The Vengeance of Rome

  I met Mrs Cornelius in the hotel lobby. My angel was a cloudy dream of pale blue, gold and pink. Her cloche was a helmet of spring flowers. She complimented me on my silk summer suit, my matching hat, gloves and spats, my silver-topped ebony cane. Catching sight of us both in the huge mirror I admired the beautiful picture we made. She was an exquisite blonde English rose. I was a dark South Russian nobleman, a high-ranking fascista with my beard trimmed in the imperial style. I wore a fresh flower. The only sign of my rank was an inconspicuous lapel badge.

  I enjoyed one of those moments of rebirth, of self-discovery, which Proust talks about at such interminable length. I told her how I was a new man. I was celebrating the coming of the season. I had put the past behind me.

  ‘Always for the best, Ivan.’ She was approving. ‘Don’t wait to let ther blood dry, that’s my motto.’ She would be leaving soon for Vienna, she said. After that they were going on to St Crim ‘for the Chemmy’. She wouldn’t mind a bit if I wanted to come along. I told her that affairs of state kept me too much in Rome. I would like nothing better than to spend some time with her in the South of France. Unfortunately, I reminded her, I had not had time to return there and clear my name. The thought of a single waltz with her on the floor of the Café Sacher could make me throw all responsibility to the winds. If I had not sworn a blood oath to Il Duce himself, I added.

  She chose to hear this last as a fanciful irony. ‘Keeps ya busy, does ‘e, Ivan? Well, I’m trying to get a party up. Between you an’ me, ‘Uggy’s all right but he’s not exactly the liveliest wire most of the time, if ya foller me.’

  I promised her I would seize the opportunity if Il Duce released me. She waved over my shoulder. ‘Wotcher, ‘Ermann!’ I turned. “Ello, love.’

  ‘Heads will roll!’ A boom of jovial German, like wind catching a sail. Across the dark blue carpet in his enormous ivory lounge suit which gave him the grace of a great clipper ship, his arm extended like a spar to save the rather dishevelled, slightly agitated Margherita Sarfatti who, oblivious of all but him, bobbed at his side like a bumboat, came the stately bulk of Captain Göring, his smile lighting the smoky lobby like a fog lamp.

  Although hardly taller than me, the man had astonishing presence. He was the best bred of the Nazi hierarchy. His original plans for the concentration camps were bastardised as soon as he put petits bourgeois like Himmler and Heydrich in charge. I speak from personal experience. That never came out at Nuremberg. Now we all know how such omissions were typical of those American drumhead post-war courts. The assignment of blame is far more important to the American soul than the discovery of cause. Like most kulak cultures they believe analysis to be forgiveness. From beginning to end, though, I will admit to Göring’s increasing greed after his first wife died. But he remained a gentleman and on the whole a loyal friend. Was it his fault if Himmler and the others conspired to block the messages I sent? Certainly he was never implicated in the scandal which was to destroy more careers than mine and claim many lives. He had every expectation of taking over the reins of government after the War and was astonished by the court’s attitude. They wanted blood, not justice. Look what happened to poor Joyce, Wodehouse and Pound. The Americans wanted to destroy the Nazi dream for ever. But dreams of such yearning magnitude do not die easily. Göring knew that. He said as much in his final testament.

  When the unofficial Nazi ambassador saw us he grew hearty with relief. Clearly he had had enough of La Sarfatti. ‘My dear friends! How good to see you.’ He tacked expertly towards us, murmuring an apology as Margherita Sarfatti was whisked smartly to starboard, almost losing her clutch on his pale shantung.

  Only then she saw me and hurled herself free of his gravity, a motley whirl of tassels and trim.

  ‘Caro!’ she said, flinging her arms wide so that her extraordinary scent struck my face like a wall. ’Mio!’ She remembered where she was and cooed back over her shoulder. ‘The main thing is, darling, that the press got their pictures.’ I was kissed and whispered at. We should soon be alone, she promised, as if the episode in the cottage had never occurred. While I remained mystified by her rage, I was relieved to be forgiven. The thought of resuming my sexual duties was not, however, attractive.

