters and all kinds of land vehicles. The engine was as efficient and as manoeuvrable as anything currently run by gasoline.

Il Duce nodded gravely as we walked, his chin lowered, his hand on my arm, guiding me over the rough ground where my long overcoat trailed. He asked me to describe my Desert Liner. This I now called the ‘Land Leviathan’. During my long stay in Tangier I had attempted to adapt my inventions to the needs of the day.

I soon realised that the Land Leviathan was Il Duce’s chief interest. Margherita Sarfatti had passed on all I had told her. I did not know then, of course, of Mussolini’s plan to reconquer Carthaginian Africa, any more than I knew that Signora Sarfatti, nervous of being displaced in her lover’s affections, had found in my ideas a new way to win Il Duce’s approval. The more we discussed my machine, the more enthusiastic he became, striding about like a happy schoolboy, barking questions at me and listening intently to my answers. His greatcoat was thrown back, his uniform jacket unbuttoned and his shirt undone, but the great scarf still swathed part of his face. He was afraid of catching cold, he said, and apologised. He had to be careful. All his family were short-lived. He asked me to confirm my landship’s enormous capacity, its speed, its efficient firepower. Every inch of her was a revolutionary new design, with parts simplified and systemised so that one spare could do the work of many. I showed where the huge boilers would be and how they would in fact cool the rest of the Land Leviathan, together with powering her electrically operated gas-cannon. Such a machine could penetrate well into enemy territory without need of a long supply chain. ‘Imagine the effect of just one of these gigantic raiders entering a modern city,’ I said. ‘They would think themselves attacked by monsters from Mars!’

Benito Mussolini’s eyes kept their expression as he paced in silence beside me. He thought over all I had told him. He tested my engineering and technical knowledge against his own and realised very quickly the special genius of my designs. Il Duce shared ideas with his good friend Signor Marconi. He knew what he was talking about. What were the measurements of my treads? What steam pressure did I propose? He listened to my answers with a deeply furrowed forehead and a forward thrust of his jaw, every inch the ancient Roman Emperor, the widely informed modern statesman. Sometimes, quite unconsciously, he struck a pose already familiar from film and magazines - fist on hip, scratching the back of his head as if in disbelief, his step full of energy, his eyes forever alert. I could not help but compare him to another great hero of mine, the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius, whose common sense and wisdom has come down to us.

If I had awakened that moment from a dream I should not have been at all surprised. I could never have asked God for a more perfect reward than this. All my privations, disappointments and struggles seemed worthwhile and all my frustrations were at last at an end, for here was a man who understood genius — precisely because his own genius was as great if not greater than mine!

Stoic philosophy was a model for the New Italian man Mussolini wished to create — hard, disciplined, efficient — like the Roman legions of old. The legions which had conquered the world.

One could not help emulating his manner. Like his, my own style became laconic. It was clear he appreciated a companion who was not long-winded. Happily, I have always been a man of action first and words second. It is my nature. It is in my blood. We Slavs are moody and neurotic if we are not busy. We turn to drink and the writing of depressing novels. But we rise nobly to meaningful action, such as the defence of our homeland.

Hitler’s greatest mistake was to underestimate the Slav. In the end he came to respect us and see us quite differently, but by then it was too late. The Bolshevik standard was raised above the ruins of the Reichstag. They had consolidated the victory they had begun to win in 1933. Now they rule everywhere and the map of the world drips crimson with their casual infamy. Once I was proud to wear a uniform, but now I sell them as fashion items to young people with no memory. They have not even heard of Mussolini.

As if he had learned all he needed for the moment on the subject of my Land Leviathan, Il Duce suddenly changed tack. He asked was I, as Signora Sarfatti had told him, a convinced Fascist? I hesitated, for I could not lie. At last I answered levelly. I looked him full in the eyes. ‘My Duce, I am as convinced of the rightness of your convictions as I am of the heroic destiny which guides you and makes you the inspiration and aspiration of the entire world. I count myself your most loyal follower. But as to the detailed philosophy of Fascism, I must admit myself deficient.’

‘Professor Peters,’ said Il Duce embracing me, ‘you are a perfect Fascist. I believe you are the kind of metal we need in our Fascist Inner Council. This is a group of men whose sense of justice and moral purpose binds them together in a common cause. Although dedicated to the establishment of a glorious new Roman Empire, they are not all Italians. Some, like yourself, are American. Some are French. Still others are Austrian or Albanian. Together we convene to determine the direction and purpose of our empire. We pool our common wisdom for the common good. We are above worldly considerations. We are incorruptible men of great social influence. Those who join the Council must forswear all other loyalties save to myself and, through me, the Italian state. Are you ready to take that oath, Professor Peters, and join our brotherhood?’

