by Tessa Lunney
“Tomorrow is the big day.” He drew in his breath, as though to inhale the history of power in this city. “We’ve had word that the squadristi were marching from Naples a couple of days ago. Literally marching, up the roads to the capital, like this was Ancient Rome and they are coming to petition the Caesar! They bring Caesar with them, of course.”
“Their own Caesar? Who might that be?”
“Look at this square.” He gestured to the waiters and newsstands, the children lugging grocery bags and men on bicycles.
“You wouldn’t know that the country is under siege, would you? Yet that’s what they’re saying, that’s what the Italian prime minister understands, it’s what the king fears! Even now the Blackshirts are at the gates of the city, even now they are preparing Benito Mussolini to take over as prime minister! How do you like that, eh? Our movement, global in nature but national in character, has begun its ascent to power. We’re going to take over the world. By we, I mean, of course, German fascism. This Italian stuff… I like to think of it as a test run. However far Mussolini can get, our Leader will get twice as far. That’s just the German character, to be more organized, to follow an idea through to completion. These Italian ideas will find their fullest expression in Germany, I assure you. Our movement and our Leader will guarantee it.
“But you’re here to photograph strong young men in their smart black uniforms, aren’t you? You should be able to get plenty of that tomorrow. If the fascisti demands aren’t met today, the Blackshirts will enter Rome and head straight to parliament. That’s where we come in, us Brownshirts and National Socialists. We will parade with them.”
“In solidarity.”
“Solidarity? I’m not having any of that Bolshie nonsense! No, no, as allies, so they can parade with us if ever needed. Not that we will ever need them, our movement is growing at a fantastic rate. But we’re also here to observe them, you know, check their strength, check their discipline, meet their leaders. Are they as passionate as they were in Fiume, and as decadent? Are they as iron-willed as the Freikorps have been in Silesia? That sort of thing. And Rome, well… a little warmth and sunshine at this end of the year doesn’t go astray.”
“Are there many people here with you?”
“Just the boys… oh, you mean from Paris and Germany, non-Italians… I don’t have exact numbers but a few, yes, quite a few. Felix is not one of them, unfortunately, not this time… Hausmann is taking care of all of that. A fellow traveler, a Brit who’s seen the light. He’s organizing transport, uniforms, that sort of thing. I have my own uniform already, of course.”
“A Brownshirt uniform?”
“A National Socialist uniform. But yes, it includes a brown shirt. Proud to wear it… yes, very proud.” It was strange to hear this English public-school voice quaver with emotion, to see this prematurely aged man mist up at the thought of a uniform. His so-called authority was simply age and bluster, but his commitment to his new ideals was genuine. Even though his suit was beautifully tailored, he looked out of place, a dark stain on the warm stone.
“So, will you join the Blackshirts tonight?”
“That rabble? No. Tonight I’ll introduce Phillip and the boys to some of the Ras, the leaders, and perhaps Mussolini as well. Much better for us to stick with our class of men. Tomorrow, if and when the Blackshirts enter the city, then we can put on our uniforms and make a show of force. The world will listen then.”
“As I am listening now.” I couldn’t help but quote Shelley.
“Of course you are,” he patted my hand. “Now, how about a hot chocolate? Or are you sweet enough already, eh?”
49
“a kiss in the dark”
“Did you do it?”
“Of course I did it, Maisie.”
Bertie opened the doors between our rooms. “Did you do it?”
“Bertie, please, do you even need to ask?”
“Did she do it, Bertie?” Tom called out from the other room.
“Oh, ye of little faith!” I pulled out a bottle from my voluminous coat sleeve. “Now, come and get some of this, ah, Campari, before the night begins.”
“So, Katie King, when do the princes get here?” asked Maisie.
“Pre-dinner, so… within an hour, but they’re notorious for being late. That will work to our advantage as I want the party to be roasting nicely when they arrive.”
“And the dancers?” asked Tom.
“Fry’s dropping them off at the staff entrance at six.” I poured everyone glasses of Campari to which Bertie added soda water. “We’re going to party for our lives.”
