The balance of the work week, Mac fell into a routine of running before work, having his morning coffee in the office, and spending the rest of each day at his desk, writing his first report back to the States. He discussed his Vatican assignments in depth, and his feeling that he was being used to surreptitiously pass information back to President Roosevelt, to push the United States to enter the European conflict. He also covered his perception that the Italian people love their Il Duce, but they seem reluctant to follow him into war in far off places. Mussolini clearly instilled a sense of national pride in his people, after many years of his rule and his rhetoric, yet Italian mothers were loathe to the thought of losing their sons to expand Il Duce's Empire. Only the true fascists dreamed of a new Roman Empire, mirroring that of the ancients. The Italian people believed that their problems at home were only exacerbated by the country's forays into foreign lands, with the outlandish expenses associated with these foolish expeditions.
By Friday afternoon, Mac walked his first report over to the American Embassy, putting it in the hands of Ambassador Phillips, as he had been directed. The Ambassador, his glasses on the edge of his long patrician nose, gave it a quick once over, nodding his head in apparent approval.
“Nice job, Mac. I will get this right off in tonight's diplomatic pouch.”
“Thank you, sir. I will be seeing you at the ball tomorrow evening?”
“Yes. I understand that you and the DeFelice girl will be sitting at our table. My wife has a way of finding out these important things. I guess you hit it off with the brother. Diplomacy at its best.”
“Yes, sir, we are buddies now.”
“Keep your eyes and ears open. This guy knows what these people are up to, what they are thinking. He is right there in the trenches with them. A real insider.”
Mac was not particularly comfortable with the thought of taking advantage of his relationship, but he would do his duty, as would Alberto, likely.
“Yes, sir.”
After saying his goodbyes to the Ambassador, Mac returned to the Inn early, expecting to see Carla. He took his regular seat in the dining room with the other guests, and he prepared himself for the Friday fish dinner of branzino in a lemon capers sauce, saffron rice, and fresh imported asparagus. It was still light outside, the sun streaming into the room through the open windows not yet covered by the blackout curtains.
“Good evening, Signora Beaumonti,” said Mac, as the woman brought him a single malt in a crystal glass, and the menu for the day. “Where is Carla?”
“We made her take the night off, Signore, to get ready for your evening tomorrow. She is very nervous. It is understandable, no?”
“I feel bad. I thought I was doing something good, inviting her to the Palace.”
“Of course you did. But you know young girls. They stress about everything being just so.”
“I guess. But she will be beautiful no matter what she wears.”
“Yes, she will, Signore. You are most kind, though. Teresa and I will get her ready tomorrow. You will be very pleased, I’m sure.”
“Thank you, Signora. I am sure that Carla will feel better with the two of you there. Imagine what she will be like when she gets married.”
“Oh, Madonna! Let's not even think about that just yet. One potential disaster at a time.”
Mac enjoyed his branzino, downed another single malt, and decided to take a walk outside to shake off his nervousness. The chill had subsided, and the fresh air felt good. He found himself meandering over towards the DeFelice home, thinking about Carla being nervous too about the night to come. Mac could see slivers of light on the edges of the blackout curtains on the first floor, and in one room on the second. He picked up a pebble, throwing it at the second-floor window, presuming that it would be Carla's bedroom, in that it was the only room on the second floor with a light on. The curtain pulled quickly to the side, with Mac seeing Carla squinting cutely towards the dark street, to see who had thrown a stone at her window. She opened the window wide when she saw Mac, making a sign of the cross on her chest.
“What are you doing here?” she laughed nervously. “My brother will kill you if he catches you here throwing pebbles at his windows.”
“I had to see you, Carla, I just had to see you!”
“Oh Mac!”
“I heard you were nervous. Signora Beaumonti. Are you ok?”
“You’re so sweet. I am fine, or I will be by tomorrow, anyway. My sister and Signora Beaumonti are doing my hair and getting me dressed. That makes me feel better about all this. They will make me look good for you.”
“You look pretty good to me right now.”
“Oh, get out of here. But thank you for checking on me.”
