The city of Venus is destroyed. The city of Odysseus rises from the ruins of our common dream. The city of Venus sinks into legend but the city of Odysseus endures, a monument to the Age of Reason. Why could they not leave us alone? What was our crime? We are drowning in our own anger, I said. Nothing is solved. We are making fresh problems. Nothing is reconciled. Blood for blood, they said. Blood for blood. The black barges took the corpses to the coast. Black blood filled the rivers. The streams were viscous and became sewers full of entrails.
The Greeks wept for their stolen souls. They took our future to replace it with an illusion. So many false promises. The black barge carried me through tall canyons. Little birds filled my mouth. I could no longer tell them the truth. The spear thrust at the water. Cruel eyes stared back at me. I discovered no warmth in her breast. I told her that she must escape. She did not understand. It is no longer safe here, I said. Her white arms enclosed me. She tried to make me sleep but I struggled. I could not afford to sleep, I told her.
I asked her to find Mrs Cornelius. Mrs Cornelius can help. My guardian angel. But she could not hear me. We will take you home, she said. You will be safe there. But how could she be telling me the truth? There was no home here any longer that was not dangerous. The dark rivers led only to the Land of Death. They must turn the boat. There was red flame on the horizon. Thick, grey smoke boiled through the canyons and engulfed us. I began to freeze. I am dying, I said. I will die without my past. But the past was dead.
I was lifted in the arms of the boatman. I looked up into his face. Full of distant pity, the face of the Jew in Marrakech stared at me. He had stared until the rats ate his eyes.
They always eat the eyes first, I said. They want no witness to their infamy.
We thought we were cleansing Russia of her sin, cleansing her of the evil within. History is a traitor. Virtue is mocked.
I struggled. But the Jew was too strong for me.
He is the Turnface. That which I execrate is dirt. I eat it not, that I may appease my Genius. Let me not drink lye. Let me not advance blindly into the Netherworld. I am both Man and Woman. I am my own child. I bear my own child. I am the child of myself, which is both Man and Woman. I am created in purity. The Turnface carries my child to the shore. He places me in the Land of Death. When I call to him he is already upon the water, his spear piercing the dark surface below which the Beast swims. By killing myself I can escape the Beast. The Beast has no soul. The Beast cannot follow into the Land of Death.
I am carried through deeper darkness. There are galleries and cloisters which murmur with rage. They are hung with rotting canvases. The fabric disintegrates, falling into rags upon the filthy flagstones. Rusting chains support lamps clogged with the dust of decades; their brass is covered with a patina of betrayal, of ruined dreams and lost causes; all the lies which coagulate here have turned into material filth. No fires burn, yet the shadows slide and twist within the walls. Faces plead from the crumbling plaster.
‘You are safe,’ she says. ‘You are home.’ But she does not understand. The Turnface has taken me from my home. Now I am alone in the Land of Death. Must I pay another price? How much must I pay and for how long?
I was carried into the citadel of decay. Nothing is allowed to live. They cared for nothing. They valued nothing. They lived only for power and public glory. Their houses are filled with shame. Their houses fill with excrement. They forget their history and their honour. All they once valued, they now despise. They betray their own souls and for that there is no forgiveness.
Those naked youths drift on a bloody river and the girls scream beneath the starving bodies of their captors. The Turk grins to see his victory. Constantinople has fallen. Tsargrad has fallen. And we, protectors of her ancient virtue, we too have fallen, unwept, unburied.
We too have fallen.
She touched her fingers to my mouth. She stroked my eyes. You are safe. You are home. Sleep and you will be well.
But if I sleep I will die.
Something Americans do not understand.
She is soft against me. As if she can pour her own life into me. She cools me with her tears. But I know her strength. It is almost gone. And then I will be alone. I must get to the station. I must escape. We must find the City.
We will go to Rome, she promises. As soon as you are well. You have a fever. You have caught a chill. We will get you something to make you better.
The old man looks down on me. His face is framed by his cowl. He speaks in a low voice, but I cannot understand his language. He uses a dialect. Perhaps it is Etruscan. His blood has dried in his veins but his mouth is sweet. His eyes contain baffled love.
He sings to me. He sings a song they sang in Ur as the first stones were laid. He sings a song of birth, as if he tries to coax the child from my womb. But my child is the child of Death. My child is dead.