We transformed the two rooms into one large room by folding back the interlocking doors, pushing the beds against the walls, and moving the chairs and couches into little groupings around the tables. Maisie dressed in a flowing emerald green silk dress that caressed every curve and showed off her strong back and arms. She immediately became the hostess, ordering prosecco and red wine from the bar, ordering cheese and charcuterie from the kitchen, making sure there were enough cigarettes and glasses and fresh air. She even managed to bully the concierge into sending up the jazz trio that were busking outside the café downstairs, arranging them in the corner and telling them to play whatever they liked. Bertie, after putting on a light gray wool suit with a huge pink rose in the lapel, turned up with half the cast of an opera, who had been performing a little show, for free, in a nearby piazza. Tom turned up with the dancers, all in tiny pink tutus with huge feather fans and satin shoes.
“You really need a new suit, Tom-Tom. Look at that cuff.”
“The girls didn’t seem to mind.”
“That’s because you’re acting like an excited puppy.”
“Maybe that’s how I feel.”
“Do you need to be put on a leash?”
“I’m not about to lick anyone’s face, don’t worry.”
I burst out laughing.
“And as for soiling the carpet, Button, I think your cigarettes will be the worst offender.”
“Maisie’s ordered extra ashtrays.”
“You’ll ignore them.”
“Yap yap yap.”
And he growled at me, but it wasn’t an angry growl, not with that look.
“Kiki! You need a matching rose,” Bertie called. “Though it will hardly go with that little red number.”
“I like a bit of pink and red,” said Tom.
“Ha! You would,” said Bertie. “Have a rose. It might enliven your very tired suit.”
“Why is everyone worried about my suit?”
“Because of what it says about the man inside it,” I said quietly. Tom looked at me, stricken.
“Come, come, enough of that,” said Bertie. “I believe there are some feather fans calling you, Tom. You work on them, I’ll see about my operatic blow-ins.”
Both of them looked over their shoulder at me as they walked off, Bertie with a wink that hid his sadness, Tom without even the wink. It would take more than this red silk dress, backless and short though it was, to enliven the mood. I took a swig of Campari, a puff of my cigarette, reapplied my lipstick, and gave Maisie a huge hug.
“What’s this for, Katie?”
“For being fabulous. For the work we’re about to do.”
“Oh that, no worries. It’ll be easy compared to hosting the German ambassador and his hollow-eyed wife, their atrocious French sour with defeat. I thought they’d never smile, especially not when they saw my Vlaminck. Luckily they had a sweet tooth and the foot-high lemon meringue pie did much to soothe the jangling aftershocks of the peace treaty and modernist art.” She said all this while adding prosecco to my Campari, relighting my cigarette, and using a well-hidden hanky to wipe off a bit of smudged lipstick on my cheek.
“You do your job, Katie. I want to enjoy Rome tomorrow without worrying if I’m going to be co-opted into some political cult.”
The band took their cue from the dancers and played music that had floated over the Atlantic, become tangle
d in the Mediterranean, and offered itself up as Italian-accented jazz. The dancers loved it, the opera singers loved it, everyone’s shoulders relaxed as they had another drink and then another. I checked the clock on the table; it was time for the princes to arrive. This meant that Charlie and Phillip would probably be waiting for them in the foyer. I peered out the window. Fry sat at a café table with an English newspaper; that was a nice touch. Tinker should be inside, persuading the Germans to join him… yes, there they were, Charlie straight as a pillar, Phillip slender as a willow, Tinker marching beside them. I could see from the set of their shoulders they were already talking business. Fry stood up and shook their hands, folded his newspaper, slipped it over to Charlie—clever, Charlie would eat up all this clandestine stuff—and Charlie picked up the paper and read the note Fry had tucked inside, stashing the note into his jacket pocket. Tinker called for wine, Fry offered cigarettes, all four sets of elbows were on the table as they leant forward to talk. I exhaled in relief. Charlie and Phillip had taken the bait, they were conferring with Tinker and Fry about how best to meet Mussolini and the other Ras leaders. Tinker and Fry clearly knew what to say, though I kept my place by the window. I wouldn’t feel safe until the princes were with Fry, and Fox confirmed that they were on their way back to London.
