The following morning, Mac was out of bed at dawn, having no desire to sleep after his invigorating sojourn with Carla. His mind had been tossing all night long with his dreams of the young Italian beauty, with his thoughts of Sara, and with being nervous about his first day at work. And there was Hallie. And Betty. His head was filled with all the promises he had made, to himself, and to the ladies. He decided to go for a run before work, heeding the advice of Captain Henry, more to clear his head, than for the much-needed exercise. It had been a while, and he was beginning to feel uncomfortable with his recent sedentary lifestyle. He dressed in shorts and a sweatshirt, and he was in the process of leaving the Inn, with Signore Beaumonti on his heels.
“Where are you going, Signore? We have such a nice breakfast for you.”
“I need to clear my head, Signore Beaumonti. I will be back in an hour. I will grab some coffee and something light when I return. Thank you for your concern. Which way is the old city? Beyond the Trevi Fountain?”
“Yes, Signore, you will see the Pantheon,” said the older man, shaking his head. “You cannot miss it. It is close to the ruins, and to the Coliseum. We can get you a car to take you there if you like?”
“Thank you, Signore,” said Mac, as he finished up his stretches on the front stoop of the Inn. “But the run will do me good. I will be back in about an hour.”
Mac ran south toward the dome of the Pantheon, his mind working feverishly on his dilemma, as he passed the Trevi Fountain.
I had promised myself to a girl I may never see again. With a lovely Italian girl, who is here and now, clearly interested in my attentions? It is ludicrous, no? Sara is wonderful, but she is not here. And she did tell me to live my life, didn’t she? Was she telling me she would never come back to me? It was certainly a distinct possibility, given her profession, and the coming of war.
He ran the cobblestone street, the Via delle Muratte, to the busy Via del Corso, negotiating the frenetic Italian traffic. He followed the road through the ancient city to the Piazza di Pietra, which contained the first century Temple of Hadrian, the ruins of which consisted of one wall, with 11 of the original 15 Corinthian columns. Upon exiting the Piazza at the far end, Mac continued to run down the narrow Via dei Pastini to the Piazza della Rotunda, the home of the Pantheon.
The Pantheon, completed by the ancient Roman building commissioned by the emperor Hadrian, dedicated in 126 A.D. After stopping briefly to take in the massive building, Mac continued his run, passing the Basilica di Santa, the Piazza Venezia, and the Altare della Patria. Then he saw it off in the distance, the crumbling Coliseum. He could not take his eyes off the ancient structure, with its tumbling travertine walls, as he ran down the ancient streets. As he approached, he decided to circle the structure, viewing it from the outside.
An hour after he left, Mac returned to the Inn, with a good sweat still cleansing his pores. Signore Beaumonti shook his head again, without word, as Mac hurried across the lobby to the elevator. A half an hour later, Mac was sitting at his table in the dining room, freshly showered, shaved, and dressed in a lawyerly blue wool suit, a white button-down shirt, and a subdued club tie. His wing tips were polished to a proper shine, and his felt hat sat on the seat beside him.
“Coffee, Signore,” said Beaumonti, bringing a steamy china cup to the table before allowing Mac to answer.
“Love some, Signore. Carla is not in this morning?” asked Mac, with some disappointment in his voice.
“She starts for the lunch service, Signore. Should I tell her you were asking for her?”
“Yes, please do,” responded Mac with a sheepish smile. “She is lovely.”
“Yes, she is. She is very sweet, and she comes from a good family,” said the older man, protectively.
Mac picked on a sweet roll, downed two cups of strong Italian coffee, before leaving for the short walk to work.
Sullivan & Cromwell was located at Piazza di Spagna, 15, a block from the Inn. Mac walked into the eighteen-century palazzo, taking the elevator to the sixth floor. A young lady, who he had presumed was Teresa DeFelice, greeted him warmly.
“Mr. Martini?” the young lady asked, as Mac walked in at just before nine that morning. “Welcome, sir,” she continued, in perfect English.
“Yes, Signora. Teresa? I presume. It is nice to be here.”
“Yes, sir. My sister-in-law speaks very highly of you. I take it you had a nice walk yesterday in the Villa Borghese?”
“Yes, it was lovely; as is your sister-in-law.”
“She is a sweet girl. Well, enough of that. I can take your hat, if you like, Mr. Martini. No overcoat?”
