The Vengeance of Rome - [Between The Wars 04]

by Michael Moorcock

  ‘I am talking a matter of two months at most. While you are gone I will set the initial factory work in motion. When you come back you will be in a position to supervise an ongoing project.’

  Two months would, it was true, give me a breathing space. I could use the time to my advantage. And if Brodmann were really in town, I would be able to leave before he realised it. No doubt the dead dog had been his idea. Seryozha, too, was becoming a serious embarrassment. Sarfatti was threatening to come back into my life. There were other looming complications. I was, of course, still hoping for a reconciliation with Maddy Butter.

  ‘My fiancée . . .’ I began.

  Mussolini scowled. He did not think this was a serious subject. ‘Women are easily come by. Most of them are whores at heart. You need to forget your American and look for someone as loyal as my Rachele. When you find her, marry her at once.’

  I paused. I took his point. Moreover, I did not share his dislike of Germans, or indeed, of the individual Nazis I had met. To leave Rome for a couple of months and experience the vibrancy of modern German political life might be exactly what I needed. So much the better if I was performing an important personal service for my Duce. I was sure he would not let such loyalty go unrewarded. In addition, it would throw Brodmann off the scent. The dog, I was convinced, had been only a warning. Classic Chekist psychological warfare.

  However, this led to another thought. What if I was captured and tortured for my scientific secrets?

  Mussolini put his arm around my shoulders. Together we marched up and down the length of that huge room. He reassured me that such things only happened in fiction. Internationally known actors (and engineers) could not easily be spirited away. The community of nations would have something to say about it! The Nazis were anxious to improve their public image. ‘They will court you, but that is all to the good. You can sow the seeds of rumour about our secret weapons and that will be useful to us.’

  He took my hand in both of his and stared into my eyes for a moment, as if filling me with some of his own resolve, his own inexhaustible courage. Others have mentioned his hypnotic powers, and I can vouch for them.

  The few necessary arrangements had already been made with the Germans, he said. The present German government was viciously anti-Nazi and highly suspicious of Italian Fascists. Thus it would be unwise for me to travel on my Italian passport. Could I use my American passport? Although I would seem to be on my own I need not worry. There would be an OVRA man looking out for my interests at all times. Göring had been put in the picture as much as necessary. He had friends in Berlin. Some were in the Reichstag itself. While it would not be wise to have too close a contact with the affable captain, he would be there if needed. Mussolini had thought this through carefully. I would also receive a regular allowance as a state employee. This would come in the form of payments from a publisher. ‘Göring has already spoken warmly of you, in spite of his well-known prejudices. He is, at root, a practical politician like myself. Not a rouge-using lunatic like his boss. They will, of course, suspect you. If you could, perhaps, obscure things a little, it would help. I’m not very worried about the German National Socialists. They won’t increase their vote in the next election. But some of the Catholic nationalists will. The army is backing them. Those are the people to get close to, Professor. You’re not likely to make many more friends in the National Socialists anyway. Apparently they are already bickering among themselves. Hitler’s on his way out. They lack Fascist discipline. One week I hear Strasser’s their “Duce” — the next it’s Hitler again — or Röhm. They have as many factions as they have members. That’s fine. Nobody wants the bastards to get too much power. But I need an idea of how much of their party is likely to listen to us. Are they really pro-Fascist? We don’t know. I must admit I haven’t heard good reports of any of them except Göring. Possibly the Strasser brothers. My guess is that Göring’s the man who will eventually lead the party. Him or Gregor Strasser. Not his brother. He’s too unstable. Of course, the whole country’s unstable. There could be civil war before Göring, for instance, becomes the next Chancellor. He’s their strong man. He’s the only one an old fart like Hindenburg would trust. I’d bet Göring is letting the others fight it out. But there again, everything could change by next Tuesday. That’s why I need a man like you there for a while. My eyes and ears, eh?’

  ‘I am still a little confused, Chief. . .’