Obviously Signora Sarfatti’s recommendations were taken seriously by Mussolini. Now I could understand why their relationship had lasted so long. She was not merely Il Duce’s sometime lover, she was his eyes and ears where he could not, these days, go. Mussolini’s questions had been astute. With her instincts confirmed, he had made up his mind with his usual speed. Naturally I had no option but to accept! I did not experience a moment’s reluctance as I took the heavy responsibility he offered. I was enormously elated! I had been granted the prestige, possibly even the power, which I believed my right! The frustrations and humiliations, disappointments and betrayals, faded in my memory. My dream had come true! I can scarcely remember my reply, but of course I agreed. Arrangements would have to be made, said my Duce. He asked if I could be ready to start work the next day. Naturally I would receive an adequate salary and so forth. He waved an expansive hand.

I had enough remaining sense to murmur of commitments — minor business in the US and so on (actually, I needed time to catch my breath) and he was generous. Again the grave nod, the assurance of that gesture, and I was given until 1 January. Who could now deny my destiny?! That date was my birthday, both as a man and as a Fascist.

Once again his firm hand was placed in mine. The interview was over. Mussolini walked with deliberate, thoughtful pace, back towards the great house, a pale shadow in the deepening mist.

Margherita Sarfatti, her usual riot of scents and scarves, clutched excitedly at my arm. ‘You made a wonderful impression. He likes you. He normally doesn’t give me that amount of time these days. He trusts you. He believes in you. You have come at exactly the right moment. You bring him exactly what he needs: a machine which will overawe our enemies and reduce our casualties. We have taken another major step towards the establishment of a truly Fascist world. We shall harness all that is good about our modern age and place it in the service of the ideals and traditions of our noblest ancestors.’

Rather foolishly, I mentioned to Margherita I needed to find a toilet. Apparently my entire system wished to void itself at one burst. She smilingly told me to use the lake. She would keep guard. A little self-consciously, though hidden by mist and bushes, I relieved myself into the freezing waters of the ornamental pond. Before I could pull up my trousers against the near-zero chill, Signora Sarfatti was upon me. Did I feel grateful, she asked, for what she had done for me? I was indeed very grateful. She pressed close to me, her breath smelling of violets and Turkish tobacco, her dyed hair escaping from under her fur.

I was horribly conscious of who she was. Surely Il Duce’s mistress would not consider jeopardising everything for a sordid, carnal moment? The place was suddenly silent. I heard a car driving away.

He has gone, she said. She sounded angry, disgusted. He has to get back to his wife and family. He had found an excuse to be free of his peasant brood for a few hours. My private parts in her heated hand, I stood beside the freezing water with my trousers down. Then I found myself turning suddenly to vomit. I heard her crooning behind me. I heard her telling me it was all right. Meanwhile, her hand held tight to my genitals as she stroked and whispered and at last let me raise my trousers and accompany her to her waiting car.

‘We’ll need a couple of hours,’ she said. ‘You can tell them whatever you like.’ She spoke in a rather detached, casual way, as if to a relative. ‘But we’ll need at least two hours.’ She flung herself back into the cushions of the limousine, scratching her prominent stomach. I was glad that she favoured dim lighting. Yet part of me really did love her at that moment. She was the medium through whom my dream had come true.

However, no matter what I told myself, no matter how I found ways of making Signora Sarfatti attractive, there was one terrible obstacle to my ever achieving a state of lust sufficient to satisfy her. That obstacle would not leave my mind. It informed every action involving my benefactress. Even as she took me back to her extraordinary apartment, which she shared with children and servants, all of whom stared at me from hiding as we arrived, the knowledge kept pounding in my head. I was about to enjoy sexual congress with the ‘uncrowned Queen of Italy’, whom some called the new Lucretia Borgia, my hero’s long-established paramour, the mistress of a superman. A superman, I believed, who would not be entirely sympathetic to my circumstances and would take appropriate Italian action if he ever found out.

It occurred to me, as Margherita settled herself upon me without bothering to take off most of her clothes, that I had become a character in a Greek drama. The irony did not console me.

I became reconciled to my destiny.

My last thought before that extraordinary, fleshy scarecrow began her unusual and somewhat terrifying ministrations was ‘What happened to Fiorello?’