he used for outsiders, but once in the room, he deflated onto the chair at her side.
She held out a limp hand to him. ‘Amore’. She smiled wanly.
Ben took her hand, held it to his cheek then kissed her palm. ‘How is my angel today?’ He leaned towards her with concern. ‘I need to speak to your father. He has not come in from the hospital yet. My cold is not improving and the doctor has prescribed some new pills for me.’
More pills. Their life was a sea of pills. Sometimes she wondered if all these medicinals were really helping.
Ben was on the balcony and beneath him, the crowd roared. Du-ce! Du-ce! Du-ce! The twenty-first of April, the anniversary of the founding of Rome. From where she stood, it was obvious to Clara that the crowd was much smaller, but he seemed happy and that made her happy. She massaged her left shoulder where she had fallen against the table the other night. It was three days ago but the bruise was still tender. It was her own fault. She should not have provoked him. He would be nice this afternoon. They could have a peaceful time together, like earlier times when she used to stand here in the shadows, Ben performing for her, before the horde of adulators below. Afterwards they would make love like wild creatures – then her bruises were a pleasure. Or when, in the early throes of his infatuation, he would ensure she was seated at an angle to him at public events, so he could fix her with his eyes like a falcon.
‘See. They love me. A ring of the bell and everyone rushes under the balcony to hear me,’ he exulted as he turned back inside ‘These boots are too tight. Get Navarra to bring me the others.’
She sighed and turned to ring for Quinto.
‘Why are you sighing? You don’t agree with me? You don’t think they adore me as always?’
He was not happy, then. He had another cold too. She tried to deflect his ire, indicating the new painting Quinto had delivered, a gift from Ottone Rosai. Years before, Ben commissioned Rosai to paint two huge landscapes for the railway station of Santa Maria Novella. How many railway stations, he boasted, are adorned with original art? In private though, Ben was bored by paintings. He barely flicked the new picture a glance. Even on a state tour of the Uffizi with Hitler, who was obsessed with art, showing intense interest and curiosity about the Botticelli and the other famous paintings, Ben could barely suppress a yawn. Clara would need to come up with something else to distract him.
‘Have you had bad news from Africa, my pet?’ she soothed. The war was going badly – and not just in Africa, but Ben no longer seemed to care.
‘This war is not for the Italian people,’ he replied. For the looming humiliation of defeat in Tunisia, he blamed Rodolfo Graziani. He should have known better than to put Graziani in charge of the African campaign. ‘The Italian people do not have the maturity or the consistency for such a tremendous and decisive test.’
Ben had lost faith in Italians and in the war. His voice had the edge it got when losing his temper. Was he taking more pills she did not know about? Sometimes he took too many and sometimes new pills upset him. He was puffed with rage.
Ben rose on the balls of his feet, his body turned away from her. ‘The Grand Council met today.’
The Grand Council could only be convened by the Prime Minister, that is, by Ben. Clara had known nothing of a meeting today and she prided herself on knowing these things. She knew Ben did not mean the full Council – that had not met formally since the war began. He meant Starace, Pavolini, Farinacci … that lot! Still, his use of the term was sinister.
She was alert. ‘What was it about?’
‘It was about you!’ Ben whirled to her, his face contorted. His collar was too tight, choking him. ‘You! Always you! This cannot go on. It makes me look a fool. I have decided to end it.’
Again! Each time was worse. The last time, it was that swine, Ciano, who wrote to his father-in-law that her family was interfering in politics. She had copied the letter into her diary: The whole family interferes on the left and protects on the right and threatens above and intrigues below. Ben’s sister Edvige was in league with the Count, accusing Clara and her family of profiteering and causing scandal. Marc’s activities certainly did not help, but it was so unfair. People even blamed her for the way the war was going.
It was the fault of the English, who broadcast constant lies about her. They said Ben was bewitched and she was an evil force. If only they knew. Ben could not function without her. Twice recently, she had arrived at the gates of Palazzo Venezia only to be refused admittance. She begged and pleaded and sobbed and wailed and he shouted and stamped and raged and capitulated. That was the way things went these days.
‘How dare they! How dare you!’ she cried. ‘They all want me dead. One day they will have me killed. Is that want you want? You want to be rid of me! You want me killed!’
Her voice climbed to a screech, hurting her throat. She grasped the heavy silver teapot with both hands and pitched it across the room. It landed with a spray of tea-leaves and tile slivers, leaving an ugly crater in the antique majolica of the floor, and bounced against the wall. For a moment after the racket, there was silence.
‘It is no use.’ He was calm now. His eyes were empty, in the way that should have warned her. ‘I have decided. The cycle is closed.’
Clara had no life outside their life. She had formed no friendships; how could she? She was the target of envy and hate. She had no education, no career. She had nothing but Ben and her family. All of this she gladly suffered for him, for love. Was he blind? She knew her Lion would be nothing without her and she knew that without him, she would be eaten alive. She grasped the fruit knife, holding the tip at her throat.
‘It is better if I die now, then.’
The slap echoed in the vast chamber. Ben hit her with his open hand and the force snapped her head to the left. She thought for a moment her head might swivel right around, but then the back of his hand took her from the other side. She saw the blood spray from her nose onto his cuff. Then the palm of his hand swung back. She flailed at him, scratching, clawing, hissing. The teacups crashed across the room and the small glass table shattered against the window step. Shards of her life cut them both. Ben was no longer calm. The punch felled her. So you really do see stars, she thought. The dark descended.
Clara opened her eyes to the ornate blue and gold Zodiac on the ceiling far above her. Her father was talking quietly to Ben, whose eyes were red and puffy. Quinto hovered at the foot of the chaise where she lay. On a table beside her was an array of bottles and ampoules. She felt wonderful, infused with peace. She wanted to raise her hand but it was too difficult. She smiled. Quinto smiled back at her and touched Ben on the arm. He turned, throwing himself to the floor beside her.
‘Amore mio. My love. My love. Thank God you are all right.’ He kissed the palm of her hand over and over and stroked her cheek.
Was that blood on his sleeve?
‘Your father has given you some special medicine. You will be better soon.’
Clara smiled again and closed her eyes. She felt as if she was back at school with the nuns. She might say a prayer, or perhaps later. She was very tired. There was a pain somewhere but it was not hers. The storm had passed.
CHAPTER 3
Rome 1943
Et tu, Brute
The doctor was gone and the injection was beginning to work. Ben was quiet now, stretched out on the sofa, almost asleep, his breathing raspy but regular. He was not at all well. The strain of things was wearing him down. Clara smoothed his forehead but he brushed her hand aside. His ulcer was playing up – his breath smelled of vinegar. She had told him not to go to Libya and the ulcer was the result. This heat was not helping. July