  ‘The Krauts need more money from me, of course. They are always begging for handouts. I want men like you there who’ll let me know the best horse to back. And I especially need to know any plans they have for rearmament. I can spare few men of your rank, my dear friend, or I wouldn’t ask this of you. I need a loyal Fascist, yet someone who is not evidently pro-Italian.’

  I was flattered by the honour. I could not think what merited so much responsibility.

  Mussolini told me Navarra had arranged money, documents and so on. I could leave whenever I wished. Perhaps tomorrow would be a good day. There were reservations for me on the Rome—Vienna train which would connect me with the Munich Express.

  ‘So soon?’ For a moment I had a suspicion he was getting rid of me. Why? Jealousy? Did he see me as a rival for his wife’s affections? For Sarfatti? For whom? But it was not in my nature to refuse this great man. Neither could I easily suspect him of lying. Weakly, I asked whom I should contact when I reached Munich.

  He said that would not be a problem. Captain Göring himself would be my host as far as Munich. One of his people would see to my hotel and so on. All I had to do was to have my trunks packed. I should ask Navarra for help.

  I had several other rather crucial questions, but now he became impatient, glancing at the floor, looking away from me, tapping his pencil against the table. He was in no mood to give further answers.

  He hastened me towards the door. ’And don’t contact that journalist friend of yours. That girl. Maddy?’

  ‘Butter?’

  ‘She must know nothing.’ His expression once again grave, he wished me God speed. With tears in my eyes I promised he would have no reason not to trust me. Maddy? Was that why I was being asked to take a sabbatical from Rome? Was she suspect?

  Navarra was waiting for me when I left. He steered me quickly to the secret exit. As I went out, I thought I glimpsed a woman very much like Maddy Butter coming in. Had she at last managed to get her interview with Il Duce? No doubt it was a trick of my imagination. But it would have been a queer irony.

  In spite of Il Duce’s advice my curiosity got the better of me. When I returned to my office, to tidy up a few things, I telephoned Miss Butter’s apartment. I wanted to leave with her blessing. The telephone was answered by a maid. Miss Butter had a hairdresser’s appointment. She would not be back until that afternoon. I left no message. I could not risk seeing her personally. She might even be the one who had betrayed me to Brodmann and was indirectly responsible for the dead dog on my step.

  She had still not returned by that evening. Then a uniformed valet and a team of squadristi arrived at work to take me back to the cottage. They wanted me to supervise the packing of my trunks.

  I tried to telephone Signora Mussolini but could not get through. Just as I was dialling the number again, the phone went dead. The dolts at the phone company had turned off the phone a day too early.

  Rather than waste time in useless fuming, I changed and took myself to the fashionable Gaffe Florentine for dinner. Once again I was ‘back in the dream’. I felt both excited and disturbed. I had been given no time to consider my decision. Admittedly, as one of Mussolini’s inner circle, I had sworn my oath and had a duty to abide by it. I must obey Il Duce’s orders no matter how mysterious they were. I had to admit I was curious to see Germany as she was now.

  My misgivings suppressed, I ate a solitary meal. As I was finishing Balbo came into the restaurant. He saw me and grinned. Marching over, he waved to me, his decorations jingling. ‘I hear you’ve been exiled to Germany, Professo
r. She must be a bit above average, eh?’ He winked and leered. I had no idea what he meant. Repelled by his peasant coarseness, I did my best not to respond. He seemed envious of me. Had I been given an assignment he craved for himself or one of his cronies? I did not even bother to ask him who ‘she’ was. His suggestion was meaningless. He was jealous of me, I was sure of that. This made me feel a little better about my new duties. I merely smiled and let him think what he liked. He shrugged and went off to join some friends in an alcove.

  I took an Armagnac in the bar. The place was now empty of most Fascist delegates. They had returned to their various constituencies. I saw Major Nye come in with Mrs Cornelius. I signalled to them, but they went past without seeing me. I looked for them in the restaurant but could not see them.

