The twentieth century is a graveyard of well-intentioned heroes and unrealised dreams. When they talk about their mythical Six Million they never consider the real victims of Socialistic Reductionism: the magnificent, golden visionaries, the clear-eyed fighters for Order and Justice, the tireless, selfless Knights of Christendom who, from Denikin to Rockwell, took up the sword against Bolshevism only to be cut down by cowards, deceived by traitors, betrayed by followers who lost their nerve at the crucial moment. They dragged poor Mussolini to a black tree and hanged him. The mob, the very men and women who had worshipped him, tore at his body, ripped him to pieces, and years later they sold scraps of his clothing to tourists in the Via Veneto and St Peter’s Square. Mussolini should not have trusted the Pope and his Cardinals. They pretended to support him, then as soon as the British and Americans began to win the War, they turned against him. Mussolini’s nation was ironically the ultimate Roman Catholic state, more a product of its Church than any passing political fad.
If it had not been for Hitler, who took everything too far, Italy would now be the world’s most advanced nation. But Hitler went mad. He turned against the Church. His hatred of Bolshevism, worthy of itself, clouded his judgment. His attempts to compromise with Stalin lost him those of us who had up to then supported his policies. The forces which conspired against him also conspired against me. Benito Mussolini was one of the many who recognised me for what I was. It was little, jealous, creeping people, whispering together, laying despicable petty traps, making miserable plots, who undermined the very rock on which our visions were founded. Those are Bolshevism’s heroes: pale, mean faces with squinting eyes which never saw the light of the sun. I hear them whining outside the shop on Saturday mornings and I drive them off. They scatter and squeal like the cowardly vermin they are. I hear them sniffing round my windows at dead of night, scuffling behind my doors, scratching on my walls. They melt away when I challenge them to display themselves. Would Mussolini or Horthy, Mosley or Hitler melt at my challenge?
It was important to leave Rome and get to Paris as soon as possible, before Kolya went on his way to America or Berlin, but the city was like a possessive mother. Every time I gathered up the willpower to go, she found something new to astonish me, to distract me from my purpose. One morning, for instance, after we had spent half the night discussing how best to reach Paris, we were making our way from the Hotel Ambrosiana to the Café Montenero just across the river in the Trastevere quarter where we had arranged to meet Laura, who lived there. Along the main street and heading for the bridge came a great double-decker tram of the old ‘Imperiale’ class, with two more single-deckers connected behind her, rolling smoothly and very slowly in the direction of the eastern suburbs. A triple-coach tram was not a particularly unusual sight in Rome, though the double-deckers were more characteristic, I was to learn, of Milan and London, but these were painted a jet, shining black, the only colour on them being their brasswork which was polished to gleam like gold. The sides and the rims of the following cars were rich with multicoloured flowers, forming wreaths, vines, loops, while inside, dimly seen behind half-open black curtains, were the weeping mourners, also in black. I had never seen anything like it, but I realised it was a modern funeral procession, with the coffin, also covered in great masses of flowers, clearly seen on the upper deck of the leading vehicle. The trolley pole hummed and crackled in a rather light-hearted way, considering the gravity of the occasion. The driver sat, in a special black uniform, stiff and sombre at the front (the ‘Imperiales’ had only one driving seat and one set of stairs, at the back). I was virtually mesmerised by the sight, removing my hat and paying homage rather to the miracle of up to date technology than to the poor corpse within. How readily, with so little fuss, did Italians adapt themselves to and advance the course of twentieth-century thinking! When I told Laura and her friends about the procession they were amused by my excitement. Apparently the funeral trams were a regular service in many parts of Italy and elsewhere. I was realising how drastically cut off from genuine culture I had been during the Civil War and my sojourn in Turkey. In my enthusiasm for Rome’s forward-thinking transport system I did not this time forget to mention our urgent need to reach Paris. I asked Laura if there was work I could do. I still had some money, but I should feel happier if I had earned what I needed for our first-class train fares. She told me she would consider the problem. That little square in Trastevere, just off the Piazza di Santa Maria, was an oddly quiet corner of the city, away from the crash and clamour filling Rome’s main streets. The houses were like those one found in the country. Their walls were painted a faded, peeling pink or blue or green. The awnings of the cafés were like ancient parchment; they might have been there since the reign of Caesar Augustus. On many roofs were gardens so unkempt they appeared totally wild, while the faces of the inhabitants were faun-like. One felt one had been removed in time to a pagan past. Almost the whole of Rome had something of that same mellowed, sun-bleached quality, particularly in the early morning