“No, it is a beautiful day, Teresa, and I only had to walk a block.”
“The weather changes quickly here, Mr. Martini, and you never know where you might be when it does.”
“Good advice, Teresa. I will remember that if you remember to call me Tommaso.”
“Yes, sir, I mean Tommaso. Let me show you to your office. I think you will like it.”
Teresa led Mac down the long hallway graced with seemingly fine works of art. She opened the door to a corner office, with a beautiful view of St. Peter's Basilica. The office was as big as Mr. Dulles’ on Wall Street, albeit a little rough around the edges, given its age of over three hundred years.
“This is my office? My goodness, what a view!”
“St. Peter's. They probably figured it would be appropriate considering that you will be immersed in Vatican business. Would you like some coffee?”
“That would be swell; black please. I take it that we can smoke in here?”
“Yes, everyone here smokes. I will bring you an ashtray right away.”
Mac pulled out his Lucky Strikes, lighting one up as he sat in his padded desk chair, studying the view out the window. Teresa came back with a crystal ashtray and a china cup of strong Italian coffee.
“There are supplies in your desk drawer. I tried to think of everything you might need. If you need anything else, just call me on the intercom on your desk; you will see my name next to one of the buttons. Good luck, Tommaso. Welcome aboard!”
Teresa closed the door to the office, permitting Mac to get used to his new space in private. Everything seemed old to him, the plaster on the walls, the gold-plated wall sconces for light, and a seemingly ancient Persian carpet covering most of the white marble floor. The coffee was good, though, and his wooden desk chair with its padded leather seat was quite comfortable. The mullioned windows were crystal clean, and the view of the Vatican was all the art needed to adorn the office. He had a new phone on his large oak desk, along with the intercom, a yellow legal pad with pencils, and a hooded gold colored desk lamp. The bookshelves along one of the walls contained tomes of Canon Law, and various studies prepared by the Vatican Counsel's Office. There was a photograph in a gold frame on the matching credenza of the Instillation of Pope Pius XII the year before.
Mac was aware of the elevation of the Pope in 1939, before which he had served as Cardinal Secretary of State of the Vatican for many years. He was known as Cardinal Pacelli before his elevation as Pope Pius XII. As Cardinal Secretary of State, Pacelli had signed concordats, agreements, or treaties, with a number of countries and states on matters of mutual interest between these countries and states and the Vatican. He had signed four such concordats with Hitler's Germany, which were now, given the onset of War, a cause for criticism.
As Pope Pius XII, he had most recently met with an emissary of the German government, Joachim von Ribbentrop, which Mac had read about in the New York Times on the way across the ocean. They had not reported upon what was discussed, but the photograph of the emissary showed that he was apparently not very happy with the results of the meeting.
Mac blew smoke to the ceiling, waiting for someone to come in to greet him officially. He had been in the office an hour already, and his door remained closed the entire time. He was anxious to get to it already, it having been almost a month since he had done any legal work at all.
“Mr. Martini?” asked a rather flamboyantly dressed man, as he barged through the door to Mac's office. “The name's Balsieri, Giuseppe Balsieri. Call me Balls. Everyone does,” laughed the gregarious heavyset gentleman, as he went to shake Mac's hand.
The man was dressed in the finest, grey flannel suit, double breasted, with a silk blue striped shirt, and a rather garish red paisley tie. His hair was long, and it seemed to be greased to his head. His Italian leather loafers looked quite expensive, as did the rest of him. He was perhaps ten years older than Mac, but he looked much more worldly.
“It's nice to meet you, sir. Call me Mac. Everyone calls me Mac.”
“Are you comfortable in your new office, Mac? I assume you met Teresa, and she set you up? She is great. Anything you want, she is the person to see, old boy,” the man said with a bit of a forced British accent. “And really, call me Balls.”
“Yes, Balls it is,” Mac laughed. “I am more than comfortable. It is a beautiful office. Not what I was expecting at all. I hope I live up to all of this.”
“You will, Mac. We are pleased to have you. Now we need to get going soon. We have a meeting with the United States Ambassador, William Phillips, at ten this morning, over at the Embassy. He wants to get to know you right away. Things are popping. He wants to get you situated over there as well. I will take you, to the Embassy, do the introductions, and then make myself scarce for a while. I’m sure he has private things he would like to discuss with you. Then, we will do lunch, old boy. This is Italy, Mac. Everything stops at lunchtime.”