“Until tomorrow, sweet girl,” said Mac, as he waved.
The young girl smiled as Mac backed away into the shadows, shutting her window and curtains before her brother could catch them. Mac carried the vision of her smile back with him, and with another single malt, he was able to sleep away the night's anxiety.
Saturday morning, Mac took a long run through the Villa Borghese, past the zoo, the Shakespeare Theatre, and the Borghese Gardens. He had to admit, he was nervous himself. He had never met a King or a Queen before, not to mention a fascist dictator. He returned to the Inn, had a leisurely breakfast with Signore Beaumonti, as neither his wife nor Carla was there.
He spent the afternoon reading Vatican reports sent to his office by Father Leiber, while soaking in the bathtub, with a single malt, and the few Lucky Strikes he had left. He would have to get on top of these things next week, even before the holiday, before the Cardinals left to return home, he thought. Fully clean, shaved, and shined, Mac put his dress whites on for the first time here in Italy. The brass gleamed, the ribbons were heraldic, and the gold color brushes on the top of his shoulders stood at attention. Mac had to admit that he looked sharp, as he placed his white braided hat on the top of his coifed hair.
“Oh, my, Signore, you look so important,” said Signore Beaumonti, as Mac came out of the elevator into the lobby. “Carla will be overwhelmed.”
“Thank you, Signore Beaumonti. I must say I feel a bit nervous.”
“You must be; the King, the Queen, Mussolini, everyone will be there. And the Quirinal Palace, Signore, incredible! It will be all decorated for Christmas. Just enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you. I’ll see you later,” said Mac, leaving the Inn, stepping into the long car he had ordered for the evening.
Mac was too nervous to chat with Lorenzo, the driver. They arrived at Carla's house; he got out of the car and knocked on the front door. Teresa answered, inviting him in.
“Oh, Mac, you look so handsome,” said Teresa. “Alberto, come here and see Mac in his uniform.”
“You’re in the army?” asked Alberto, incredulously, as he walked into the living room from the den. “I didn’t know you were military?”
“Navy, Alberto. Don’t get too excited. I’m not here to fight. I am here to practice law.”
“What is your rank?” asked Alberto, touching Mac's uniform material.
“I am a Commander.”
“Very nice,” said Alberto, sarcastically. “My sister is with a Commander in the United States Navy. Madonna!”
“Oh, leave Mac alone,” laughed Teresa. “He looks very distinguished in his uniform. Your sister is a lucky girl!”
“Carla!” yelled her brother through the closed door of the master bedroom. “Carla! Your Commander is here waiting for you! Get out here!”
The door to the bedroom creaked open slowly, Carla peeking from behind the door, with Signora Beaumonti behind her, pushing her out into the living room. Mac stood there in stunned silence, his breath caught deep within his lungs. Carla was radiant in a silk, baby blue evening gown, puffed in the sleeves, off the shoulder, highlighting her ample bosom, the questioning look on her beautiful face touching Mac deep in his heart.
She wore opera length cultured pearls, which had found her cleavage in which to repose, with matching earrings that dangled off her ears. Her hair was up in a swirl around her head, held in place by matching pearl-covered silver combs. Her shoes were the color of the pearls. She smelled like bouquets of sweet wildflowers in a soft summer breeze. Before Mac could speak, Carla beamed ear to ear, in response to Mac's reaction.
“Carla, you look magnificent!” Mac finally exclaimed, holding out his hand to her.
“Thank you, Sir. Thank you for inviting me. I feel like a princess, Mac. Like a princess being taken to a ball by a handsome prince.”
“Enough already, you two,” said Alberto. “Get going before I change my mind. A Commander, no less! Make sure she is home by midnight, Commander!”
“I promise, Alberto. I promise. And thank you; all of you.”
The car took them to Quirinal Palace, on the highest of the Seven Hills of Rome, in an area called Monte Cavallo. The Palace had not only been the home of Napoleon, but it had housed thirty Popes and four Kings of Italy before that. Although the King of Italy, Victor Emmanuel III, chose to live outside of Rome with his family, the Quirinal Palace was still being used for State functions and other grand events.