  Mrs Cornelius made a prim, dismissive greeting of some kind. She turned in search of Hugenberg. ‘Don’t forget me offer, Ivan,’ she said.

  Suddenly Göring was also waving farewell, saying something in German to Margherita Sarfatti which I did not catch. She answered a little distractedly and turned to me. ‘Any news?’ she said.

  I had absolutely no idea what she meant.

  ‘Of whom?’ I felt inane.

  ‘We’ll talk later.’ Her smile changed. ‘Well, my dear, how have you boys all been?’

  I was unsure of her tone. ‘Boys?’

  ‘I’m used to it,’ she said. ‘But you might tell the Chief. I think it’s time this particular game was finished.’

  I had no reply. Clearly Margherita had less idea of our Duce’s whereabouts than I. She fluttered until she had made herself comfortable in the great basket of her chair, settling like a partridge on her eggs. Then she fixed her bright, hard eyes upon me. ‘Well, darling!’

  ‘You’re out of sorts,’ I said as the waiter arrived. ‘A drink?’

  ‘After all I’ve done for him lately!’ Viciously she ordered some fashionably complex cocktail in a glass the size of a chamber pot. I had a Campari Fizz. I wished to keep my head as clear as possible. As Major Nye used to say of his own lady wife, La Sarfatti was going off like a fire in an ammunition factory.

  ‘I feel so sorry,’ she began. ‘Everything is my fault. I should never have gone over. I was convinced she was already keeping her assignation at the hotel with him and we’d be safe. I expected to surprise you when you arrived! And then, of course, he turns up! He must have been tailing you!’

  I assumed at first that she spoke of Fiorello, then of Mrs Cornelius and Herr Hugenberg, perhaps of Seryozha. Then I wondered if she was referring to Göring. I listened carefully in the hope of refining some sense from her outpourings.

  ‘It’s that peasant bitch, isn’t it?’ she said to me. ’Rachele’s watching him like an owl.’

  I had no notion of her drift.

  ‘Why did she have to come to Rome? She’s crazy. She’s interfering in matters she can’t possibly understand. Il Duce is loyal to her, of course, but she can’t give him what I give him. And why is she picking on me? I hardly see him. Why doesn’t she pick on that whore of yours? She’s the one who takes up all his attention these days!’

  Sarfatti seemed to have gone utterly mad. I made an effort to change the subject. ‘Have you heard anything more from Fiorello?’

  She stared at me. ‘What?’ It was as if she had never known our mutual friend.

  ‘Did he make it to Switzerland?’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ she said. ‘They all do. Darling, the reason I needed to see you is for your sake.’ She gave a little, self-deprecating snigger. ‘I fear I need my little house back.’

  She was evicting me! From spite? As a strategy? Was this the only price I was being asked to pay for being rid of her?

  ‘Naturally,’ I said. ’That was always our understanding. If you could give me a day or two to find new digs.’

  ‘I need it rather urgently,’ she said. ‘Rather soon. Tomorrow, my darling. I hate to do this to you, but it’s all very sordid and concerned with money, about which I understand absolutely nothing. But those who do follow such things are the masters now, darling, aren’t they?’

  I was breathless. ‘I suppose I can find rooms at a hotel near the office . . .’

  ‘Why not here, darling? They have marvellous drinks and wonderful service. I know the manager. I can get you a special rate.’

  I would be content with something a little less elaborate. I would ask my friends for suggestions.

  She fluttered across the glass table dividing us and settled on me like a carnivorous moth. ‘You are the perf
ect gentleman,’ she said. ‘I always have the right instincts. I should learn to trust them more.’

  A short while later she would be on a boat to America, never to return. To save her from the political situation, Il Duce exiled her. It was entirely for her own good. To her credit she understood that. She was one of many Italian Jews who found happiness in the New World.

