VIII
Generalissimo Balbo was a stoutish, military-looking man with sharp black mustaches and a black beard trimmed to a point. In the room with him was another man in Fascist uniform, and a secretary with a notebook—all the apparatus of the proces verbal. The two militi gave the Fascist salute, and Lanny was marched up in front of the official’s desk. The telegram was presented, and Balbo read it; then, fixing a pair of angry dark eyes upon the offender, he proceeded to shoot questions at him: his name, residence, and nationality; his father’s name, residence, and occupation. Manufacturer of munitions might help, Lanny thought; but there was no change in the aggressive tone of the questioning.
“What is your business in Rome?” Lanny replied that he had come to arrange for the purchase of cinquecento artworks for an American collection.
“You called at the office of the Socialist party on May 31?”
“Ah!” thought the prisoner. That explained much! He answered, without hesitation: “I went to call on Signor Matteotti.”
“What did you want to see him about?”
“I wanted to tell him that I had heard his speech in the Chamber, and how greatly I admired his courage.”
“You are a Socialist?”
“I am not.”
“Then why do you have so much admiration for a Socialist speech?”
“I admired a brave man speaking the truth.”
“You feel quite sure that what Matteotti said was the truth?”
“Quite.”
“What sources of information do you have about Italian affairs that you feel able to judge on such a subject?”
It was the sort of question for which Lanny’s experience in Paris had prepared him, and his answer was prompt. “I shall make no statement regarding any source of information I may have.”
“Oh, so that is your line!”
“That is my line.”
“You may perhaps know that we have ways of persuading people to talk when we very much want to.”
“You have no way of persuading me to talk about anyone but myself.” Something strange was happening to the scion of Budd Gunmakers at that moment, something which surprised himself; a rush of feeling came up in him, telling him that he would stand anything these brutes might do to him—just for the satisfaction of not letting them have their way! Of course he couldn’t know whether the inquisitor actually meant these threats or was just trying to frighten him; the need for determination was great in either case.
“You have consorted with certain newspapermen in Rome?”
“I have told you that I will answer no such questions.”
“You know Pietro Corsatti?”
“Pardon me. I shall not speak again while you follow that line.” There was a pause.
“You say you admire courage, young man. You think you have enough to go through with what we shall do to you?”
“I make formal demand as an American citizen to be permitted to communicate with my ambassador.”
“You will not be permitted to communicate with anyone until you have answered my questions; and I warn you that if you don’t answer them, you may never do any more communicating anywhere.”
Lanny knew that Ambassador Child had recently returned to America; but he might serve in this crisis, even so. “I warn you that the former ambassador knows me personally, and it won’t be very long before he will be inquiring as to my welfare.”
“How do you come to know the former ambassador?”
“He was a guest of my father and myself at luncheon during the Genoa conference two years ago. It happens that my father was a personal friend of the late President Harding, who appointed Mr. Child to his post.” Lanny thought he might as well pile it on; because, while you can endure torture, there’s no use doing it unnecessarily. “It happens that my father is a leading backer of the Republican party in the United States, and when the newspapermen learn that his son is in the hands of the Italian authorities there will certainly be vigorous action on the part of the Embassy.”
Lanny had shot his bolt, and could only wait to find out if it had come anywhere near the target. “Take this man out into the corridor and wait,” said Balbo. “Watch him carefully.”
IX
Lanny was seated on a bench with a stone wall to lean against, and one of his captors on either side of him, not speaking. He thought as hard as he could, and decided that the Generalissimo had been trying to frighten him and that, having failed, he would now do some telephoning. Having an abundance of time on his hands, Lanny tried to imagine those telephone conversations. Would the new ambassador know about Budd’s? And what would he do? Lanny knew that Mr. Child had been filling American magazines with enraptured praise of Mussolini and his regime. Was the new ambassador of the same opinion? Would he throw Lanny to the Roman wolves? A far from pleasant thought!
For the second time Lanny was making use of his father’s name and influence to get himself out of a serious predicament. It was humiliating, but how much chance would he have stood if he had given his name as Blackless, nephew of a notorious Red agitator? No, certainly Robbie would wish him to be a Budd in this crisis, and to use the Budd name to the limit!
What was actually happening Lanny found out later on. Marie hadn’t stopped to telephone to the Prince, but had taken a taxi to the American Embassy. The ambassador wasn’t in, but she had talked with the chargé d’affaires, who didn’t need to be told that there was a munitions firm known as Budd Gunmakers in Connecticut, or that Robert Budd was a backer of the Republican party. Being a woman of the world, Marie knew how to present the case of an overemotional young art lover who had listened to an eloquent orator and been moved by an impulse of hero-worship. The chargé smiled and said that once upon a time he had been young himself. He promised that if Lanny got into any trouble owing to his too sympathetic nature, the Embassy would assure the Italian government that he was both well connected and harmless. The chargé hadn’t heard the news about Matteotti; he said that it was unfortunate, but of course as a diplomatic official he was compelled to preserve an attitude of aloofness from Italian affairs.