“Well, I am looking forward to getting started, Signore Balsieri. Balls. I have been idle long enough now. I am going crazy.”
“Soon enough, old boy. Relax; you will be busy very shortly. Enjoy life when you can, young man. Life is short. Particularly when war is afoot.”
“I understand. I will follow your lead.”
“Tomorrow we will be going to the Vatican. Rest up. You will be meeting with Robert Leiber, the Private Secretary to the Pope. He wants to bring you up to speed on the peace negotiations with Germany right away, and on something apparently private that he has not told me about. He will keep you busy, don’t worry about that.”
Balsieri pulled out a pack of Italian cigarettes from his suit pocket.
“Would you like to try one of mine, Mac? I see you smoke.”
“Sure, I might as well get used to smoking Italian cigarettes. I’m certain American cigarettes are not easy to find here.”
“Actually, you can get American from the Embassy. But you will like these better. What do you think?” Balsieri asked, as he lit one for Mac.
“Strong,” coughed Mac, “like your coffee,” he continued with a laugh.
Balsieri laughed, seeing the young man cough from the cigarette.
“Well, make yourself at home, Mac. We will walk over to the Embassy in a little while. It is not far. It is at the Piazza del Popol, not that it means anything to you. A few blocks past the Spanish Steps.”
Balsieri left the room, as Mac continued to smoke the Italian cigarette, and finish his strong cup of Italian coffee. He picked his way through one of the Vatican reports for a while, before leaving his office to explore the rest of the law firm. He chatted with a couple of young lawyers while they were enjoying their coffee in the dining room, attempting to better understand the lay of the land.
“Let's go, Mac,” said Balsieri, poking his head into the firm dining room. “Ambassador Phillips awaits.”
William Phillips, a career diplomat, had been the American Ambassador to Rome for the past couple of years. He had a good working relationship with Franklin Roosevelt, who trusted him with this most crucial assignment. He was sharp, in both mind and spirit. He was personable, tough, when necessary, as well as being handsome and outgoing. He knew how to straddle the diplomatic lines, having good relationships with the Vatican, the fascist government of Benito Mussolini, and with the Italian King, Victor Emmanuel III. While these important actors in Italy were not necessarily on the same page, Phillips could transcend that, and bring all parties, including the United States, together, at times even accomplishing something.
After the ten-minute walk to the Piazza del Popolo, the men approached the Marine in full dress uniform guarding the United States Embassy, who allowed them to pass after checking their names off a list. The building was rather large by Italian standards, with awnings over the windows, and palm trees out front. Mac felt more like he was in Miami or Havana than in Rome.
The two men were shown to the palatial offices of Ambassador Phillips. The distinguished gentleman came out to greet them in the outer offices, showing them to his private office.
“Balls, how the hell are you? It's good to see you, old man,” said the Ambassador. “How's the law business in these trying times?”
“All is as good as can be expected, sir,” said Balsieri, in perfect English. “There is not much use for law in a fascist regime, now is there? It is whatever Signor Mussolini says it is.”
“And you must be Mr. Martini, I take it,” continued the Ambassador. “Allen Dulles speaks highly of you. I was just with him this past weekend in Switzerland. He is quite a tennis player.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Mac, shaking the hand of the older distinguished gentleman. “It is good to meet you.”
“Come, sit, both of you. We will have coffee and chat a bit.”
Ambassador Phillips sat at his desk, motioning Mac and Balsieri to sit in the comfortable guest chairs on the other side. Mac looked around the tan wood paneled room, most interested in the photographs of the Ambassador with just about everyone who was anyone, from the Pope, to Roosevelt, to Churchill, to Hitler and to Mussolini, not to mention to leaders from all over the world. Mac was not only impressed, but his mind was also consumed with being as well-traveled himself one day.
After coffee and chat, with all the niceties, Balsieri was asked to excuse himself, so Mac and the Ambassador could speak to private matters of the United States.
“Mac, I take it that may call you Mac? I need to discuss things of importance with you of a delicate nature.”
“Yes, sir, of course. Mac is fine, sir.”
“We need you to get at it right away. War seems to be getting closer and closer. The Italians do not want to fight us, but Germany may just pull us all into this mess. They told you what they need, I take it.”
“Yes, sir. I have started to do that already.”
