Suddenly excitement rippled through the crowd, and everyone burst into animated chatter, turning to the ballroom entrance. The orchestra launched into a rousing rendition of “Giovinezza” as an entourage of Blackshirts marched into the ballroom, and the partygoers moved quickly aside to admit them.
“What’s happening?” Elisabetta asked, standing on tiptoe.
Marco gasped. “Il Duce is here!”
The crowd gave the Fascist salute, chanting, “Duce, Duce, Duce!” Marco joined in, and Elisabetta felt stunned at the notion that she was in the same room as such a powerful man. She craned her neck to see him, astonished to find that Mussolini looked just like his image in the photos, posters, stamps, and coins. He had round, dark eyes, a prominent brow, and a strong jawline—a pugnacious visage at odds with his formal attire, a black coat with tails and a shiny top hat. His magnetism was undeniable even to Elisabetta, who was no Fascist.
The crowd and Marco cheered wildly as Mussolini climbed the steps of the stage to a lectern, surveyed the chanting partygoers, then motioned for silence as he began to speak. “Ladies and Gentlemen! Greetings! Tonight we celebrate the promotion of Commendatore Buonacorso, who has served our glorious party!”
All of a sudden, the tricolor sash above the stage came undone and began to flutter down, heading for Mussolini. The partygoers gasped, the Blackshirts shouted a warning, and Mussolini stepped aside just before the sash fell on the lectern.
The partygoers burst into astonished chatter, and Blackshirts leapt to the stage. Mussolini stood aside, and Blackshirts started calling for a ladder to reattach the sash. There was chaos at the lectern, with everyone running this way and that. The mishap threatened to reduce the momentous occasion to a cartoonishly silly scene.
“What an embarrassment for the fascio.” Marco muttered to Elisabetta. “We don’t have a ladder tall enough to fix the sash. The contractor took the big ladder with him.”
“What will they do?”
“Excuse me, Elisabetta. Be right back.” Marco left her side, made his way to the front of the room, spoke with one of the Blackshirts, and hurried to the stage. She watched in bewilderment as the partygoers began to notice him, their heads turning.
On the stage, Marco hurried to pick up the fallen end of the sash, hustled with it to the base of the tall column, and, remarkably, began to climb the column as if it were a flagpole, straddling it with his strong arms and legs.
Elisabetta’s mouth dropped open. The partygoers responded instantaneously, cheering and applauding him. The band struck up a rousing march, and everyone clapped in rhythm as Marco shimmied up the column, climbing until he reached its very top, where he tried to reattach the sash.
Everyone looked up, waiting to see if Marco would succeed. Elisabetta marveled at his bravado. The crowd cheered him on. In the next moment, the sash was affixed. Marco signaled that he had done the job, then slid down the column in a controlled manner, landing safely at the bottom.
The crowd roared, and so did Elisabetta. Mussolini himself strode to Marco, shook his hand, and spoke to him for a time, then clapped him on the arm. Marco beamed from ear to ear, and the moment galvanized Elisabetta, as she knew it was once in a lifetime for him. The crowd hollered and clapped, and Marco was grinning as he left the stage. Blackshirts and his friends surged toward him, congratulating him, and Elisabetta realized that he had just fixed whatever had bothered them, in a way that only he could.
The crowd settled down, and Mussolini retook the lectern, beginning with thanking Marco, by name. Marco acknowledged the honor with a nod, then threaded his way through the crowd as Mussolini resumed his speech, from where he had left off.
Elisabetta didn’t hear a word. She felt so full of pride in Marco, who kept his eyes on her even as he made his way through the crowd. Partygoers stopped him, shaking his hand and clapping him on the back, but Marco kept glancing up at her, as if he couldn’t wait to return to her side.
He reached her grinning, and she practically leapt into his arms, kissing him. He kissed her back softly, then deeply, and Elisabetta felt him bringing her broken heart back to life. She felt won over, and the love she had for him rekindled.
Still there.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Marco
September 1939
Marco hurried to meet Sandro, catching snippets of conversation from businessmen. They talked in worried groups, and everyone buzzed about the outbreak of war. Hitler had invaded Poland earlier this month, and Europe erupted in conflict and fear. Great Britain and France declared war on Germany, and Romans lived on tenterhooks. Italy had yet to enter the conflict, but Palazzo Braschi was on high alert. Marco had been working around the clock, and there was volatility in the very air.