Globusz^® Publishing 

At last the air was crisp, and yet Leo was pouring with sweat. It was rage, not fear, Carlo said to himself. Knowing his cousin, he’d expected him not to take kindly to Badoglio and Carboni's cowardice.

“Mop your face,” he said, handing him a white linen embroidered handkerchief.

“It's far too late now, Carlo.”

“Not if I am admitted to the crown council.”

“OK, let's assume that you succeed in talking that frigging council round and they go along with the armistice. The Nazis won't withdraw, we won't be ordered to attack, and the battle for Rome will be lost before it starts.

“The Nazis—they'll think out the best way of roasting us. Something like the Popes did to brigands and rebels. The frigging Nazis will club us all to death in Piazza del Popolo.”

Carlo checked the time—7 o'clock in the morning. They stopped pacing up and down a narrow street adjacent to Leo's office, the Army Monitoring Service, next to the War Office and the Palazzo Caprara. Two cats were eating the food that an early riser had left for them. One was a tabby, the other, to Carlo's surprise, an exotic blue, a rare breed brought to Europe by the crusaders in the Middle Ages. Wasn't it unusual for it to end up strayed?

A big dog appeared. For some reason, it was more interested in the tabby than in the blue exotic. The two cats fled in opposite directions.

Carlo fidgeted, then gazed at Leo's uniform. Close-fitting tunic, perfectly cut breeches, and highly polished, handmade black boots with silver spurs. Didn't they look even more alike now that Carlo too was in the Italian Royal Army?

Well, everybody said they did. After all, Leo's father and Carlo's mother were brother and sister, and they were both half-Italians, although he, Carlo Rufus Williams, was born in London, the son of a cockney, and Leo della Rovere in Rome, the son of a prince and an American cutie, the daughter of a millionaire.

After a while, Carlo muttered, “They'll do it to me, but they won't do it to you.”

“Do what?” asked Leo, who seemed to have relapsed into a pensive mood.

“The clubbing to death. They'd never do it to you.”

“Why? Explain to me.”

Because he had an Iron Cross, thought Carlo, because there had been a Pope in his family, Julius II, the Pope of the triumvirate. Bramante, Michelangelo, Raphael.

“Because of that,” he said, pointing at the German decoration on Leo's tunic.

“What's wrong with you today? Can't you talk reality? The Nazis don't give a shit.”

Carlo grinned. “How can you say that of our Nazi friends? The true Aryans. Don't you know that Aryan means noble and noble means having lofty ideals? No less than the German commander in Italy loves Italy and her treasures.”

“Look, Carlo... Speaking of this or that cross, has it ever crossed your mind that dear Field Marshal Kesselring loves Italy but hates the Italians and Hitler hates both? He will have Rome set on fire, like Nero.”

“How tragically simple! Hitler going down in history as the emulator of Nero. So in the end he too may die crying, ‘What an artist will be gone with me!’ Wasn't he a painter?”

“It's serious, Carlo. Don't you understand? This is our show. Morally more than anything else.”

Carlo lit a cigarette, pulling on it. He too couldn't help thinking about this mess. To him, to Leo, today used only to be the Nativity of the Virgin Mary. Now, they were discovering that it would also remind them of the way fear plays tricks with history.

Leo carried on, “It's omega, Carlo. I don't enjoy the moment, but let's live it with dignity. In plain words, let's die defending our dignity. Not everybody is a coward in Italy.”

“That's why I want you to lend me a hand. We've got to do our bit for the armistice.”

“I've already told you I'll come along with you. It won't make any difference but I will.

“But you—you can't know everything first hand, can you?”

“I got wise to them playing their tricks. A few words here and there. Also from Lily Broussard.”

Leo gaped at him, open-mouthed.

Carlo said, “The ballerina. You must know about that, surely? That is, about her affair with Sassone di Sant'Elia.”

“No, I didn't know. But... no, repeat it, very clearly and very slowly.”

“Repeat what?”