The Palace was constructed with a main facade with two wings around a majestic courtyard, on ten acres of magnificent gardens, the pride of many a Pope who had lived there in the past. The front facade, two stories high, with five arches on each floor, was formidable, an architectural wonder created by architect Domenico Fontana for Pope Gregory XIII. The main entrance, with the Bernini-designed balcony and portal, carried the flags of the fascist government, the King of Unified Italy, and the Papal State.
Mac and Carla were driven into the “Courtyard of Honor,” where their car waited in line, as guests were dropped off in turn. The Swiss Guard, in their heraldic costume, stood at attention at the front entrance, indicating that the Pope would be in attendance.
“Oh, Mac, it is beautiful! I am so nervous!”
“Honestly, so am I, Carla,” laughed Mac, as a costumed attendant with a long feather in his hat opened their car door, holding out his hand to assist young Carla out of the polished limousine.
The couple left the vehicle, being escorted through the large front door of the Palace, past hundreds of red and white poinsettias covering every open spot on the marble floor of the large entryway. The foyer was Grand, consisting entirely of white veined marble, and Renaissance portraiture, leading into an even larger reception gallery, with a huge, twenty-foot Christmas tree, all dressed for the season in red velvet ribbons and crystal ornaments. Beautiful white sheer ribbons and baby's breath were tied to all the chandeliers and wall sconces. Poinsettias were everywhere, pine boughs interwoven in the marble balustrades ascending the Grand stairway to the long balcony railing above. The room smelled of a mixture of pine, fine perfume, and great wealth.
“Oh, Mac, look, the King and the Queen! What do we do? Oh, Mac!”
“What everyone else is doing, I suppose. I bow, you curtsy.”
“Oh, Mac! I am so nervous!”
The beautiful couple waited their turn on the receiving line, finally reaching the King and Queen of Italy, Victor Emmanuel III and his wife, Elena, the once Princess of Montenegro. The King was a slight man, dressed in a crisp uniform, medals and ribbons everywhere. His impressive handlebar mustache was greyer than the hair on his head, making him look even more distinguished, if that was possible. He carried himself as Royalty, never wasting any movement, greeting his guests by nodding, without any touching.
Queen Elena surely did not dash the hopes of the Ambassadors’ wives. The crown she wore on her head was encrusted with colorful jewels, as was the multi-layered necklace that hung from her neck. Her gown was of the finest Italian silk, cut across her ample chest, with matching taffeta covering her arms. Her hair was perfectly perched on top of her head, held in place, presumably by her crown, but maybe with the help of a thousand invisible sylphs. She was seated stoically in a heavy damasked chair with polished wood arms, as her husband stood beside her, receiving the guests.
“Commander Tommaso Martini, your Excellency, from the United States of America” announced a gaily costumed attendant, bowing and doffing his feathered hat toward the King and Queen. “Accompanying Commander Martini is Signorina Carla DeFelice, from here in Rome, Your Majesties.”
“Welcome,” said the King, as Mac bowed, and Carla curtseyed. The Queen nodded to both, with a slight smile, and a regal pause between nods.
“Oh, Mac,” whispered Carla meekly, as they were led away towards the other guests sipping drinks in the Great room.
“I know, I know, Carla. It's Incredible!”
“I need a drink,” said Carla, with a nervous titter.
“Good idea,” responded Mac, making his way toward one of the crowded bars.
Gentlemen in uniform were everywhere, all types of heraldry from many different countries. Ribbons and sashes, brass, gold, and silver medals, even jewel encrusted swords. The women were decked out in their finest, bejeweled, and coifed to perfection. Even the wait staff, all men, was dressed in formal attire. The room was seemingly alive with talk, rumor, and whispered innuendo. Crystal was clinking, tobacco smoke was wafting, and guests were hugging and kissing each other's cheeks. A small orchestra to the side of the Gallery played classical chamber music. It was a spectacle the likes of which Mac had never seen,
As Carla sipped a glass of fine wine, and Mac less elegantly drank his single malt, Ambassador Phillips sauntered over to greet Mac and his lovely young lady.