So when Lanny was brought back into the office of Generalissimo Balbo there was no more “rough stuff.” The official contented himself with saying: “Mr. Budd, the Italian government is under the necessity of requesting you to remove yourself from this country at once.”
Said Lanny: “I am entirely willing to comply with that request.”
“Where do you wish to go?”
“To my home on the French Riviera.”
“There is a train this evening, and you will take it.”
“You have perhaps overlooked the fact that I am motoring.”
“Oh, you have a car?”
“I have. Also I have a friend with me.”
“A lady friend, I believe?”
“Si.” Lanny wondered if he was going to have to refuse to answer questions about Marie; but he didn’t.
Said the Generalissimo of the National Militia: “You and your lady friend will start this afternoon. What is the size of your car?”
“It carries five passengers.”
“These two militi will ride in the rear seat and see you over the border. You will not be permitted out of their sight until you are across.”
“It is going to be rather crowded, because we have considerable luggage.”
“You will have to find some way to strap the luggage on, or else have it forwarded. The men will ride with you.”
“It wouldn’t be possible for them to follow in a separate car?”
“I see no reason why the Italian government should be put to that expense.”
“If that is the difficulty, you might permit me to pay the cost of an extra car.”
The Generalissimo thought for a moment. Was he afraid that a fast driver might leave the militi behind? Anyhow, he answered, coldly: “The arrangement would not be satisfactory. You will take the men to the border in your car. And you will leave at once.”
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X
A third man in uniform drove Lanny and his two escorts to the garage where his car was stored. Lanny got it out and drove the two to the hotel, where they accompanied him upstairs. Marie was pacing the floor in an agony of fear, and when she saw him enter the room she had to sink into a chair to keep from fainting. When he explained the situation, she wasn’t so much reassured; the sight of two dark and grim-faced men in uniform made it seem to her another Matteotti affair, and without saying what she was doing she rushed to the telephone to call the Embassy and explain the situation to the charge. The latter told her that he had talked with the Generalissimo and received his assurance that no harm was intended to an indiscreet young American—they just wanted to get him out of the country before he made any more trouble for himself.
The hotel attendants carried the luggage down and it was stowed in one way or another. A great sensation in this de luxe establishment, a scandal that would be talked about under cover; but no one ventured to reveal curiosity in the presence of the two militi. This, Lanny came to understand, is a phenomenon of dictatorships; nobody stops to ask questions or even to stare; everybody has only one thought, to be somewhere else but where power is being manifested.
There were still two or three hours of daylight when the four set out on their strange drive. All the Embassy officials in the world couldn’t give Marie complete assurance, and so long as those two partisans of despotism were in the car her heart would never beat a steady stroke. In Rome itself there was a certain amount of restraint upon the Fascists, there being embassies and newspaper correspondents from all over the world; but in the villages, in remote country districts, armed power had its ferocious way. The highway north which the two travelers had to take crossed many lonely wastes, and wound through mountain passes where an occasional peasant’s hut or a shepherd watching his flock was all they saw. And soon it would be night!
XI
Fascismo had won its way as a revolutionary movement; it had sounded the slogans of the poor and dispossessed, promising them dominance over their oppressors. To be sure, it had been vague as to who these oppressors were, and still vaguer as to what was to be done to them; but the emotional content of the movement was subversive, its followers had marched and sung and shouted their joyful thirst for vengeance. These two soldiers were peasant lads who had been half starved and frozen in the trenches of the Adige, and had fled ignominiously from Caporetto; they had been forced to subservience all their lives—and now for the first time they enjoyed power over the most hated of all types, the idle rich foreigners who had helped to cheat Italy out of her war gains, and who dressed themselves in splendor and came into the country to lord it over the poor and live on the fat of the land.
Had anyone told this pair that they were at liberty to frighten these stranieri and teach them respect for the Blessed Virgin and the Pope, the ancient Roman fasces and the new Roman Empire? Or was it their own inspiration, their native folk humor, a spontaneous contribution to the evolution of Fascismo? No sooner had the car got beyond the suburbs of Roma Beata—blessed Rome—than they started telling each other what they thought of these two bloodsucking leeches, and what was going to happen to them before they escaped from the soil of la patria. They employed the most pungent words in their native dialect, and neither Marie nor Lanny understood them all, but the tone of venom was enough for the purpose. The foreigners knew that they were being deliberately tormented; but how could they be sure whether words were to be translated into deeds? The safe-conduct they had received was purely oral, and there would be little possibility of appeal to authorities on the way.
