An Evening at Home
I stammered something. He accepted this as my acquiescence. He clapped me on the shoulder and, sensing my confusion, promised we would not sell out Italy for a handful of Spanish doubloons. Certain specifications could be held back and only a cruder version of the giant tank made for them. He was thinking of naming it after me. Imagine what this would mean! Hundreds of Peters’ Land Leviathans guarding the frontiers of the free world against the combined Red and Yellow threat! My name would be permanently added to the glorious language of war.
Of course, I was all for a speedier move towards full production of my machines, but I had come to think of the entire project as something shared only between myself and my leader. It was still difficult to readjust to this new development.
“And, of course, there will be material benefits,” said Mussolini. “Part of the Spanish money should rightfully go to you.”
I did not work for money, I reminded him. I had no more interest in it than did he. We visionaries had a common cause.
This was the closest I ever came to rebuking my Chief and he accepted it.
Together we left the hall by the special exit. The Duce’s car was waiting, its engine running. As we passed the main entrance of the Villa, I saw a man and a woman leaving. I did not recognise the woman but I was surprised I had not seen the man at the reception. Now I had a notion who Mrs Cornelius had referred to earlier. It was the tall, slender Englishman, not in uniform on this occasion, who had once been romantically involved with Mrs Cornelius and whom I knew as Major Nye. I was beginning to realise I had attended a reception far more important than I had originally assumed. Several crucial conversations had taken place that night. Several political decisions were made which would, ultimately, change the face of Europe forever.
The chauffeur beside him, Mussolini himself had taken the wheel. I was by now used to his wild, extravagant driving. Tonight, he seemed determined to shake off the fleet of secret service cars which immediately began to follow us and indeed he was successful with most of them. It was a game he liked to entertain himself with sometimes in those days, though gradually all these pleasures were denied him. He hardly picked up the violin now, whereas, like Sherlock Holmes, he had once played it every single evening for his own solace and to allow his mind to range over all his many problems.
At first he knew exactly where he was going. “Professor, I was thinking about your house. You need a bigger one. That place is far too cramped for you. It was never intended to be lived in.”
Although he had never spoken of it before, I remembered that this was where he had once met and made love to the woman who, in my case, preferred to satisfy her lusts on the leather furniture at the Villa Valentino. I was still uneasy about the situation, even though Margherita had not been invited tonight, in spite of her attempting to be my escorte. I had learned enough not to take unexpected guests to state receptions. It could prove embarrassing for all. It was becoming obvious, in fact, that my association with La Scarfatti had made me more enemies than friends. She was not liked by the old Fascists and her influence over the Chief was thought to be excessive. I was still surprised, however, that she had not been invited, since Hermann Goering was one of her personal friends and usually Mussolini liked to pepper his receptions with such contacts. It had been clear from her recent mood that things were not going her way. I believe Ferucci was a sworn enemy. Some old affair between them, I guessed.
In spite of the little house being only half a mile from the reception, it took us over an hour to get there. So obsessed had Mussolini become with outrunning his own guards that he was thorougly lost. He did not have a native’s knowledge of Rome and her maze of streets. Eventually, he told me, most of the old, mediaeval mess would be torn down and replaced with monumental modern buildings in the new Fascist style. He would show me the model that had been built a year or two ago. Some of the building plans had been put back, because of problems with land ownership and so on, but the new understanding with the Vatican City was going to help that situation. He would leave a Rome behind him which would make the Rome of ancient times seem only a prefiguring for the glories to come.
He laughed at his own audacity and sometimes, as now, it seemed there were at least two Mussolinis—one was the boyish, self–mocking idealist who had come out of poverty in the poorest region of Italy to save his people—the other was the sophisticated modern politician, forced through historical realities to take hard, painful decisions on behalf of his people. But few visionaries make good politicians and few good politicians have much in the way of original vision. That is the unextinguishable irony of the world. When visionaries are allowed to dominate daily politics, their talents are wasted, their decisions are a disaster. Yet occasionally there springs a man of vision who also has the intelligence and will to overcome such a discrepancy and Mussolini, of course, was just such a man. Nothing which happened between us subsequently has ever given me cause to change that view.
