The Vengeance of Rome (15 page)

‘Dead,' I said. ‘Lost in the Sahara.'

Her sympathetic fingers touched my hand. ‘And Mrs Cornelius? What happened to her?'

‘She's a friend. My Hollywood co-star.' If I was uncomfortable with this questioning, at least it gave me the opportunity to explain any mysteries to her and protect whatever secrets had to be protected.

‘Your father gave you a bad time, didn't he?' Her voice was balmy with sympathy. ‘Was he a monster? What did he do?'

‘He took a knife to me,' I said. ‘He cut my future out of me. He cut the mark of the Jew on me. I have already explained all this.'

‘He was a
mohel
?'

‘Of course not! He was a class traitor. A socialist. It was his notion of hygienic science. He believed in rationalism as others believe in Christ. He put the mark of death on me. It is hard to forgive him for that. But he, too, is dead now, I'm sure.'

‘He wasn't a Jew?'

I smiled at this. ‘There are no Jewish Romanoffs, Maddy. Isn't that something of a contradiction in terms?'

My gentle sarcasm chastened her. She apologised. She knew very little of what she called ‘White Russian' politics. I had been reluctant to talk of my more painful past, I said. While I was by no means of a secretive disposition, there were too many others who had not escaped. I had to watch what I said. Again came the memory of Seryozha's suspicion. I could not believe her a Bolshevik agent. But I had heard of more unlikely things. The Bolsheviks
had a way of seducing young people and making them do things they would never normally contemplate. A small part of me remained sensibly cautious. What if her own father were somehow under threat?

Still, even as we moved closer to the very heart of the new Roman Empire, I felt the shadow of Brodmann falling over me. Was it possible for him, or one like him, to follow me to paradise? I honestly prayed that my fears were groundless. I must admit it was not difficult to relax and forget any pursuit within the security of Mussolini's great citadel of humane and self-respecting Christendom, that model to the rest of Europe.

In the
Popolo d'Italia
, the newspaper the steward brought us the next morning, we read how Italy was now the envy of the world.

From Austin, Texas, to Zagreb, Yugoslavia, Mussolini was emulated everywhere. Foreign politicians were constantly calling on their governments to follow the lead of Il Duce. In Bali, for instance, he was known as
Il Tigre della Roma
. In homes as far apart as Australia and Finland portraits of Mussolini took pride of place.

Everywhere the flags of a reborn and defiant Italy were raised. As we looked from the window, we saw the reality of smartly painted stations, bold posters and well-ordered countryside. We opened the windows and breathed warm air laden with the smell of corn and oil, of poppies and horsebells. Cheerful peasants would pause at their labours in the fields and wave to us; smartly dressed Blackshirts would offer us the Fascist salute, and wholesome young girls would smile, full of that spirit of hope which had swept the land.

Miranda remarked how all the colours seemed so much brighter and sharper, how even the blue of the sky was more intense. She said that, though she had already fallen in love with Italy, returning with me made her feel more fully alive than she had ever imagined possible. I was a magician. My example had taught her to listen to her blood, to follow her heart and enjoy the great relish for existence which now suffused her mind and body. She was beginning to understand, she said, how I was one of the world's great teachers. She was privileged to be with me as I journeyed to Rome.

‘In Rome,' she said, ‘you will be able to fulfil your genius.'

I assured her that such faith sustained me. I would not disappoint her. Da Bazzanno had promised me an audience with Mussolini. All I needed was half an hour with him. Then I could explain all my plans for the scientific wonders I could offer which would continue to enhance Italian prestige.

As a celebration of success to come we enjoyed some more of Shura's first-class cocaine. Locking the door of our compartment and closing the curtains, we made love while the fields and villages of Umbria sped by in
all their golden glory, painting our bodies with their almost mystical light. We might have died in Venice and been transported to heaven.

The powerful train made steady progress through the mellow afternoon. At last, exhausted, we slept.

Our steward awoke us, tapping politely on the door to warn us that we were now soon to pull into Rome Central where the train terminated. I drew the curtains. We dressed and packed. I felt the train slow significantly. Looking out of our compartment I saw uniformed porters and police moving slowly by, watching the train's arrival.

