THAT NIGHT, WE ATE EARLY and retired before the sky was fully dark.
Midday on Monday, as the exuberant noon-time clatter and boom rang out from the various churches, I stood in the queue for the Lido steamer, watching two muscular young men in black Milizia garb swagger up the Riva degli Schiavoni. As they went, they stared hard into the face of every person less than five and a half feet tall.
At the Excelsior, I walked down the shell-strewn sand to Miss Maxwell’s cabana, and asked if we might have a private talk. Since there was little chance of that on the beach, we adjourned to the Turkish Bar where, surrounded by the furnishings and attitudes of the seraglio, I described what I needed, and why.
Elsa Maxwell was a practical woman, and had little income of her own. She was also a proud woman with clear lines when it came to acceptable behaviour—so I had to take great care not to make it sound as if I wanted to hire her services. Rather, I wished her assistance, and I was happy to pay for it: a very different thing.
Fortunately, she also had a great sense of humour and a personal experience with injustice, so she did not take a whole lot of convincing.
I slipped her an envelope—“for expenses”—and repeated my plea for secrecy, to which she assured me there was no problem, honey. We drained our coffee cups and went back down to the seaside, pleased with our little conspiracy.
I spent the afternoon behind the now-familiar wheel of the Runabout, lengths of twine holding my hat on my head and my sleeves to my wrists, as the boat pulled a series of young men and a few women up, down, and mostly into the Adriatic. My calm competence at the wheel soothed Terry’s nerves, until I could see him wondering if he’d imagined my breakneck stunt across the laguna on Saturday night. He had, after all, been rather drunk…
Back under the shade of the cabanas, drinking vast quantities of liquid and listening with half an ear to the exaggerated exploits of those who had attempted the skis, I spotted another pair of Blackshirts making their way along the pavements before the Excelsior. One of the girls—a Senator’s daughter from Manhattan, doing the modern version of the Victorian Grand Tour—was watching them as well, and glanced over at me.
“I’ve been here two weeks and never seen any of those Fascist guys over on this side of the lagoon. Now that’s the third pair I’ve seen today.”
“They must be melting in those shirts.”
“And how. Black does make a guy look dreamy, though. I’d like to spoon a little with that sheik with the ’stache.”
“If you don’t mind a cloud of male sweat.” Still, the girl had a point: there was a reason romantic heroes wore dark colours. Like, for example, Zorro. Mussolini’s followers seemed to have figured out how to capture their public’s imagination.
I crossed the lagoon early, before the evening’s drinking got serious, and again, noticed the increase in black shirt-fronts and ties.
Holmes had seen it, too.
“You think the Capitano called for reinforcements?” I asked him.
“They are clearly not native Venetians. In fact, some of them appear to find the city confusing. They tend to stick to the Piazza, the train station, and the Riva degli Schiavoni.”
“Good. How are things going on your side?”
And he told me, with satisfaction.
* * *
—
Any stage play is a delicate mechanism dependent on the smooth working of all its parts. Actors, props, stage, script—all must be lubricated with the oil of practice, since one failure, one dropped piece or ill fit, can reduce matters to chaos. The simpler the mechanism, the less risk of catastrophe.
What, however, if catastrophe is one’s aim?
* * *
—
That night, we put the final touches on our plans.
Tuesday morning, the clockwork shifted into motion, as we sat on our balcony writing letters—anonymous, in the ancient Venetian tradition of letter-borne accusations. Each missive suggested a different location for a certain blonde English visitor. In the afternoon, Holmes slid the letters into various post-boxes and hotel collection baskets, then made the rounds of our many and varied gondolieri, giving each a coin and a topic of conversation that they might drop into various ears during the course of their day. Meanwhile, I went over to the Lido with quite a bit of money in my bag. There I spoke again with Miss Elsa Maxwell, followed by a series of brief talks with the hotel’s waiters, bar-men, and photographers—those with film cameras rather than old-fashioned plates. On the return vaporetto trip, my purse was considerably thinner.
On Wednesday, when the number of Blackshirts had reached its height and their frustration was at a peak, Holmes went to deliver a parcel, while I packed several bags and set off, one last time, for the Lido.
The curtains began to lift.
Chapter Forty-eight
DARKNESS HAD FALLEN OVER OUR stage, namely, the Excelsior cabaret. Our actors, none of whom had seen the full script of the play they were about to enact, were busily engaged in restoring their flagging energies with alcohol. The jazz band held up a relentless beat; Elsa Maxwell held court and a glass of champagne; I held off the attentions of a would-be suitor; and beneath the table the Hon Terry held the hand of his new Venetian friend.
To my relief, the sound of Holmes’ whistle was loud enough to cut through the rising tumult. At the signal, I shot to my feet, caught the eye of the bar-man, and shouted in a voice that reached all my neighbours and half the waiters, “Hey, everybody—today’s my birthday! Let’s have some fizz!”
There is nothing like champagne to stoke the flames of a party—especially since I had paid the bartender beforehand to have a hefty supply waiting on ice. In an instant, two hundred people made a fast shift into the top gear of party mood. Glasses were emptying, pulses were pumping, the band upped its beat—and Miss Maxwell sent a trio of recent New York arrivals out onto the floor to demonstrate a bizarre rhythmic contortion (What had they called it—Raleigh? Charleston? Some town in the American South) that involved much kicking of heels and spinning of torsos, with the occasional tipsy falling-over on unaccustomed foot-wear.
The hotel’s photographers had been contracted (and again, paid) to aim their lenses at everything in sight. Time and again, the sudden flares of their magnesium flash-trays lit up Chez Vous like a monochrome version of Saturday’s fireworks. My co-conspirator, Elsa (who thought she was directing this production), looked over the pulsating scene with approval.
By the time the seven black-clad figures—whose arrival had triggered Holmes’ whistle—stormed through the door from the hotel, they found a riot in progress.
A riot composed of notably delicate men and oddly muscular women, all of whom wore masks, and all of whom were drunk as Lords and spinning like dervishes.
In moments, waiters had pressed glasses into the hands of the seven newcomers (another of my instructions). The men looked somewhat taken aback, although only one followed his Capitano’s lead and put his glass down untasted. I gave them thirty seconds to study the room before I rose, pasting on a series of expressions: first puzzlement, then recognition, and finally uneasiness.
Because I had chosen a table very near the hotel’s entrance, the Marquess spotted me the moment I got to my feet. He also noticed—could not help to notice, so exaggerated were my amateur dramatics—how I took a hasty step to the side, obscuring the person behind me at the table.