“What's happened. The whole story. Not Lily Broussard's love affairs.”

* * *

Carlo lit a cigarette and started dressing. The Turkish bath at the health centre of the firemen's barracks had done him good, but the air raid reminded him of Anna. The same American long-range bombers, the flying fortresses. Like that bloody Monday, like that bloody Friday. On Monday, July 19, died Anna; on Friday, August 13, died his old German tutor, a priest.

He was saying Mass in the ancient Church of Santa Maria dell'Orto. The church was destroyed; he lay buried under the debris. Anna, Carlo's wife, was killed while walking out of St Laurence's—a bomb fell on the basilica, destroying the façade. What was she doing at the Basilica of St Laurence Outside the Walls? To its right was the Campo Verano, the municipal cemetery. Had she gone there?

Carlo remembered seeing her maimed body at the Umberto I Hospital, and hoping she wouldn't live. Not like that; not blind and with both legs amputated.

“I confessed.” She had been stupefied with morphine and her voice was very weak. “I'm sorry, Carlo. Forgive me.”

“What for pupa?” He called her pupa, baby, as when they were on their honeymoon. “It was my fault if we weren't always at one.”

It was his fault, and he had been even unable to mourn her. True, they'd both cheated on each other; on that score they were even. He did not love her, she did not love him; at least not enough for a life together. At first they were attracted to each other, sexually; that was all. But when they married he knew better than she did that his philosophy of life would cause them to drift apart, and this made him the guilty partner.

His philosophy of life—he could only define it negatively. It didn't coincide with the philosophy of capital. He didn't give a damn for the aviation industry of Anna's family. She was proud of it. She was proud of her father and his showy life style. Like him, she was happy with the most obvious symbols of prestige, and wanted Carlo to be likewise. To Carlo, however, her father was a vulgarian, a profiteer who had emerged from the Great War as one of the biggest Italian industrialists. No wonder the old man could take over other interests and see all the regulations he asked for lobbied through.

But was there one, only one positive aspect to his own philosophy? Carlo had no answer to this. As a young man, unlike so many people abroad as well as in Italy, he hadn't succumbed to Mussolini's charisma. At the time he simply sensed, wrongly, that the Italians were united, and gave Mussolini credit for that. He believed in the unity of the Italians.

Yet, when he took Italian citizenship, he did a lot of things that had nothing to do with the unity of the Italians. He applied for a place in the army training course for reserve officers, got a commission in the cavalry, fought in Cyrenaica in 1931 against the Senussis of Omar Mukhtar.

For an experience? To prove himself? No, for some other nebulous reason, although it was an experience, and so shocking a one, that he would never forget it. He saw Italian acts of brutality—summary executions ordered by the Italian commander. But he also saw many Italian soldiers and Eritrean askaris castrated or disembowelled by the Senussis.

Carlo also recalled why that minor colonial campaign became so important to him. The Arabs were kicking up a fuss about Italian cruelty. English and French correspondents based in Egypt reported their accusations verbatim, ignoring Senussi barbarities. The Fleet Street and Paris press both condemned and derided the Italians. So, thinking that the Italians were discriminated against, he started writing for newspapers and magazines about the Italians in Africa as soon as Omar Mukhtar was captured and executed and he demobilized.

What philosophy of life was this? It was that of a shallow young man incensed to find out that the Italians were being given a bad press. That of a fool who welcomed Galeazzo Ciano's offer to head the radio division at the Ministry of Information. A fool who believed this to be his opportunity to help redress the balance, to help make Italy known in many languages for what he reckoned she was. And so, after many years, the moment had come for him to show if he was capable of action.

Carlo rung up the Comando Supremo. The Anglo-Americans had bombed Frascati, ten miles away from Rome. He understood. Badoglio's request for a postponement of the armistice was rejected. Otherwise there would have been no air raid today. The raid had been agreed upon in Sicily during the negotiations for the armistice. It was fixed for the morning of X-day, to strike at the German Command and break down its machinery on the day of the armistice.