  As we sat there, she asked after my friends in the press corps. I had seen only Tom Morgan. I had even lost contact with Billy Grisham and his family. I gathered he had been reassigned to Berlin.

  ‘The press is more fickle than any woman.’ She nodded as if in confirmation of her own wisdom. She became contemplative and returned to her chair. We had reached an impasse. I wondered if I had inadvertently given her some more pieces in her jigsaw.

  I filled the silence. ‘Has Captain Göring bought any pictures?’

  ‘Not really. He’s far too busy with politics these days. His attention is on politics rather than art! And his wife is ailing, too, you know.’ This last appeared to be entirely irrelevant. ‘He carried his message to Il Duce. He carried his message to the Pope.’ She inspected her hands, perhaps for stigmata. ‘He took a message to Berlin. He brought a message to Rome. He did what he had to do. And soon he will leave.’ With a dramatic expression of wounded bitterness she called for another cocktail.

  I guessed what had happened. Il Duce did not blame me for my affair with his mistress. He knew her too well for that. He blamed her. He had clearly found another paramour who interested him far more. I was not out of favour. All Sarfatti had left to offer her Chief was her contacts within the new, young Germany. Evidently he had been using them, because neither Göring nor any of his entourage had met Mussolini officially. Her house had been a useful meeting place for the men. In spite of this she was no longer a woman to be seen with. No doubt she had exaggerated her current role to gain a moments prestige.

  I looked at my wristwatch. ‘Well, I must make my plans. I shall be busy with my move.’ This would be a good time to begin my reconciliation with Maddy Butter. Once I located her, I could promise her I had made a clean break with Madame Sarfatti.

  ‘You mustn’t feel rushed,’ she said. ‘I could perhaps arrange to give you some more time.’

  As I rose I became increasingly formal. I told her that I would not think to impose on her any longer than necessary. Did she plan to dine at the hotel or could I call her car for her?

  She shrugged. Her drink arrived and I left.

  I hoped that I had not been seen. Rachele Mussolini had her own spies. It occurred to me that Il Duce’s wife had warmed to me again because I was clearly no longer seeing Sarfatti. I must choose my company carefully for the next few weeks. Meanwhile, I considered taking a refresher course in flying. But how could I do that tactfully? I wondered.

  I ran into Major Nye in the lobby. The tall Englishman was talking to Balbo and a couple of other high-ranking fascisti. Balbo was supposed to have killed a priest in the early twenties, a story that dogged his career. As well as being Italy’s most famous aviator, Balbo, a competent and intelligent man, had the unfortunate appearance of Popeyes enemy Bluto in the cartoons everyone loved. He was known privately, even by Mussolini, as ‘Air Minister Bluto’. In his mid-thirties, as were most of the leading fascisti Grand Councillors, he would have done well to shave off his beard or cultivate a more refined one, like my own. I think he believed it made his face look thinner. In my view his beard was his downfall. He was eventually sent into exile as Governor of Libya. In the end, they said, the great aviator was glad to go. I had cultivated him at one stage. He had shown every interest in my descriptions of the planes I had built. He even asked me to send him over a few plans, but Mussolini blocked the idea. He said Balbo would only have bogged things down in red tape.

  I joined the group for a moment. It would have been impolitic to do anything else. Besides, Balbo was just the man who might help me. Almost embarrassed by the vigour of my salute, they returned it in kind. The other three were the voluble and volatile Farinacci, who agreed with many of my ideas and was still regarded as a sound man by the party rank and file, the dapper, garrulous Grandi, Italy’s charming Foreign Minister, and the polished Cardinal Gasparri, with whom I also shared important opinions. A slightly disparate group, it did me no harm to be seen in their company when chatting to the Englishman.

