“Duce! Duce! Duce!”
The officers around Marco fell silent, and from the balcony came the sound of Il Duce being introduced. The crowd shouted so loudly in response that the officers covered their ears and turned to one another grinning, their eyes wide. The crowd kept roaring until at last the speech began.
“Fighters on the land, on the sea, and in the air!” Mussolini shouted. “Blackshirts of the revolution and the legions! Men and women of Italy, of the empire, and of the Kingdom of Albania! Listen!”
Marco stood spellbound as Mussolini continued to speak, his voice amplified by loudspeakers broadcasting the speech throughout Rome and every major Italian city.
“An hour that has been marked out by destiny is sounding in the sky above our Fatherland! The hour of irrevocable decisions! The declaration of war has already been handed to the Ambassadors of Great Britain and France—”
“Marco,” someone said behind him, and Marco turned to see Officer DiFillipo, a minor official. “Go to the Communications Room. There’s an unsecured telegram for me. Bring it up.”
“Yes, sir.” Marco threaded his way out of the room, into the hallway, and down the vast staircase to the sound of Mussolini’s voice, ricocheting off the marble walls. He reached the basement, went down the hall to the Communications Room, and entered the windowless square, lined with telegraph machines. There was no staff member in the room, although last night there had been an aged functionary, who had given Marco all of the telegrams he requested, since he himself couldn’t read them.
Marco went to the first machine, but there were no telegrams. He went to the next machine, but there were no telegrams there, either. Same with the third machine. Marco assumed they were being collected by somebody, since last night there had been so many. He noticed a door in the far wall, crossed the room, and opened it, startling a pretty secretary at her desk, typing as she ate panna cotta.
“Sir, oh my, may I help you?” The secretary jumped to her pumps, then shifted in front of the panna cotta, as if to hide the dessert.
“Yes, I was looking for a telegram to Officer DiFillipo.”
“Oh, I just pulled that one.” The secretary picked up a telegram and handed it to Marco, hastily wiping cream from her lower lip.
“Thank you. You don’t have to hide your dessert from me.” Marco smiled, noticing that she had lovely green eyes, dark red hair waving to her shoulders, and a body that filled every curve of her uniform.
“Please don’t tell my boss. We set up the food for the reception, but it’s supposed to be for the brass.”
“Who can resist panna cotta?” Marco found himself flirting, for the first time in a long time. It felt strange, especially with Elisabetta’s engagement ring in his pocket.
“Not me. It’s my favorite.”
“Mine, too. What’s your name?”
“Fiorella, and I already know who you are, Marco.” Fiorella smiled. “I saw you climb the pillar at Commendatore Buonacorso’s party. You were amazing.”
“Really?” Marco asked, perking up. He began to feel good, like in the old days. Fiorella was a beautiful girl, and there were so many desserts he had been passing up, to no end. From now on, he was going to eat everything.
“I know Tino at Palazzo Braschi, and he said you have a girlfriend.”
“Not anymore.” Marco pushed Elisabetta from his mind, by sheer act of will. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then this is my lucky day.” Marco brushed a strand of hair from her lovely eyes. “May I taste your panna cotta?”
“Yes, of course.” Fiorella reached for her plate, but Marco stopped her with a gentle touch—then leaned in for a kiss.
* * *
—
Evening fell, and Marco walked home through a city throbbing with excitement. People filled the streets, restaurants, and bars, celebrating, arguing, and discussing the amazing news of the day. He had never felt better in his uniform, and though he wished he was old enough to enlist and fight, he would settle for working at Palazzo Venezia. He was riding high on adrenaline and pride, in himself and his country. Italy was going to war and she was going to win.
Marco reached Ponte Fabricio and climbed the bridge, breathing in the familiar dampness of the Tiber. His thoughts turned to Elisabetta because he was heading toward Trastevere, and he slipped a hand into his pocket, feeling for the diamond ring. It was still there, but she belonged in his past. Plenty of other girls were in his future. He was off to a fast start with Fiorella.