and for a few minutes the atmosphere was strained. The chamber was mute. Then a spate of accusations spewed over him. Sharpened questions flew at him from every direction, assertions shouted, aspersions cast, all inhibition tossed aside. He thought of Caesar.
No longer did they cower before his great desk in the vast Mappamondo salon of Palazzo Venezia. Once, they would have had to walk the long, long length of that salon, from the door at the far end to his desk, before which no-one was ever asked to be seated, but was left to stand for the whole of the interview. Now it was as if Mussolini were the defendant in the dock.
‘You have imposed a dictatorship on Italy that is historically immoral!’
Did Grandi have froth at the corners of his mouth? His sweaty face was that of a stranger. It seemed a long time ago, that Grandi had written to him, ‘My life, my faith, my soul, are yours.’
Mussolini thought he might faint. It must be the heat. He tugged at his collar – his face felt florid and sweaty and his breathing was ragged. It was important, however, to speak with authority. ‘I think we will take an adjournment until tomorrow. As you know, my health is poor and I am feeling unwell.’
An exchange of astonished glances arced around the room. Grandi stood. ‘We have been kept here on many occasions until five in the morning to discuss some trifle you thought was important.’
He made it plain that they would be here all night, if that was what was required. They would allow a short adjournment and then recommence.
They were there all night. Exhaustion, reaction and fear had set in by the time Mussolini, still nominally chairing the meeting, put the motion to the vote. It was carried by a majority. The reign of Il Duce was over.
His voice feeble and tremulous, Mussolini leaned on the desk as he rose to speak. ‘We can go. You have provoked the crisis of the Regime. The meeting is over.’
It was two o’clock in the morning. Most left hurriedly, guilty and shaken by what they had set in motion. A few stalwarts remained for a desultory discussion of retribution against the rebels. Mussolini’s heart was not in it. He was too tired to care.
Clara woke early to the summery Roman morning, anxiety weighing upon her like a winter eiderdown. Kicking herself free of the damp sheet, she lay wondering what terrible thing had happened – she had faith in her instincts in these matters. She rang for her maid and ordered a cup of tea. Kneeling quickly, she crossed herself and muttered a plea to Saint Rita. Then she slipped an arm into her organza negligee, hesitated, pulled it off and tossed it onto the back of a spindly chair where the pale green gossamer fluttered softly in the breeze from the open window, a butterfly settling. Better to dress immediately and face whatever had occurred at the meeting.
More meticulous than ever in the choice of her ensemble, she chose a light cream cotton suit with short cap sleeves, a narrow peplum and a lace collar. She loved that skirt for the way it hugged her bottom and thighs and flared at the knee – though not too showy. High-heeled, tan summer shoes with open toes and a handbag to match, she put aside with the clothes, on a chair.
Her maid arrived with the tea and a tall pitcher of water. Clara poured the cool water into a washbasin, wrung out a soft cloth, wiped her face and neck, and then, sprinkling some perfumed lotion onto the cloth, she carefully washed under her arms and between her legs. It was going to be a very hot day. In the swivel-mirror, she checked the back view and decided her hair would be better pinned up. Holding six bobby pins in her mouth, she picked up her comb – it would take another ten minutes but was worth it.
Her parents were stirring in the villa but she avoided the breakfast room, going straight to her father’s office where she lifted the brass handset of the telephone and asked to be put through to Ben. She did not normally telephone him at home – across the way in Villa Torlonia – she made him call her. Let it not be Rachele’s rough voice on the other end. She did not want to have to argue with her this morning. The housekeeper was up and put her straight through to Ben, who was not encouraging.
‘Amore mio, are you all right?’ said Clara. ‘Come to the window. I have a bad feeling.’ She scribbled tighter and tighter circles on the pad on her father’s desk.
Ben was terse. He was anxious, certainly, he said, but no more than he ever was. Nothing has happened, he said. Your imagination is getting the better of you. No, she said. You must listen. This is what I think you must do. Don’t tell me what to do, he said. Tell me what happened at the meeting, she said. Don’t worry he said. You worry too much, and rang off. He did not come to the window.
So, she thought, it is as bad as that.
In the normal course of a day, Clara would call Ben or have him call her at least twelve times, often more. Yesterday was wrong – she knew it. All wrong. And today was worse. When she had not heard from him again by two o’clock and Quinto had taken all her calls, each more frantic than the last, she decided to go to Palazzo Venezia. She told Quinto to send the driver to fetch her directly. He arrived promptly and things seemed calm and normal but she was not placated. No, said the driver, the boss had been busy all day, working from home. No more than that. On arrival at the via degli Astalli gate the attendant waved her through with a deferential nod. Normal there too.
Quinto awaited her at the lift, smiling reassurance as he escorted her to the first-floor apartment where she went straight through to the Zodiac Room.
‘Shall I bring tea?’
‘No. Yes. Yes, tea, but where is Ben? Where is he? Why has he not called me?’ She bit her lower lip and was even tempted to chew the edge of a fingernail. She stopped herself just in time.
‘He has been busy all day. He came in for a short while but left again at two o’clock. He said he was going to visit the area of last night’s bombing. I will send the tea.’
Quinto turned to leave. ‘He should be back soon. I am going down to wait for him at the lift.’
She heard the anxiety he too was only barely keeping under control. The portents were not good. The air was heavy.
Hours limped past; Clara had given up trying to find Ben. Her mind skittered between fear for him and anxiety for herself, and she could not concentrate on anything. One finger tapped incessantly on the magazine she tried to read. In the shadows of the silent apartment, monsters lurked. Without Ben, Palazzo Venezia was the enemy.
When Quinto returned, his frown was deep and he ran his hand through his hair, usually so carefully combed and oiled.
‘He is not back. But it is all right. I have received a policeman from the Presidential Division, sent to tell me the Duce has gone to Villa Savoia. He has an appointment with the King.’
‘Gone to the King!’ Claretta’s voice rose an octave and her throat hurt. She too wanted to run her hands through her hair but was careful not to.
‘I knew it. I told him not to go, but would he listen to me? No good will come of this.’
She lunged for her handbag from the sofa and rushed from the room as if Quinto had said Ben had been in an accident.
Quinto Navarra remained standing for some time, at the open double doors to the apartment, uncertain what to do next. On the one hand, he thought, things certainly did not seem right somehow. On the other, La Signora Clara was given to histrionics, and a routine visit to the King was hardly anything to become hysterical about. Was it? Quinto took a deep breath and cleared the tea tray, which was untouched. There will be an explanation, he said to himself. He would have to wait until the boss got back and by the look of things, it would be late. Another long night ahead.
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