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 was all very well and fine when you could go to the seaside but it was hell when you were confined to the city. She opened the doors to the courtyard a little wider and closed the external shutters to keep out the sun. The bars of light through the shutters set sunbeams dancing off the colours of the marble flooring. They had not made love for days. How she wished they could, just once, lie together in a bed, naked, and fall into sleep afterwards. It would be so good for Ben. It was the only position they had not tried – that of husband and wife. Ben was often in a hurry and at times he liked to leave his boots on. He liked fast, violent sex and she was adroit at exciting him to exhaustion, but sometimes she wished for a calmer, quieter moment.
She longed to be free. Memories of the summers, of last summer, had faded to sepia. They swam openly at Castelporzione, surrounded by a swarm of security men like a school of jellyfish. Her favourite two-piece swimming costume with the tie between her breasts had not been out of her bureau drawer once this summer. A shiver ran right through her. Perhaps she was unwell too? They would not be going to the seaside this month. Ben’s constipation was getting worse and he was not good at bearing pain. Women were much better with pain. Look at the pain she herself had borne – menstrual pain, miscarriages, and yes, the pain Ben inflicted at times. He was always sorry afterwards.
He was gloomier each day and was losing confidence in himself. In recent times, requests for his photographs had dropped off sharply. Where once, every classroom and home had a photograph of Il Duce on the wall, people seemed less interested in their leader now. That hurt Ben. What, he said, are things coming to? The more fearful and apprehensive he felt, the louder he shouted and the angrier he got. Or the quieter and more withdrawn he became. Depression, her father said. The more pain he suffered, the more often his doctor gave him the injections and the more injections he had, the more timid and distressed he became. Claretta said a whole rosary for him last week – not that he knew. He had no patience with such things. She was worried silly about him, and about herself.
She crossed to the gramophone but did not lift the needle – unfriendly silence echoed about the room. Mounting the steps to the windows, she gazed into the internal courtyard as if hoping to see open fields. From a box with gold paper, she popped a chocolate into her mouth and then regretted it. She poured a lemonade from the tall crystal jug on the sideboard, watching the beads of condensation turn to prisms of light. She opened and closed one of the pile of unread books and threw it down. She made three paces through the room. The clock in the corner tick-tocked the minutes by, then the hours.
There was to be a meeting of the Grand Council this evening. The full Council. Clara’s sources had reported rumours the army was conspiring against Ben – perhaps it was about that. How dare they. Even the members of the Grand Council of Fascism treated him in a manner they would once not have dared. Clara’s network, developed with great application over much time, was usually reliable. There was even a whisper the King had lost faith in his Prime Minister. The King! Without Ben, that Frenchman would not even be in power. Ben said he had called the meeting himself, but would not discuss it any further, despite her inveigling. He must be about to put a stop to all this nonsense. The war was lost, but they could not blame Ben