Having at last completed our preparations, we descended somewhat belatedly from the train, our baggage carried by a handsome young porter. I paused for a moment to admire the great colonnades, soaring into misty arches and beams. This was merely a taste of the magnificence that was modern Rome.

Under Mussolini's personal guidance old buildings were being torn down. Fine new avenues were created. The enduring monuments of the ancients had been restored and the roads around them cleared. Our taxi took us past all the signs of this enormous project. When it was completed, it would rival anything the classical world had known. It would make New York or Paris seem like mere sketches for cities. Where others erected molehills, Mussolini made plans for great shimmering pyramids!

The whole of Rome was like a huge Hollywood stage, full of busy carpenters, masons and technicians, all working around the clock to create a reality from the fantasy. Sometimes the taxi had to steer around a heap of rubble where some old church had stood or a pit prepared for the foundations of some great modern skyscraper. You could smell the fresh sawdust, the stone chippings, the heat of drills and the drying paint. Sunshine flung great shadows across the broad streets. Everywhere we saw the face of Il Duce, a model to all who followed. These posters encouraged Italians to keep their aspirations high and never settle for the second-rate.

Every other person proudly wore a smart uniform. Women were elegantly dressed. Their children were in the very latest styles. Even the dogs seemed to walk with dignified self-respect, while the cats that, as in Venice, were everywhere, regarded the passing show with a kind of lazy hauteur. Overnight every feline in Rome had been turned into a noble lion.

Nowhere did we see the squalor I had witnessed in Morocco or Egypt. Rome's streets were swept and the buildings clean. Marble and granite gleamed. Silken banners billowed in the breeze. Terraces were brilliant with flowers and shrubs. I was strongly reminded of the beautiful sets which
had made Griffith's
Intolerance
such a magnificent spectacle. Griffith had commissioned Italian masons to create those sets. Their same style was everywhere in Rome. The columns and arcades might have been made for De Mille's
Ben-Hur
. As we rode along one of the magnificent avenues I felt almost like a triumphant charioteer responding to the greetings of cheering crowds.

We turned a corner. A troop of cavalry, all scarlet, gold and green, advanced towards us. The taxi stopped to watch them pass. Here were Mussolini's fine young soldiers, stern beneath their heavy helmets, prepared to defend their emperor and empire to the last. I found it impossible not to compare them to praetorians. Another few hundred yards and we encountered a column of smart marching infantry followed by two armoured cars. Their gay awnings and polished brass giving texture to the scene, the cafés bustled with customers, windows reflected brilliant light flooding the whole city, creating a glowing aura. Every child, every animal, every plant took on an added reality.

Of course, Maddy Butter was familiar with all this. For me the change was a revelation. Maddy told me she, too, saw Rome in a wholly new dimension. Her senses had been brought fully to life by me. She spoke of me as her ‘mentor'. I, of course, was familiar only with Rome's bohemian quarter in 1920, before Mussolini had saved his country from the tawdriness and failure of hope which had characterised it before. This Rome was scarcely the same city. Now the public monuments and modern buildings were as fine as anything raised in the great years of Rome's ancient glory. She had been transformed. Again she was a city fit for gods.

Amused by my astonishment at this transformation, Maddy pointed out piazzas, avenues and statues erected since the coming of Fascism. ‘Signor Mussolini has a theatrical sense,' she said. ‘A love of the dramatic. All this was designed personally by him.'

‘He clearly understands the purpose of architecture,' I agreed, ‘which is to enshrine and encourage the aspirations of the nation. Such monuments give hope and a sense of security, but they also make people proud of themselves. They must appeal to our sense of myth.'

She nodded intelligently. She was a wonderful pupil. She repeated how lucky she was to have a lover so wise in the ways of the world. ‘The intelligence of a scientist. The sensitivity of an artist.'

I accepted her praise. ‘If, like Mussolini, one has a moral purpose, a duty to one's fellow man, an understanding of the public will, then one informs one's work with these qualities and makes them appeal to the
mass of people. This is what one learns in Hollywood. With the talkies, I suspect, the habit of
showing
the public what one means—as opposed to merely discussing it—is disappearing.'

I have always had the ability to predict the future. It is a heavy burden. One I sometimes wish I never had to carry. Now Rome and Hollywood are lost, gone the way of Athens and Constantinople, merely names for things which were once great.