Just one thing they could do, and that was to drive. Marie didn’t know how, so it was up to Lanny. He would sit with his hands on the steering-wheel and his eyes fixed on the right-hand edge of the tortuous highway, guiding his car through all the different kinds of scenery there are in Italy, seeing nothing of it, but keeping his mind on the one essential task of putting five or six hundred kilometers behind him, one after another. Try not to listen to the “Savages,” the “Damned,” or the “Desperadoes,” whichever they happened to be. Try to understand the poor devils, pity them as the victims of a perverted culture, products of forces which were forever beyond their capacity to comprehend. Apply the wise ancient maxim, to hate the sin and love the sinner!
Marie couldn’t cling to his arm, for fear of interfering with his driving; she could only hold his coat edge, and whisper words of love and comfort. It would be all right; the ride would have its end, they would be safe at home. These poor fools had no real power over them, they could do nothing but talk. Marie whispered in English, on the chance that the poor fools might know some French, and of course she must do nothing to provoke them.
Not being able to get any reaction from the stranieri, the ingenious peasants bethought themselves of a new line of conversation. Those who live close to the soil, in intimate contact with animals, are well-informed concerning the processes of nature; they do not believe that babies are brought by storks, and when they discuss the facts of life they do not talk about the bees and the flowers. They knew that this insolent young americano was traveling with a beautiful francese who was not his wife, and they guessed what they did when they were alone in a bedroom; it entertained their imaginations, and they went into full details about it. Again Lanny and Marie did not know all the words, but they got the gist of it. The francese have a world-wide reputation for being sexually passionate; and perhaps it would be fun to stop the car in the course of the night and show her what real Italian virilita was like. Perhaps the favorita francese might like it so well that she would decide to return to Rome with them. What a joke upon the American millionaire—and surely the Generalissimo would promote them for such a feat!
Marie felt her escort trembling, and that made her tremble. She began a swift whispering, close to his ear, to keep him from hearing what the beasts were saying. “Lanny, don’t speak to them! They are poor country louts. What they say means nothing. They dare not do me any harm, or you. It will soon be over, and we will be safe. Promise me that you won’t answer them, no matter what they say! You broke one promise to me—don’t break another! They want to provoke you, they would like a chance to beat you, perhaps to kill you. Promise me that you will not speak!”
“I promise,” muttered Lanny. He knew that she was right. He would be the young philosopher, and observe human nature in the exercise of suddenly acquired power. He would reflect upon the state of a nation which trained its youth to hold such ideas as this pair revealed. It was something worth learning, it would help one to understand the future. These men were worse than the “Savages” they called themselves; they were barbarians armed with modern weapons, with science and its techniques, not merely industrial, but political and psychological. What would Italy be like if a generation of such men grew up and took possession of its affairs? What would become of history, of music and literature and art? What would they do to the rest of Europe?
XII
Lanny had one way to punish this pair; he discovered it with a sudden thrill of amusement. As the sun sank behind the hills and twilight settled upon the landscape, the spicy conversation gradually lost its charms. They came to a village, and there was an inn with lights, and an odor of roasting meats coming forth; but they drove by it without stopping; they passed through the village at the precisely lawful speed of fifteen kilometers per hour, so that no one could have any excuse for stopping them. When they were well outside, Lanny heard the first civil words he had heard from the lips of Fascismo. It was the Italian version of the familiar American slogan: “When do we eat?”
The deportee answered promptly, in the best Italian he could muster: “We do not eat; we drive.”
Consternation in the back seat. “But, signor, it is necessary to eat!”
“The Generalissimo said nothing about eating. His order was that I should get out of Italy as quickly as possible. Shall I dare to disobey him?”
A
long consultation on the part of Fascismo. It was carried on in low whispers, and Lanny could only try to imagine it. Would they consider putting a gun between his shoulders and ordering him to stop at the next taverna? Or would they reflect that on this basis they would have to pay for their own supper? Could it happen that a government sorely straitened for funds would fail to reimburse its servants for their meals? Would they reflect upon the reputation for lavishness enjoyed by American millionaires? And did they have in their language any equivalent of the American saying that molasses catches more flies than vinegar?
Perhaps so; for when the corporal of the guard raised his voice again, it had a sweetness equal to that of the thickest New Orleans “blackstrap.” “Signor, if you will be so kind as to stop and let us eat, we will be puliti for the rest of the journey.”
“Are the militi permitted to be puliti?” inquired Lanny, coldly.
“We will be puliti, Signor. Onestamente!”
So it was time for an American millionaire to show his better nature. “When we come to the next taverna, you may eat and I will pay.” The whole atmosphere of the journey was changed by that one magical sentence.
Between Two Worlds Page 45