sunshine, or at twilight. When one was able to see the surrounding hills one could easily imagine oneself protected forever from all mundane problems obsessing the rest of Europe. From Trastevere it was possible to wander across a crumbling bridge to the Tiberina Island. On that tiny strip of land in the green-brown waters of the river stood a building (I think it was a monastery) apparently built up over the centuries. It contained fragments of the architecture of the past thousand years. Here Romans fished, tied up their boats and simply lounged on weedy slabs of stone, smoking and regarding those rooftops, like the dome of St Peter’s, which could be seen beyond the trees. A few wild cats lived here, and presumably the monks (though I never saw them). Even the cats had a subtly different appearance to those which stretched their muscular little bodies in the sun falling on the ruins of the Circus Maximus. If Constantinople were a city of dogs, then Rome was a city of cats. You might easily have expected to find a Temple to Bubastes somewhere nearby. One rarely saw a building without a cat on a step or window. Orange, black, grey, brown, white, marmalade and ginger, they washed themselves, slept, made love, utterly uninterested in the swarming human beings, merely watching with neutral eyes those which came close, displaying wary curiosity if there was a chance of someone feeding them. They prowled over marble which had been flooded with the blood of martyred Christians; they defecated on granite carved to the satisfaction of the Imperial ego; they copulated beneath columns erected to the glory of Gods and Goddesses, and in some ways they symbolised the enduring spirit of the city and her population. Esmé found them fascinating. There were days when she would spend most of her time watching them with much the same expression as they watched others. Her eyes fixed, her little chin in her perfect hands, she breathed slowly, languorously, with unfathomable contentment. It was not only I who noticed. Laura would often look at her and frown, at once understanding and mystified. Even Fiorello the Futurist, full of his own eloquence and self-absorption, would sometimes spare her a curious glance and smile at me in bafflement at the ways of femininity. Yet I was not myself baffled; I felt I knew what she experienced. Perhaps I merely imposed my own imagination onto her, believing her capable of profundity of feeling which was in fact non-existent. She was, I admit now (though I would have denied it vehemently then) at least in part my creation: the apparent fulfilment of my deepest desires. A little of this occurred to me then, when she would look up suddenly and brighten with a smile as if in response to my unspoken command. But I refused to consider such implications. They were extremely distasteful to me. They remain distasteful, but I am not one to avoid the truth for long.
Through Fiorello we met the young man who was to prove a great benefactor in the years to come. Bazzanno’s cousin, he lived and worked primarily in Milan but travelled frequently to all parts of Italy and many European cities. He was as handsome and as well-formed as his cousin was misshapen. Fond of severe tailored suits, he liked to show, as we used to say, a lot of cuff. His shirts were always app
arently brand new and his silk ties impeccably knotted. His manicured hands were heavy with gold and his white teeth were also occasionally punctuated with gold. His name was Annibale Santucci. This flamboyant dandy was three or four years older than me. He had what in Kiev we called a ‘Black Sea taste’ for white suits, black and white shoes and lavender ties; though he could also dress more conventionally when the mood or the occasion demanded. Walking past the fountain in the Piazza di Santa Maria one misty morning we first saw him: or rather we saw his car. It roared into the square, a huge blue and red Lancia booming and yelling, filling the whole quarter with shocking echoes. Fiorello was with us. He turned to snarl at the car until with a cry of glee he recognised the driver.
‘Balo! Balo!’ he shouted, and was rewarded with a dove-grey salute before the car changed gear and went bellowing down an alley scarcely wide enough to accommodate it. Fiorello capered with pleasure, twirling his stick and throwing up his hat, but Laura did not seem so delighted. Esmé was merely puzzled. She returned immediately to telling Laura about a dress one of her friends had been given soon after she went to work for Mrs Unal. I had tried to check her, but it was useless. She was oblivious; so I shrugged and let things take their course. It was not particularly important what Laura Fischetti believed about us. We arrived at the Café Montenero and took our usual places. The little old man, who was the only waiter , emerged to wipe an already clean table for us and bring coffee and rolls. Fiorello was babbling on about his cousin. ‘He’ll have presents. He always has presents. You must meet him, Max. He loves the English. He did a lot of business with them during the war. And the Russians, too.’ (He had made up his own version of our origins, which he retailed to everyone, and it suited me to humour him in this.) ‘I wonder where he was off to.’ His face dropped, then brightened swiftly. ‘He’s bound to look us up before he leaves Rome. He’s an utter bastard. A complete crook. A monster. Laura disapproves of him. He is the epitome of the capitalist disease, she thinks. But she can’t resist him either, can you, Laura?’