“Katie!” Maisie called from the door.
There they were, the Prince of Wales and his youngest brother, known to their family as David and George. David looked arrogant, his blue eyes glinting, but as his gaze swept the room a lost look swept his face. His brother, young and dapper, dark-haired with a coy smile, accepted two drinks and a cigarette with a laugh of pure glee. The trio played a little faster, the singers fluted their greetings, and the dancers flapped their fans so the lights dappled. I put on my sweet-socialite face, grabbed a bottle of prosecco and rushed up to them.
“Your Royal Highnesses.” I curtsied, bottle in one hand and glass in the other.
“Very nicely done!” The Prince of Wales grinned as he looked me up and down.
“I say, no need for all of that, curtsying and whatnot.”
“No, indeed, it rather puts a dampener on things.”
“Just a hello is enough. And some of that champagne.”
“It’s prosecco, sir.”
“Please, it’s George, call me George. Oh! You’re the golden acrobat!”
“Porgy, you are slow! She invited us here.”
“Oh, I see! Well, some of that prosecco would be nice anyway. I rather liked your golden knickers… but this little red thing is rather nice too.”
“Thank you… George.” He returned my smile very readily.
“You can still call me sir,” said the Prince of Wales.
“Though only until ten o’clock,” said George. “After that, it’s David, Davy, Wavy, Smiley…”
“That’s enough, Porgy.”
“Well,” I said, “let’s drink to ten o’clock then.”
“Oh no, we have to have dinner with—”
“They’ll wait for us, George.” The Prince of Wales turned to me and clinked my glass. “To ten o’clock.”
They walked with me into the party and were immediately surrounded by fans, spangles, and song. The opera singers and dancers tested their English and exercised their French by chatting to the star guests. The princes looked pleased, David expectant and George thrilled, at the attention they received. Maisie worked with the singers, conversing in French and topping up their glasses, making sure they had enough to eat. Tom organized the dancers, introducing them to the princes, making sure the musicians had enough booze to keep them playing, encouraging the dancers to sit by David two at a time. Bertie sat down next to George and immediately began a long and intense conversation that I could see, even from across the room, was becoming quite flirtatious. I chatted and drank but I had to stay near the window.
Fry and Tinker were still talking earnestly to Charlie and Phillip. Phillip listened politely but Charlie’s body movements were much more expressive, changing every time I looked. He leant forward across the table, jabbing his finger into the tabletop. Then he leant back, arms folded across his chest, head down. He read the note again with affected nonchalance. He checked his watch and indicated that he had to go. He tried to get out of his chair—I was stuck by the window, the jazz and laughter faded, the wine stopped working—but Tinker caught his wrist. Fry stood abruptly as Phillip jumped up, taking the prince by the arm. Phillip and Charlie were outraged, Fry turned and signaled to… Vittorio, who came running over, nodded, and ran back to where he’d come from. All four men spoke earnestly, clearly trying to keep their voices down. Vittorio returned with a man in a black uniform and a ringmaster’s moustache. This Blackshirt gave a salute, heels together and arm straight in the air at a 45-degree angle, palm down. It was a strange, arresting, powerful salute; Phillip and Charlie stopped trying to get away, they shook the Blackshirt’s hand, they began to talk at him, particularly Charlie. Fry looked up at my window then, just long enough for me to understand that he saw me, and he gave a tiny nod. Now was the time.
50
“fate”
I caught Maisie’s eye and nodded. She gave the signal to Tom as I slipped around to the door and rushed down the end of the corridor. There was a shiny new fire alarm in the hall in a glass box, with a little hammer next to it. I checked the hall—empty—took the hammer and swung, smashing the glass and setting off the alarm. An unholy wail filled the hallway. I rushed back to the room, entering by the door at Bertie and Tom’s end and slipping in behind the band.