  At that moment I felt suddenly isolated. A marooned sailor too weary to cry to passing ships. I could not understand why, with a new adventure ahead, I felt so depressed.

  Why had I become so obscurely gloomy since discovering that dog? I remained disgusted by the kind of monster capable of such mindless cruelty.

  I prayed I was wrong about Brodmann. I concentrated on plans for my new journey. I consoled myself. I was still serving the Fascist cause. I was content to assist my Duce in any way, even by going into exile, as Balbo put it. In no time at all, I thought, I would be back in Italy supervising the building of my Land Leviathan. Once my name was famous as an engineer I could travel wherever I pleased. I need no longer rely on my reputation as an actor.

  * * * *

  TWENTY-TWO

  Maddy Butter was still not home by the time I left for the Termini Station. No matter what time I phoned she was always out. Only when my luggage had been loaded and the squadristi had left could I sit back in my large comfortable seat and forget her. I had not planned to leave Rome. Considering the problems I would have to face if I stayed, however, this short ‘fact-finding’ vacation would do me good. Thanks to the sterling efforts of the young fascisti assigned to me, everything apart from my handbags needed for the trip was stowed securely in the luggage vans. I appeared to have an entire de luxe compartment to myself. Though for a couple of months I would be travelling undercover, I would still be travelling in style. Il Duce knew me better than I knew myself. My spirits were already improving. I became filled with that sense of joyful expectation which usually accompanied a new journey. Only when I was moving did I feel truly secure.

  I looked forward to enjoying the company of my travelling companions. Mrs Cornelius and her Baron were on the train, though they planned to go on to St Crim. I sincerely hoped that Seryozha was not. I had no particular anxieties, save that Seryozha would get drunk and start babbling about our days in St Petersburg. I was surprised not to see any of the German delegation boarding.

  Soon after the train departed there came a tap on the glass door. In the corridor stood an exceptionally tall, oddly coloured individual with a nose like a hammer set in irregular features, deep-set eyes beneath bushy brows, a thin upper lip drawn habitually over the lower which gave him a kind of perpetual smile, a jutting lantern jaw and an expression of polite apology. He wore a grey tweed English overcoat, a dark grey Homburg and carried a gold-chased ebony stick with which he signalled politely for me to open the door. When I frowned enquiry, he put the head of his stick to his lips and raised his eyebrows, perhaps a question?

  When I slid the door back he entered, clicked his heels together, gave a rather idiosyncratic Fascist salute, lifted his hat, called me ‘Herr Doctor Peters’ and announced himself as Doctor Ernst Hanfstaengl. In perfect American English he asked if I would prefer to speak my own language. I knew he did not mean Russian. In my role as Max Peters, the American actor, I said English would be fine. Unbuttoning his overcoat, he asked if he might sit down for a moment. He was about ten years my senior, with that youthful air, that unlined, inexperienced sheen on the skin you see on so many modern businessmen. His light blue eyes held a kind of amiable amusement, as if his own existence was absurd to him. His pale, close-shaven face flickered with a dozen half-formed expressions. His mouth was sensitive beneath that Teutonic nose. In spite of his obvious eccentricities, he was evidently what we used to call ‘the better type of German’. At my assent, he lowered his assortment of large limbs into the seat and with careful concentration arranged them in a familiar order.

  When he was sure everything was where he wanted it to be, he sighed and put his hand towards me. I shook it.

  ‘Hanfstaengl,’ he said again, as if to remind himself.

  Sitting back in the seat he looked out of the window and addressed the scenery. ‘Well, it’s a shame. But here we are.’

  I did not follow him. I made a small enquiring noise.

  ‘Herr Göring,’ he explained, smiling. ‘I do apologise. They didn’t get the message to you, I take it?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  With a peculiar jerk of his shoulder, Doctor Hanfstaengl took out a cigarette case. Smiling like a schoolboy, he offered it to me. When I declined he put the case away. ‘I’m the messenger, then. Göring’s wife Carin?’