But the German Command wasn't in the town. It was at the Villa Aldobrandini, between Frascati and Grottaferrata. So the Anglo-Americans had missed the target. The whole of Frascati was flattened—the German High Command South was still intact. Among the casualties were children and women; Field Marshal Albert Konrad Kesselring and his staff and machinery couldn't be better.

But Carlo had a plan. Earlier, at 6.30 a.m., he'd learned from a memo sent to the Comando Supremo that the King would summon a crown council to discuss the armistice at the Quirinale, the royal palace, this evening. The leading authorities were going to be there as well as Carboni. Ciro would be in waiting as assistant to the first aide-de-camp general. If Ciro could have Carlo allowed in, saying that—since the Italian negotiator was still in Sicily—he was the only one who had had a hand in the conclusion of the armistice, he would have a go at persuading the King not to disown it.

Needless to say, because of his junior rank, Carlo needed a pretext to take the floor. That was why he'd told Leo about Badoglio and Carboni, to get him to do an extra duty shift and intercept all radio messages to the Comando Supremo in the late afternoon and early evening. If Eisenhower announced the armistice as expected, Leo, who was quite well known in court circles, would rush to Ciro. Ciro, for urgent matters, had access to the crown council. So he would call Carlo out of the salon to give him the news. Once back, Carlo would address the council and let them know that the Anglo-Americans meant business.

Well, it was good to have spoken to Leo. He was quite willing to help in spite of his doubts about the success of the plan. And so was Ciro...

“You can count on me, all right. But think of this... I'll get you in and you will do the job. And then?”

“The armistice won't be disowned,” Carlo replied.

“All right, and after that they won't lift a finger. Kesselring will assume the initiative. It will be hell for us, and for the Anglo-Americans at Salerno.”

“Christ!” exclaimed Carlo. “You didn't talk like that yesterday. You seemed obsessed by the thought that the armistice might be disowned.”

Ciro took Carlo to the Quirinale gardens. Several cuirassiers of the King's Guards were passing by. When they were gone, he sighed deeply.

“Yesterday I hoped that Maxwell Taylor's determination might have an impact on Badoglio. Today we've learned that it hasn't. It's true, is it not?”

It was. But at least Ciro was ready to make every possible attempt to prevent the whole thing from turning into the usual Italian ruse. The outcome was unpredictable. Still, they had to try.

It was 1.15 p.m. Since Monday Carlo had slept only three hours yesterday morning and even less last night. He jumped on his Guzzi and left the barracks. He had told his housekeeper he would be home for a quick lunch. Well, at least there was still time for a kip.

* * *

“Oh boy!” Carlo held, caressed, kissed her. He couldn't believe it was Christina. But here she was, in his arms, in his flat. She had got to Rome by car the night before.

“Please have your meal,” she said, stroking his chin, beaming at him.

“Why, aren't you having a bite with me?”

“Had a late breakfast at home. I'll keep you company.”

He glanced at the table for two that the housekeeper had laid in his study, and decided on just some oysters, a bunch of grapes, and iced white wine.

“You see, I wasn't hungry,” he said after he finished eating. “I only hunger for you.”

She came easily into his arms and he kissed her, his tongue thrusting deep into her mouth. They broke apart and he watched her as she took off the jacket of the amaranth suit she wore. Her breasts, covered by a white top, inflamed him.

“I want to see you naked.”

“That's up to you,” she said.

In the bedroom he undressed her, fondling her breasts, thighs, back, and bottom. After that, it took him ten minutes to pull off his boots with his old walnut bootjack. When she saw him in breeches and socks, they both laughed out loud. Then she helped him to get undressed. He felt as though he was drowsy with sun; maybe, he thought fleetingly, the Turkish bath hadn't done him any good.

He lay down in bed, with her body covering him. “Amore,” he murmured.

“Amore, my love,” she repeated.

'You... you make love to me.”