“Commander Martin,” said Phillips, in a Boston-effected voice, “it is so good to see you. This must be Carla, about whom you have spoken so highly. She is delightful, Mac, ravishing, if I may say so. You will make all the other ladies jealous, Carla,” continued the Ambassador, while kissing the hand of the blushing girl.
“Thank you, Ambassador. You are too kind, sir,” cooed Carla in perfect English, quite visibly beside herself with excitement.
“How did you know I am the Ambassador?” laughed Phillips, eyeing the young girl suspiciously.
“My brother speaks highly of you, sir. He has pointed you out to me at several public functions.”
“Well, I am honored then,” laughed the Ambassador. “Thank you and thank your brother. Mac, I want you to meet the big guy. Come!”
The Ambassador took Carla's hand and led the two of them across the room to a side alcove. There, standing with a drink in one hand and cigar in the other, was Il Duce himself, surrounded by well-wishers and glad handers. He was in uniform, grey, black on his lapels, ribbons on his chest, along with a golden eagle. He wore a leather belt diagonally across his chest, connected to a belt at his waist. Matching pants, striped down the side, were tucked into knee high, black, meticulously shined trooper boots. His face was stern, a man's man. Mac thought, facially, he looked like pictures he had seen of General Patton.
“Il Duce, this is Commander Tommaso Martini, from America, sir,” introduced the Ambassador, cutting in on the conversation. “He is here to work with the Vatican. He wanted to meet the great one, and to express his gratitude for being permitted entry into your beautiful country.”
“Il Duce, it is an honor, sir. My people send their regards, and acknowledgements of your greatness. This is Carla, Signorina Carla DeFelice,” said Mac, presenting the lovely girl.
Mussolini nodded to both, but his eye was most definitely on Carla.
“Bellissima, Signorina,” said Il Duce. “You must be Alberto's sister, I take it?”
“Yes, Il Duce,” swooned Carla, looking like she was going to faint.
“Send your brother my regards, Carla. There is his boss over there, Ciano, my son-in-law, the snake,” laughed Mussolini.
“I will have to introduce myself, Il Duce,” whispered Carla, a bit too familiarly.
“Nonsense, what kind of a gentleman would I be,” said Duce, clearly smitten with the young girl. “Galeazzo!” Mussolini yelled across the room. “Come here. I have someone I want you to meet.”
Ciano was a handsome man, significantly younger than Mussolini, dressed in a grey flannel suit, drinking scotch from a crystal glass. He honored the wishes of his father-in-law, but he stopped and shook the hands of well wishers as he crossed the room.”
“Galeazzo, this is Carla, Alberto's sister,” said Duce. “She is beautiful, no?”
“Enchanting. Alberto has been keeping you hidden, apparently,” Ciano said, as he kissed Carla's hand gently.
“And this is Commander Martini,” continued Duce, “all the way here from America.”
Ciano shook Mac's hand, but he too was obviously captivated by the young lady.
“Ambassador,” Ciano acknowledged Phillips, shaking his hand as well.
“It's nice to see you, Galeazzo,” said Phillips. “Commander, we should be finding our seats now. Dinner is going to be served soon.”
As they walked away, Mac smiled at Carla. She blushed crimson back at him.
“See, you are the most beautiful woman in Italy. Even Il Duce was overwhelmed.
“Oh stop, Mac. He was just being polite,” Carla lied. “I hear he has an eye for all of the ladies.”
Ambassador Phillips led the couple into the Grand Ballroom, marbled, mirrored, and lit brilliantly by a fleet of crystal chandeliers. The room was also festooned with Christmas flowers and ribbons galore. Servants were everywhere, running here and there with water, cocktails, and silver bread trays. Red and white roses were on each of the hundred or so tables, the arrangements so large that guests could not see each other.
All eyes were on Carla, and Mac, as they crossed the room, after having had the attention of Il Duce. Another orchestra played in one corner, a wooden dance floor was laid in the middle of the room, where a few daring couples were already on the move to the soft music being played before dinner.