  ‘He has spoken of her with great affection.’

  ‘Oh, he couldn’t survive without her. But she has had something of a relapse. So he flew out early this morning for Berlin. I agreed to be his deputy and take care of you. My pleasure, of course. We have friends in common. I think, in Tom Morgan and some of the other press guys.’

  ‘You’re a journalist?’

  ‘I do a little writing. Luckily my family’s fairly well off, so I don’t have to struggle. We have a print business in Munich. I’m Hitler’s foreign press attaché. I saw you at the embassy a couple of times. You were with that English chap. Nice fellow. Major Pye. I was staying at the Ambasciatori. My family always does; we get on well with the staff. I find the Excelsior a little vulgar. What part of the United States are you from, Doctor Peters?’

  I said that I had been born in the South but that I now called Hollywood my home.

  He detected another accent under my English. I explained how my parents were first-generation immigrants. From Spain, I told him. Their original name was Gallibasta-Pujol, and they came from the Andalucia region. Hanfstaengl was on very good terms with the de Riberas. Did I know them? I told him that I had spent very little time in Spain. In recent years I had travelled chiefly in the Middle East and North Africa.

  I answered an unasked question for him. ’That would explain why you haven’t made a talker yet. What were you doing out there? Researching a part?’

  It had been a journey of personal discovery, and I was not yet ready to talk about it. He seemed to forget his question as soon as he asked it. Taking off his overcoat he drew from an inner pocket a silver flask which he offered to me. I refused. ‘You seem equipped for all occasions, Doctor Hanfstaengl.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose it’s my job.’ His bones shifted in an eccentric shrug.

  He had studied at Princeton and lived in America for years. Then as he put it, he had answered Hitler’s call to come home and fight for the cause. Did I know New England at all? I had only lectured there. Mostly I knew the South and the West. For a time I had been involved in politics and was associated with, among others, the famous aviator Major Simmonds. I knew Washington well. We talked about mutual acquaintances.

  ‘Putzi’ Hanfstaengl was excellent company. When he suggested we lunch together, I readily agreed and followed him down the corridor to the dining car. He moved with the massive, oddly coordinated grace of a young carthorse, head bent, arms flailing, his expression always cheerful as if he expected everyone to share in the comedy of his own disorganisation. Mrs Cornelius and her Baron were already installed at their table, and we asked if we might join them. The Baron smiled up at us vaguely, as if at an entertainment, while Mrs Cornelius agreed with alacrity. ‘Oh, do!’ she said.

  She leaned towards me as I sat down. ‘Good for you, Ive,’ she said. ‘I ‘ad a feelin’s you’d make it!’ She winked. ‘Those Aye-t
aye buggers was usin’ you. An’ ‘oo knows ‘oo that Yank gel wos bonkin’. They ‘ad you set up nicely. You’re well out of it. Ya comin’ with us to San Cream?’

  I ignored her jealous references to Madame Sarfatti. I was on my way to Munich and Berlin. I needed a break and had always wanted to see Germany. For one reason or another I had never managed to get there. This seemed a good time to be going. It would be a short holiday. A matter of a few weeks at most.

  ‘You must not judge Germany by what you see now,’ Doctor Hanfstaengl insisted, picking up a menu in one hand and a napkin in the other. ‘But wait a couple of years — then there’ll be a difference!’

  Mrs Cornelius had had enough of all this talk. She was sick and tired of golden futures, she said. All she wanted at the moment was an ordinary present.

  Doctor Hanfstaengl found this so amusing he almost spilled his mineral water. ‘I must admit I sometimes tire of the coming apocalypse.’

  Would Mrs Cornelius be staying long in Vienna? She shook her head. They were going to some concerts and a couple of operas. She hoped they were jolly ones. They would be in town for a few days. Staying at the Bristol, she said. Where was that funny Russian friend of mine?