He sings. He places his lips upon mine. He breathes the air of centuries into my withered lungs. He blows dust into my eyes. He blows dust into my nostrils. He blows dust into my ears. But still sleep will not come. To sleep is to die, I explain. Not here, he says. Here you are safe. But I am not safe. How could I be safe in this place where all is decay and the very stones rot, collapsing to atoms before the advance of my enemies? I witness an illusion. I see no substance to this house save the substance of corruption. Worms feast upon the library. Worms feast upon memories. Lice infest the carpets. When you tread on them you sink in the pile of luxury. Only when you lift your feet, hanging with maggots, do you understand how you have left your prints in living matter.
That’s the only mark one makes upon Time, he says.
That is all you leave for others to follow.
No, he said. There is more. You must stay. You must go back.
I told him to withdraw. He had made himself my enemy. I could no longer trust him. My only chance is to get to the station. My only chance.
He was sorrowing when he went away. I believe he thought he was helping me.
Then her softness took the last of my strength. But I did not care. She had promised to help me find the station.
I still have no real memory of leaving the Palazzo da Bazzanno. Maddy Butter, in scarcely any better condition than I, accompanied me to the railway terminal. Fiorello da Bazzanno himself came to wave us goodbye. He regretted he could not let us have the keys of his flat. He had already loaned them to another friend. But a call to Signora Sarfatti in Rome had been enough to secure us a lovely little cottage off the Via Nicola Porpora near the Zoological Gardens. He knew it. We would find it a miniature paradise. He would join us in the capital as soon as the festival was over. He was solicitous. ‘My dear friend! Your travels have exhausted you, and I was too thoughtless a host to notice. You will rest in Rome, and when I get there we shall relax together. Then, I insist, you must meet Il Duce. He will not want to let you go!’
My experience of the previous night had certainly depleted my nerves. I could hardly lift my head to thank him. I was scarcely aware of my surroundings. Everything had taken on a phantasmagoric quality. The contrasts were stronger, the angles were sharper, the shadows more dramatic. It was as if, dazed, I was watching a Technicolor film in which the brightness had been dramatically heightened.
Our first-class compartment was everything I remembered from the great days of the Russian Imperial Railways. The company had paid considerable attention to the decor. Glowing mahogany was inset with brass and walnut, upholstery was rich black and gold. Deep armchairs had their own tables, electric lamps and service bell. We found magazines and newspapers in all European languages, a small library of books in Italian, French, English and German, a fresh-air system, iced water and a thoroughly stocked bar. For all her experience of Pullmans, Maddy had never been on a train like it. She was delighted with everything. The sensation of luxury began to lift my spirits a little, too.
I had no desire to take a last look at Venice. Instead, I drew the curtains and closed my eyes, glad to sleep. The train d
rew away from the City of St Mark, slowly gathering speed and turning west towards Padua on the first stage of our journey to Rome.
I hardly noticed the passing of the first few hours until the grey-haired steward arrived to make up our beds. Chatting to us, he laid out the crisp sheets with expert skill. Did we have everything we needed? Did we wish to have a light supper served in our compartment? Clearly the signor was a little unwell. Was there anything he could do for us?
We thanked him and ordered a supper of salmon and salad which we washed down with a little champagne and a glass or two of excellent wine. The meal cleared, I laid out several generous lines of cocaine to speed our recovery. I know of nothing like that life-sustaining drug for replenishing lost energy. In this alone Freud and I were agreed.
When we had savoured la neve we opened our curtains to look at the dark hills and occasional lights of the evening landscape. Maddy wept, held me in her arms and told me how concerned she had been for me. ‘Those people almost killed you! If it hadn’t been for that doctor, heaven knows what might have happened.’
I considered what his motive had been. She was surprised. Still the innocent American, she thought the Jew had acted out of nothing but kindness. I agreed that this was possible. I had experienced the phenomenon before, in Russia.
‘You spoke much of Russia last night,’ said Maddy Butter. ’I could hardly understand a word. But sometimes you used English. Sometimes French. German, I think. I couldn’t make much sense of it.’
Anxious in case I had inadvertently betrayed a trust or been indiscreet, I asked her what I had said.
‘You spoke of Odessa and Kiev, of your mother. You were going to meet her in London. She is with a Mr Green. Who is Esmé?’
‘Esmé is dead,’ I told her.
‘You cared for her. Was she your sister?’
I nodded. ’Killed by anarchists in Ukraine, 1921.’
‘And Kolya?’
‘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’ltalia, 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 i
n 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.
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