“Carla, this is my wife, Caroline Phillips; Caroline this is Carla DeFelice,” introduced Ambassador Phillips. “And this is Assistant Secretary of State Breckinridge Long, and his lovely wife Christine. This is my godchild, Iris, and her husband, Antonio. This is Carla DeFelice everyone, and you all know Commander Martin, of course. They just met Il Duce. He seemed smitten with Carla. Mac, after seeing Carla, I do not think he will ever remember you, young man,” laughed the Ambassador.
“Well, it is no wonder. His attention had to be diverted by such a lovely young lady,” said Mrs. Long. “Carla, you are beautiful, my dear. Mac is a very lucky man.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Long. You are too kind.”
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” said the King, using a microphone at the front of the room. Merry Christmas! Let's make sure we all have a good time tonight. I know we are all concerned with what the future might bring, but we are in good hands. Il Duce is here with us tonight!”
Everyone stood up and applauded politely, as Il Duce bowed to the crowd.
“Please be seated, everyone,” continued the King. “We have a very special benediction this evening before we break bread together.”
Just then trumpets blared, as an attendant held back the long, velvet, red drapery, admitting a Papal procession of Cardinals in flowing red robes and miter hats, followed by his Excellency, Pope Pius XII. The crowd stood and cheered, noticeably louder than they had done so for Il Duce.
“Oh, Mac,” whispered Carla. “I think I have died and gone to heaven,” she gushed, standing, holding on to Mac's arm.
“My children,” started the Pope, “let us pray.”
Carla folded her hands in prayer in front of her beautiful silk gown, and Mac followed her lead.
“Thank you, Dear Lord, for the food we are about to eat. Please, we pray to you, to protect your flock from harm, Dear Jesus, and give us the strength to pursue a lasting peace. Give our leaders the strength, and the wisdom, to do your good work here on Earth, to see the truth, and to feel the love that you have always shown us, so that they may give it back to their fellow man, as you would. We seek the light of your wisdom and your goodness, oh Lord, to show them the way. Amen.”
“I’ll bet Il Duce loved that blessing,” whispered Ambassador Phillips under his breath to his wife, as the Pope was led to a private dining room for dinner with the King and Queen.
Dinner was magnificent, both in its display, and in its splendor. Chilled prawn big enough to be mistaken for lobster tails to start, pheasant with plum sauce to follow, served by refined Italian gentlemen. And that was just the beginning. There was prime rib, venison, suckling pig, root vegetables of all kinds, along with delicate pasta bathed in white seafood sauce. The fine wine flowed all night long for those not interested in the open bar.
Mac asked Carla to dance between courses, just so they could move a little. They swayed to the music with other young couples, the sound of gowns swishing, as the older guests marveled at the pageantry. Carla only took her eyes off Mac briefly here and there, just to take in the spectacle of the formal attire, and the light reflected off the various gems and diamonds on the bejeweled elegant ladies. She had the gaze of a young girl overwhelmed, but never happier.
Mac, too, was in his glory. A beautiful girl in his arms, one for whom he was falling, his starched white uniform joining the others in a sea of colorful formal ladies’ gowns. Il Duce was here, and he got to meet him. The King and Queen of Italy. All sorts of Royalty and dignitaries. He could not wait to write to his mother about it all.
“Mac, this is wonderful!” whispered Carla in Mac's ear, the warmth of her sweet breath tickling his insides to the tip of his toes.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it? I am so glad to be able to share this with you.”
He leaned in to kiss her cheek.
“Carla, I …”
Then he saw her, Sara, across the room, dressed elegantly in a royal blue gown matching her liquid eyes, seemingly the jewels of Mother Russia draped around her delicate neck. She was delighting a group of Russian diplomats in banter, but her eyes were on Mac and Carla, eyes, that even from a distance, Mac could tell were filled with dew. She was as beautiful and as radiant as ever. Mac went weak in the knees when he saw her, stopping his talk with Carla. She saw that he had seen her, and she motioned him over discreetly. Mac took Carla by the hand, and he willingly complied, feeling like a moth being pulled into a flame.