Laura shrugged. ‘He’s got a coarse sort of charm, if that’s what you’re saying.’ She smiled then, mocking herself. At that moment the whole square seemed to vibrate and the howling, the vital whine, the blustering, joyful roar approached from somewhere within the maze, as if a pack of drunken baboons had invaded a Trappist retreat. The red and blue Lancia sprang clear of an alley, skidded in a turn which threatened to bring the rear of the monster crashing into our little enclosure, and stopped. Out of the huge front seat rose Santucci, peeling off his kids and his calf-hides, smoothing back his hair and replacing his helmet with a grey fedora. He pulled his camel-hair overcoat over his shoulders. He dragged his wide brim down over one eye. He touched his lips with a silver cigarette holder, kissed the silver head of his perfect stick and sprang like a demigod to the pavement. He was splendidly unashamedly, vulgarly romantic; enjoying his own antics as much as he knew we must enjoy them. He was the perfect foil to the equally grandiose but tiny Bazzanno who, with monkey-like agility, leapt to balance on the rail, then bounded to the street to embrace his cousin. Almost six feet tall, Annibale Santucci possessed the rather crude good looks of a music-hall juvenile. He would have been a perfect film star. He shook hands with me, kissed the tips of Esmé’s fingers, made a number of general compliments which came automatically to his tongue and immediately ordered us wine and more food against our insistence that we had already eaten enough and it was too early for alcohol.
‘Never say “too early”,’ he cautioned dramatically. ‘For you will quickly find it has become “too late” if you do.’ This, too, had the sound of an aphorism he had frequently found convenient, likely to impress the cautious. Indeed, it impressed Esmé. She laughed loudly and received, for a moment, his lordly attention. Then he drew up a chair and proceeded to tell us about Naples. He had had business on Ischia, the island beyond Capri in the Bay, where his mother and father now lived. There had been a boatmen’s strike and it had cost him a fortune to find some means of reaching Ischia: ‘A sailing boat. A prototype for the Ark!’ Then coming back he had been unable to get benzine for his car because of the strike at filling stations. He laughed. ‘This is the prelude to a true anarchism, when every individual is forced to fend for himself. We’ll have our own petrol pumps, our individual water supply, our own cow, repair shop. Unless we check this trend, we shall soon know utter boredom, with time only to maintain ourselves and our machines. Fiorello! Laura!’ An elaborate flourish and he produced from the inner pocket of the camel-hair coat two black velvet cases, handing one to each. Within were matching diamond-studded wrist watches, a man’s and a woman’s. ‘My friend from Marseilles was grateful. He said to give these to my mother and father!’
‘You are a dutiful son,’ said Laura sardonically, putting the watch upon her muscular wrist and admiring it.
‘What use would they have for these? To tick away their autumn hours? Pointless!’ He turned, all contriteness, to us. ‘Please, please forgive my rudeness!’
Esmé and I would have forgiven him anything. His smile was calculated to disarm, and did not fail him. Fiorello told him we were planning to head for Paris but were a little short of money for the ticket. Did his cousin know of any engineering work available?
Santucci became matter of fact. He presented his open palm to the sky. He spoke casually. ‘But you will come with me. Keep me company, eh? I can be there in not much more than a day.’
I mentioned our large amount of luggage, but I was greedy for the Lancia. I began to feel the tiny shivers of pleasure with which I always anticipated the Escape of Motoring.
Santucci shrugged this off. ‘My car is of infinite volume. She has been designed by my kinsman Bazzanno to conquer the ordinary limitations of space. Did he not tell you?’
I looked towards the car, almost believing him. Fiorello smiled and was unable to answer.
‘He is too modest!’ Annibale clapped his cousin on the back. ‘This ugly little dwarf is the greatest metaphysical inventor in Italy.’
Laura kissed him on the cheek. ‘You are addressing a real scientist, Balo. Signor Cornelius has designed and flown his own planes. He invented the Death Ray used against the Whites at Kiev! You read about it, surely, in the newspapers.’
Annibale bowed from his chair. ‘Then you must certainly come with me to Paris. I’ll milk your brains on the way!’
I accepted. A perfect opportunity, it solved several problems for us at once and meant we should probably have far less trouble at the border. I recognised a man who was used to living on his wits, who was familiar with the situations we were likely to face. Expecting only a vague reply, I asked him what his business was. I said he seemed very successful.
‘I buy and sell. I travel. I am in the right place at the right time. Just like now! I buy cheap ewes in Tuscany and sell them dear in Sicily where with my profits I buy wine and sell it for a fortune in Berlin. But it is all on paper, Signor Cornelius. I scarcely ever see the commodities themselves.’ He extended his manicured hands for my inspection. ‘Not a spec of grime, eh? Not a callous. I am an entrepreneur. I learned, in the War, the secret of being a good general. Never get to know the troops. Keep everything as abstract as possible. I, myself, was a driver. I drove trucks and armoured cars. There were, of course, business opportunities attached to my trade. After the War I simply kept on driving. Wherever I stopped I did some buying and selling. Now I have no money to speak of, but I have good suits, a wonderful car, and plenty of girls. I am not respectable - but I am respected. Better, I am needed. I have a flat in Milan I hardly ever see. Otherwise I do not even have to pay rent on a permanent office. There is my office!’ And he pointed to his Lancia. Lines of heat rose from her bonnet; her scintillating enamel glowed from under a coating of fine dust.
The Laughter of Carthage: Pyat Quartet Page 23