“Good, good! Then you will get it down to written form, prepare the reports, which you will bring to me personally, not to anyone else. I will make sure they get into the diplomatic pouches to the States.”
“So, I bring my reports to you personally, sir?”
“Yes. Don’t worry about formal protocols. Just come to the Embassy, and drop them off to me, or to my assistant outside the door to my office, Mrs. Costello. No one else. Treat them as if they are top secret. No one wants anyone to know we are asking questions about war with the United States. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That's great, Mac. I would like for you to come to dinner tonight at the Residence. My Goddaughter, Iris, and her husband are in town. She is an American, married to an Italian fellow, Origo. They live in Tuscany now, running a vineyard, as I understand it. She is very bright and has some very definite ideas of her own about all this. She is apparently keeping a diary of her experiences, and of what people say to her. All very dangerous, I think, but she could be a good source. She will introduce you to some of the real Italians outside of Rome whom you would not necessarily get to meet without her.”
“Yes, sir, I would be delighted to come to dinner, and to meet your goddaughter. What time, and where is it?”
“Villa Taverna, here in Rome; your hotel will be able to give you directions. Dinner is at eight, cocktails before. We will have a drink together and get to know each other better. Other guests will be there. The dress is business attire. What you have on is fine.”
“Yes, sir, I will be there. Thank you for your hospitality in advance,” said Mac, as he got up to leave the office, sensing the Ambassador had other pressing matters to attend to.
“Oh, wait! I almost forgot,” said the Ambassador. “You have been invited to the King's Christmas Ball on Saturday evening. I had them include you with a guest, if you know anyone yet,” said the Ambassador laughing. “Do you have anyone to bring, Mac?”
“Perhaps, sir. I will work on it.”
“Do you have dress clothes, Mac? You can wear your dress white uniform. You have that with you?”
“Yes, but do I want to advertise my affiliation?”
“They already know who you are, Commander Martin, I assure you. This is a fascist state. What they do not know, they will kill themselves to find out. There is no reason to hide your being a Commander in the United States Navy, along with being a very fine lawyer working at the Vatican. Besides, it would be good to present yourself to the King, and to Mussolini, in uniform. They will be more impressed.”
“I will be meeting them?”
“Of course, Commander. You are thought to be an Emissary of President Roosevelt himself. They will be expecting to meet you. That is how I wrangled you an invitation to the ball. It is a very sought after ticket. Your colleagues will be very jealous. Whoever you bring will be suitably impressed, I promise you. I bet even you will be suitably impressed by the Quirinal Palace. It is really something to see.”
“Yes, sir,” responded Mac nervously. “Nothing like jumping into the fire right away.”
“You will be fine,” said the Ambassador, as he was showing Mac to the door. “You have been groomed for this, young man. If Allen Dulles believes in you, trust me, you are ready. I will see you later,” said the Ambassador, shaking the young man's hand. “Tell Balls I had to take an important overseas call, and I will see him soon on the tennis court.”
“Yes, sir, Ambassador. See you later.”
Mac and Balsieri left the Embassy, walking slowly back to the Piazza di Spagna. The weather was still beautiful for December, but a chill was taking over the city. Mac was sorry now that he did not wear his overcoat, feeling that Teresa had wished this on him. Balsieri led Mac to a quiet little restaurant on the Piazza, near the office.
“The pasta is fresh, and the Bolognese, magnifico,” exclaimed Balls kissing his fingers, as they were being seated in the back corner of the old family restaurant.
The wait staff was flying around the place, pulling their chairs out, bringing them fresh water, crusty bread, and a tray of celery, carrots, and olives.
“Drinks, gentlemen?” asked the waiter in Italian.
“A nice burgundy, I would think,” said Balsieri. You drink wine, Mac?”
“Sure, that's fine. But so early?”
“It's lunchtime, Mac, and we are celebrating.”
“What are we celebrating?” asked Mac, laughing.
“Your first day of work, of course,” laughed Balsieri.
“I would like not to fall asleep at the Ambassador's dinner table tonight, Balls.”
“I can’t believe you got an invitation to Villa Taverna already. I have never even been there. But that is hours from now. Take a nap after lunch.”
The food kept coming, and the burgundy kept being poured. Antipasto, salad, pasta bolognaise, roasted chicken tarragon, all delicious. The two men got to know each other rather well, the wine loosening them up substantially.