“What’s that?” asked George.
“Of all the damned…” The Prince of Wales looked furious.
“It’s the fire alarm.” I said, “We need to evacuate.”
“Sir,” said Tom, “we could follow the dancers, but perhaps you might prefer a more… private exit?”
“Very well, come on.” The Prince of Wales was cross.
“This way,” said Bertie as he touched George’s wrist.
We moved into the corridor, away from the concerned, cranky, slow-moving guests, to the other end of the hallway, to the heavy door and poor lighting of the staff stairwell.
“Hello,” said George. “This is a bit exciting. I can’t see a thing.”
“What is this damned place?” David’s voice rang down the stone stairs. “The staff entrance?”
“Precisely, sir,” I said. “None of the other guests will see you, this way, nor see how friendly you are with the dancers.”
“I don’t give a damn if they see me being friendly to dancers! I won’t be pushed down the staff stairwell!”
“Come on, David, they can hardly pull out the red carpet in an evacuation.”
“It’s unseemly! It isn’t proper!”
“It’s happening regardless,” said Tom under his breath. We could hear voices in the corridor, strident, vaguely German.
“Do you smell smoke?” I asked.
“Yes… I think I do,” said Bertie.
“Let’s go,” said George and started to bolt down the stairs with Bertie. We set off after them, but I turned to see David still at the door.
“Please, sir.” I hoped my voice sounded soft to him and not the whine it sounded to me. “I’m sure…”
“You aren’t sure of a thing. I can’t smell smoke.” He turned back to the door. I rushed up; he couldn’t leave by the main entrance and risk seeing Charlie and Phillip.
“Sir.” I was breathless. “Please…”
I was breathless from nerves and alcohol, and I let this settle into a melodramatic chest-heaving. My desire to get him down the stairs to Fry, my need to complete this mission, I let these things widen my eyes, part my lips, restrict my breath. He paused, just enough to take a step closer, wary but curious. A door banged somewhere above us. As he looked up, I took his wrist gently and started to run down the stairs. He tripped slightly and the momentum of almost falling meant he had no choice but to run down the stairs behind me. We wound
down and down, only a few flights but it felt like descending from the roof of St. Pauls. Our footsteps were loud, our breathing was loud, there were clangs and bangs that seemed to come from inside the stone. David looked fierce, angry and frightened, but I couldn’t help that. Eventually I felt some fresh air from outside, I heard Bertie and George, I saw Tom standing at the door, holding it open. I felt David pull back, pull his wrist out of my hold, but the forward momentum of going down the stairs meant he barrelled past me, out the door, and ran into his brother.
“Davy! I thought you weren’t going to make it.”
I saw a car pull up from a side street.
“George, these people—it isn’t right!”
Fry jumped out of the passenger seat and ran toward us.
“Don’t be silly, they’re only…”
Fry put his hand in his jacket pocket—was he really pulling out a gun?—no, it was some kind of paper or certificate. He stopped in front of the princes.
“Who the hell are you?” David’s ears were red.
“Your Royal Highnesses, from the Home Office.”
“Oh no…” George pouted at Bertie. “I feared this might happen. We never get to have any fun.”
David snatched the paper from Fry and read it quickly.
“Who the hell is this ‘Fox’? I’ve never heard of him.”
“Sir, the car is waiting. This way.”
“No! I bloody well won’t come!” Did the Prince of Wales just stamp his foot?
“Oh, come on, Davy. There’s no use arguing.”
“Who is this Fox to order us about, I’d like to know!”
“What does it matter? Fox, Weasel, Salamander—they’re taking us back to the Lion and Unicorn.”
“Mother is not a bloody unicorn.”
“And Father is not a lion, though he will maul us if he finds we’ve been… having fun, with Uncle Charlie.”
“Sir, if I may…” Fry indicated the car. Yes, the Prince of Wales did just stamp his foot. Tom and Bertie had faces so expressionless I knew they were calling on all of their army training to restrain themselves. The car started inching across the square.