“Sara, it is so good to see you. I am surprised to see you here in Rome. This is Carla,” Mac said, not knowing what else he should say about his beautiful Italian princess.
“Thomas, it is wonderful to see you too,” said Sara. “Carla, it is a pleasure to meet you, as well. What are you doing here in Rome?”
“The pleasure is mine,” interrupted Carla, her voice giving her away, seeming that it would not be her pleasure at all.
“I am here to do some work for the Vatican,” responded Mac, and left it at that.
“This is Comrade Kerklinko,” introduced Sara, presenting her escort. He is the Russian Ambassador to Rome. He does not speak much English, so I translate for him. I have told him who you are,” the smiling Ambassador nodding his head at Mac, while bowing to Carla to kiss her hand.
“What are you doing in Rome, Sara? How long have you been here? I thought you were going back to Russia?”
“A brief trip. They wanted me to attend the Christmas Ball with the Ambassador. I leave tomorrow, back to Russia. For how long, who knows? Things are getting more interesting by the day. Lots of rumors. Germany apparently has no limit in its thirst for new territory.”
“Are you feeling alright, Sara, you look a little pale. Would you like to sit down?” offered Mac.
“Oh no, I am fine. Just a little tired, I suppose, with all this traveling. Carla, are you from Rome, darling?”
“Yes, I’m Italian.”
“You are stunningly beautiful. You have the best man here tonight, as well. You two look splendid together.”
“Thank you, Sara. You look ravishing as well. I have never seen a woman so full of life, so confident in herself. How do you know each other?” Carla asked with obvious concern.
“We knew each other a long time ago, while I was in New York. We worked together and became friends. You have no reason to be concerned, dear. All I want is his happiness, and God knows, he looks very happy. And he should be. You are very special.”
“Well, thank you Sara. You are very sweet. Perhaps we could be friends too?”
“I would be delighted.”
Mac was happy Sara and Carla did all the talking, as his tongue was tied in knots, his head swimming with confusion.
“It was nice to see you, Sara. Honestly, I thought I would never see you again. I so have much to tell you, but this is clearly not the time nor the place.”
Mac kissed Sara on the cheek tenderly, gazing briefly into her deep blue eyes. She kissed him back on his cheek, before whispering in his ear, a tear in her eye.
“There will always be Central Park, Thomas.”
Mac smiled, feeling a sense of warmth course through his entire body. But he turned to Carla, walking them away.
“Who is that, Mac?”
“She is someone with whom I was very close.”
“She is beautiful!”
“Yes, she is. And so are you, Carla.”
Carla hugged Mac's arm close to her, letting him feel the warmth of her ample breast. A beaming smile had come to her face.
“Carla, I love you,” said Mac, as he stopped to hold the young woman in his arms.
Carla smiled even more brilliantly.
“I know, Mac. I love you too,” cooed Carla, as she nestled further into his arms.
They arrived back to their table just in time for the spectacle of dessert, which cut off any more conversation between them. The waiters had brought silver trays to the side of each table, resting them on tray holders. Simultaneously, the waiters removed the silver lids from their trays with one white gloved hand, as another provided a flaming torch, lighting up the crepes suzette in a blaze of fire, a great “swoosh” being heard across the room. The spectacle was magical, and worth the price of admission. Carla was beaming ear to ear, and more importantly to Mac, she let go of the Sara questions.
After dessert was served, Mac checked his Panerai.
“Carla, we must go. I need to have you home by midnight.”
“Oh, no, Mac. I am having so much fun. The best night of my life.”
“I know, sweetheart, but I promised your brother that I would get you home by midnight. We must go. There will be many other nights.”
“You promise?” Carla pouted, letting her warm breath dance upon his ear.
“Yes, Carla. I want you with me, always.”
“I want that as well, Mac.”
They said their goodbyes, reluctantly, but all understood the situation.
“A gentleman always keeps his word,” offered Breckinridge Long at the necessity of their leaving. “Your word is your bond, Mac. Remember that, and you will always be remembered as a gentleman, and you will have a long career in public service.”
As they left the Palace, Carla turned back to take a last look.