“It is like there is no war here, no?” asked Balsieri. “We do not stop living for anything, or anybody. The wine flows, the food is abundant, love happens. The bombs must wait. Of course, people are upset that the War has made getting things more difficult, but we find a way. Life is too important.”
“Aren’t people upset about the bombings?”
“Not as upset as they say they are. It does not affect them directly, at this point. What can we do? We go on, Mac. Life goes on. This will get worse before it gets better, but we all know it will end sooner or later. And, who knows, maybe the fascists will go with it?”
“The Italian people are not in love with the fascists, I take it?”
“Truthfully, no one really cares about it. As long as we get to eat, and drink wine, this too shall pass. They are a brutal bunch. But who would replace them? More of the same! We deal with it.”
Balsieri told Mac that he was a senior partner at the firm, having been there for many years. He lived in Rome during the week, with his mistress, but he traveled home to his family in Tuscany on the weekends. He was fun loving, he was loud, particularly with a few glasses of wine in him, and he was a fountain of knowledge about the Italian people, particularly the women.
“Mac, you better go back to your rooms and sleep this off. Seriously,” laughed Balsieri. “Tomorrow, we get to work. We have an appointment at the Vatican. Things are a little busy there now, what with Christmas coming, but that Leiber never stops working. We will see what he has in store for you; then we will come back. We will spend the afternoon in the office.”
Mac went back to the Inn, taking a seat in the dining room, at his table, with Signore Beaumonti again on his heels.
“Can we get you lunch, Signore Martini?”
“No, grazie, I just ate. Perhaps a little demitasse.”
A few minutes later, the kitchen door opened, with Carla carrying a silver tray with coffee, a coffee service, and a few unanticipated anisette biscuits.
“Hello, Signore Martini. It is nice to see you again,” chided Carla. “You look a little worse for wear.”
“My boss took me out to a long lunch, with lots of wine. But I had to see you, Carla.”
“Really?” asked the young girl shyly.
“Yes, I have to ask you something,” he said, slurring his words slightly.
“What would you like to ask me, Signore Martini?”
“I must attend the King's Christmas Ball on Saturday. Would you consider going with me?”
“What? Mac? Are you kidding me? I am a peasant girl! I don’t belong at the Royal Palace. Are you teasing me? What would I wear? My hair! Oh, Mac! How could you do this to me? I couldn’t possibly do it.”
“You can, and you will. Carla DeFelice, will you accompany me to the Christmas Ball at the Royal Palace this Saturday? You are undeniably the most beautiful girl in Rome, and I would be proud to have you on my arm, no matter what you wear. Of course, I will speak to your brother before we leave to get his permission. You know you want to go. Just go with me. Say yes, Carla. Please!”
“Oh, Mac!”
Carla began to cry right there at the table, with Signore Beaumonti looking on. She ran into the kitchen, without another word. Shortly thereafter, an older woman came from the kitchen, an apron tied around her impressive waist.
“Signore Martini, Signorina DeFelice would be delighted to accompany you to the Christmas Ball,” laughed the older woman as she approached. “She is a bit overwhelmed right now, but we will have her ready for you when you say.”
“I will pick her up at her home at 8:00 p.m., where I will ask her brother for permission before we leave. Whatever time he says to have her home, she will be home, hopefully after a wonderful time.”
“She will be ready, Signore. You have my word,” the older woman said as a tear rolled down her wrinkled face. “I am Signora Beaumonti, by the way. Signore Beaumonti's wife. It is nice to meet you, Signore Martini. You seem like a very nice young man. I will tell Carla's family that. Carla cannot stop talking about you,” she whispered, leaning into him.
“Tell Carla I am looking forward to Saturday, and tell Signore Beaumonti thank you for giving her the evening off,” Mac laughed.
“I will. It is not every day that a girl gets to meet a King, let alone go to a ball with a prince,” she laughed. “I will make him understand, believe me.”
“I am sure you will. Thank you. Tell Carla that I must dine tonight at the Ambassador's residence, but I will be here tomorrow evening.”
“Well, you certainly get around, Signore Martini. I will tell her.”
Mac sipped his coffee slowly hoping Carla would return, but the best he got was her peeking out of the door of the kitchen to give him a little wave, tears still streaming down her face. He smiled in response, waving back, before retiring to his room to rest up for dinner.