He had an orgasm as soon as she started. As he realized that she hadn't finished, a stabbing pain struck across the back of his neck. It was unbearable; nevertheless, he had the impression that it wouldn't last. It did not, but he could make no sense of what she was saying. He couldn't keep his eyes open, yet he saw or believed he saw her patting his cheek.

Time seemed to be moving slowly. One moment he was sure that he wasn't sleeping, the next that he was dreaming. At a certain point he convinced himself that he was awake; he wanted to sleep again in order to resume his interrupted dream.

The dream, if it was a dream, was a kaleidoscope of changing, unrelated scenes. Carlo at the wedding of his cousin Leo with Mirta. Mirta at Carlo and Anna's wedding. Anna in Via Margutta, the street of the artists, with her lover, an architect wearing beige chamois shoes. Christina and Mirta at the Rome Golf Club's swimming pool, both in two-piece swimsuits. Christina telling him that he was unable to achieve an erection. Carlo giving Christina oral sex. Oscar Branting, dressed up as a bishop, sniggering and whispering. Carlo making love to Mirta in a dirty room in a small country hotel. Leo calling him a rogue. Leo telling him that death was like birth—their common heritage.

Then he was with Badoglio and Carboni, surrounded by Germans. The Germans were laughing at him. One of them, an SS, drank a beer, and shouted a few words. Two Germans gave him two injections. His arm ached. He was certain that they were going to amputate it. Then they shaved his moustache off. Then Christina gave him a glass of iced white wine. Then all sensations left him.

Christina had already got dressed when Carlo woke up at 4 o'clock. “Wasn't I right?” she said, after kissing him on the eyelids. “You are stressed out, but you are still alive.”

“Did I say I was going to die?”

“That sums it up.”

“Christ! Amore, I must attend a crown council at the Quirinale. Listen to me. I'll tell you what it's about while I get ready.”

When he was through with all the facts, she said, “You've already put your health at risk, but I don't want to argue. I'll put a simple question to you. If I asked you to call off this crazy, deadly game, would you for your sake and mine?”

“Oh Jesus! Leo and Ciro too said it's crazy but they are taking their share in the plan. Want to know why? There is no alternative.”

“Why are you such a fool! Put your imagination to work.”

“Are you spoiling for a fight?”

She raised her voice. “For goodness' sake, if those bastards reject the armistice, if Eisenhower announces it all the same, they will have to justify themselves to the Germans.

“Whom do you think they will throw to the lions? That fool of a Williams, a minor figure, a reserve major, half-English and half-Italian, a ‘traitor’ who made the case for peace from the beginning of this dirty war until today.”

“Well, I am now making the case for the armistice and they wanted it,” replied Carlo.

“You only see the logical side of this dirty business. It's childish to believe that human behaviour is dictated by the principle of non-contradiction. Especially the behaviour of such chickens as the Italian leaders.”

“Oh shut up!”

“You shut up!”

“Let's leave it there.”

She carried on, “They will say they knew nothing—that dwarf, your King, that colonial criminal, your prime minister, that little fop of a Carboni, and all the gang of villains that govern your sunny country. They will put the blame on you and the negotiator. Since the negotiator is in Sicily, it is you, the ‘fool’, they will hand to the Germans.”

“Bullshit!”

“You are a fool, and you've also begun looking like a fool. Answer my question... Are you calling this game off or not?”

Wasn't she right after all? Shouldn't he turn to something else? He was still too young to keep harking back to his memories. The outbreak of the war; everything that went wrong with it; his humble work for Galeazzo, for their useless peace initiatives. All too often, he'd tried to put all those memories behind him. But he couldn't help it. He was obsessed with them, with his outlook, with his promises. And now that they were at a turning point...

“I can't.” he shouted.

“Bastard!”

She picked up her bag and stormed away. He tailed after her, as she strode through the corridor. He noticed that the damn bag was white like her shoes. As she stepped outside, he held the door open.

“Don't be cross with me,” he said loudly.

“Bastard!”

“Oh Jesus! Don't call me a bastard. I have to take the risk.”