In those days Rome was again the repository of all we most admired and desired, the exemplar of all we most valued. She was a beacon of sanity and decency in a world beginning to fall into acrimonious civil unrest and cruel vendetta. She had become everything so many of us desired. Lesser men would destroy this dream, just as they destroyed Griffith.

Now the wind drifts through empty cloisters and abandoned rooms. Ruined statues, tattered backdrops, rotting costumes are testament to the power and the purpose of our ruined dream. Ash falls on hollow masonry, on spoiled brick and crumbling stone, on the machinery of all our hopes. At least I knew Rome and Hollywood in the blazing years of their power; at least I played my part in their triumph. I resisted for as long as I could resist. The mean-spirited little men dragged greatness into dirty anonymity. I raised my sword against Big Business and International Zionism. I was defeated. They stole our holiest names and made them wretched and worthless.

The taxi drove on through wider streets, between taller trees, through ordered sanity, through that indefinable radiance.

Suddenly La Butter seized my hand and drew it to her lips. I was not surprised by this expression of passion.

Everywhere was purity. Everywhere the white walls and red roofs of the narrow streets into which we now turned radiated warmth and comfort. Not only the great public buildings reflected national dignity and self-respect; that quality was evident in the most ordinary domestic scenes. I could not help but absorb it all with my cinema-trained instincts. Griffith himself might have taken the whole of Rome for his sets, positioned his crowds, his cameos, his long-shots, his pans, his close-ups. I half expected to hear a voice shout ‘Camera ready' and another call ‘Action!' Thrilled, I looked around me knowing I would soon have the privilege of meeting the producer of this great miracle, the master architect of the New Europe.

Maddy Butter shared my joy. She pressed her soft lips to my cheek.

‘Welcome to the Future,' she said.

Between wakefulness and sleeping we have most of us had the illusion of hearing voices, scraps of conversation, phrases spoken in unfamiliar tones. Sometimes we attempt to attune our minds to hear more, but we are rarely successful. We call these ‘hypnagogic hallucinations'—the beginning of the dreams we shall later experience as we sleep.

At first they were no more than nightmares dispersing when I opened my eyes. By the time of my second visit to Rome, I was receiving the most intense and terrible visions. I took them to be a warning.

At first there was just the one dream every night: against the black morning poplars a small woman walks her poodle up the avenue. We seem to be in France. Mist rises from the river, rippling silver, reflected in her eyes and skin. She turns to me. Her hair is white, touched with the dawn's gold. A halo. My mother? Or Esmé? I am not sure. Sometimes they are the same. With agonised sadness in her eyes she murmurs the news. ‘Beware,' she says. ‘Your good works betray you, for Satan is already triumphant.'

That dream was merely the disturbing prologue.

Later I came to witness all she meant.

They say that I deceive myself. I would suggest we all deceive ourselves. But some fundamental truths cannot be denied. Is a vision any less authentic because it is commonplace?

Those of you who recall D.W. Griffith's magnificent epic
Intolerance
, with its profoundly subtle message, will remember how the gigantic ivory elephants come to life, threatening to crush the tiny figures of the people gathered before them. My second sight of Rome awed me just as those elephants awed the Babylonians. I half expected to be crushed by all that magnificence. As in a Griffith film, one wonderful reality overlaid another, ancient and modern, giving profound meaning to everything I saw. The
arrogance and cruelty of the past were contrasted with the positive aspects of the present, assuring us that progress was possible and that the noblest human aspirations would ultimately prevail.

The film tells us that we have come far but have far to go and that, it seemed to me, was the message of the new Roman architecture rising among the magnificence of the old. A contradictory message, perhaps. A complex one, certainly, which required the highest type of mind to read it. Mussolini, in those years of his greatness, had that mind. He could see the broad picture. His genius inspired others to complete the details. Of course, his compromise with the Roman Catholic Church, his passion for women and his fascination with Jews brought him to a humiliating end as Hitler's puppet. He, who had inspired the movement of world fascism, was caught cowering in a borrowed German greatcoat, slaughtered and hung upside down like meat in the Milan marketplace. Yet when I knew Il Duce, he was worshipped with an intensity most Italians reserved only for the Pope.