  I murmured to Gasparri that I was impressed by the way he extended his diplomatic talents to the international scene. He smiled and drew a perfectly manicured finger to his sensitive lips. In contrast to Balbo, the cardinal was almost ostentatiously well shaven. He advertised his own grooming as others might advertise their rank. His flesh had the blush of fine talc. He was golden pink with an aura of assured authority. Even the richly woven scarlet cloth of his robes had that same quality of invulnerable softness. His smoothness, of course, was his great strength. I have met theatrical agents with a similar manner. It made him the best negotiator between the Palazzo Venezia and the Vatican.

  Cheerful and fashionable as always, Grandi the Foreign Minister sported, like me, the pointed beard and half-wax of a pre-war boulevardier. He was probably the ablest man in Italy and Il Duce’s best friend. Grandi turned against his Chief in the end, became a declared anti-Fascist and fled to Lisbon where, I gather, he is now a tobacconist.

  I mentioned to Grandi that I was about to be homeless. This set the little man to laughing heartily. ‘Dumped you, has she? Or has he?’ It seemed half of Rome was aware of my affair. I shuddered.

  ‘If you like,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I’m glad it’s over.’

  Grandi said I would get used to it. ‘We all get used to it after a while.’ I was not to worry. I would have a house in twenty-four hours. ‘It’s just a question of telling some impoverished old fart of a nobleman whose family stole it from some other old fart of a nobleman that he has to vacate his seat. His thousand years are up. Now it’s our turn. We’ll relocate him in the country.’

  He was joking, of course. Only later would such jokes be interpreted by the humourless Americans to suggest the Fascists were brutes.

  As I left them, Farinacci wished me good luck. He was a far-sighted man, poorly used by his people. He alone saw that the state could not tolerate a separate constituency. We had made our peace with the Pope, he had said, but we would never make our peace with the Grand Rabbi. Those people had international loyalties and simply could not be trusted to be good citizens. Wisely, the Grand Rabbi converted to Christianity, of course, in 1955. What does that tell us?

  It was impossible just then to have a private word with Balbo. I told Grandi I would telephone him in the morning. I asked the concierge to have my car brought round. I was just in time. As I stepped through the doors of the hotel and descended to my waiting Mercedes a voice from behind me cried: ‘Dimka! Dimka, dear!’

  I saw Seryozha reflected in the polished metal. Everything on him was loose and flying. He was a wild pirate schooner to Göring’s dignified ship of the line. He swerved erratically in pursuit of me.

  I did not turn round. I got into my car and told my chauffeur to drive off quickly. I heard a thump on the car’s trunk. When I did risk a glance back, I saw Seryozha angrily shouting at a group of squadristi, who had appeared from nowhere.

  The streets were still busy. It was not yet twilight and Rome, lively as always, was going out to eat. The lights of the trams were golden and scarlet against the deepening blue of the sky. The creamy stone was vivid with posters. Cafés and restaurants came alive. The energy of the city was visible everywhere. As the car took me through the park, I sat back and enjoyed the beauty of the late-spring flowers, the last of the children trooping back from their play, young courting couples, elderly women with their dogs, the old men sitting in groups, smoking and mocking everyone not of their class and generation. There was a tranquillity and stability about this scene that Rome had not enjoyed since the War. It showed why Mussolini was so revered here and how much he had given his people.
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  The sun was setting as we reached the quieter suburbs. The soft light washed away most modern buildings. Ancient walls covered in climbing shrubbery might have been the villas of Roman nobles. We came at last to the little gate of the cottage. I got out, said goodnight to my driver, glanced around to see if any OVRA people were keeping an eye on things, saw nothing, opened my gate and noticed that there were flies everywhere. Through the half-light I could make out a large creature lying on my doorstep. At first I thought it was a leopard or some other animal escaped from the nearby zoo. Then I realised it appeared to be a sleeping Labrador, an English dog then very fashionable in Italy. I wondered how it had managed to get through the gate. As I drew closer, I noticed that the dog’s head lay at an odd angle, its eyes partially open. There was liquid oozing from its muzzle and staining the stone. As I bent to inspect it, a strong smell, half-dog, half-death, hit my nostrils. It had been dead for some hours and was no longer stiff.