He fluttered uneasily. “Quite so, Signore. In the ordinary way-in the case of a tourist-but in the case of the Signore it is different. I have your passport here, Signore. If you would be so kind as to present yourself personally at the Amministrazione in the morning, the matter will arrange itself.”
“Oh, very well.” I took the passport. “I suppose this is usual?”
“Yes, yes, Signore. Certainly it is usual. The regulations, you understand. If the Signore were a tourist then it would be simple. In the case of a resident there are certain formalities. Quite usual, Signore, and according to the regulations. Good night, Signore.”
“Good night.”
He went and I put the matter out of my mind.
It was not until I was soaking blissfully in the steaming water that it occurred to me to wonder why General Vagas thought it necessary to carry a sword-stick.
4
It used to be the custom to commemorate moments of national humiliation or disaster by applying the adjective “black” to the day of the week concerned. The pages of European history are, so to speak, bespattered with the records of Black Mondays and Black Thursdays. It may be that, in this twentieth century, almost daily acquaintance with large-scale catastrophe has deprived the custom of its point. Black and white have tended to merge into a drab grey.
Yet, for me, there is a Wednesday which, in its sooty blackness, is easily distinguishable from the grey. It is the day following that upon which I met General Vagas.
It began with a visit to the Amministrazione della Polizia.
I presented myself, passport in hand, shortly after nine o’clock. After surrendering the passport to a policeman wearing a Monagesque uniform and a huge sword, I was ushered into a waiting-room. Except for a row of greasy wooden armchairs and an ink-stained table it was bare of furniture. From one wall glowered a large fly-blown photograph of Mussolini. Facing it on the opposite wall was a companion representation of King Victor Emmanuel. The frames of both portraits were draped, rather carelessly, with Italian flags. When I arrived, one of the chairs was occupied by an old woman in mourning, eating a cold compress of spaghetti out of an American-cloth bag. After about ten minutes she was beckoned out by the policeman and I was left alone to study the Duce’s apoplectic glare.
I waited for an hour and a quarter. Shortly after the forty-five minutes mark I went to the door and complained to the policeman. I had, I protested, work to do. His only response was a shrug and a vague assurance that my case was receiving attention. I retired once more to the waiting-room. By the time he appeared at the door and beckoned to me, my temper was already a trifle frayed. What followed did nothing to improve it.
I was shown into a room occupied by a man in a dark-green uniform. He was lolling back in his swivel chair flipping over the pages of an illustrated magazine. One gleaming, booted leg was cocked over an arm of the chair which he had swung round, so that all I could see of him was the back of his neck. Beyond affecting a slightly more intense preoccupation with the magazine, he took no notice of my entrance. With rising irritation, I studied the neck.
It was plump and brown and bulged over the narrow line of white stiff collar above the uniform collar. I took an immediate dislike to the neck and to its owner. He flipped over the last of the pages, dropped the magazine on his desk and swung round to face me. My dislike was promptly confirmed. His face was small, smooth, round and spiteful. He scowled at me.
“Yes? What do you want?”
“My passport.”
“And why should I have your passport? Get out!”
Deciding that the fool of a policeman had probably shown me into the wrong room, I turned to go.
“Wait.”
I stopped.
“What is your name?”
“Marlow.”
“English?”
“Yes.”
“Ah!” He turned to his table, picked up my passport from under the magazine and looked at the name on it. “Ah, yes! Signor Marlow, the Englishman.” He smiled unpleasantly.
“Precisely, Signore,” I burst out angrily. “And I should like to know why I have been kept waiting for an hour and a quarter.” I nodded towards the magazine. “I, at any rate, have something to do with my time.”
It was perhaps unwise of me, but I could not help it. The prospect of carrying out my intention of putting in a good day’s work at the office was receding rapidly. I was thoroughly angry. Nevertheless, as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew that I had blundered.
His lip curled viciously.
“Be more respectful in your manner, please,” he snapped; “and be so good as to address me as signor Capitano.”
I glared at him in silence.
“ Allora.” He turned to the passport and drew a sheet of paper towards him. “You will answer the questions I put to you.”
“Very well.” I carefully omitted the “ signor Capitano.”
With great deliberation he put his pen down, fitted a cigarette into a holder and produced a jewelled lighter. His obvious intention was to waste time. I could have hit him.
“Now,” he went on at last, “we will begin. Where were you born?”
“You will find the place and date in my passport.”
“I did not ask you what is in the passport, you fool, I asked you where you were born.”
“London.”
“The date?”
I gave him the date. The questions went on. What nationality was my father? British. My mother? British. My grandfathers? British. My grandmothers? British. Was I married? No. Had I any brothers or sisters? A brother. Was he married? Yes. What was the nationality of his wife? British. Had I ever been in Italy before? No. Where had I learned Italian? From a friend in London. What was the friend’s name? Carmelo. Where was he now? I did not know. Had I known Signor Ferning? No. Had I ever had any other profession but that of engineer? No. Why had I come to Italy? To act as my employer’s representative. How long did I hope to stay? Indefinitely. Was I a member of any political party? No. Was I a Socialist? No. Was I a Marxist? No.
By now I had my temper well under control. He sat back and surveyed me sullenly. I waited. Then he stood up. I was interested to see that he wore corsets.
“Permission will be given for you to remain in Italy providing that you report here every week to have your permit stamped. You have brought the regulation photographs? Very well. Report here to-morrow for your permit. You may go.”
“Thank you. My passport, please.”
He scowled. “Your passport will be retained until to-morrow for official purposes.”
“But-”
“There is no argument. You are in Italy now and Italian regulations must be obeyed. And”-he put one hand on his hip in the authentic Mussolini pose and tapped me threateningly on the chest-“I should advise you to be careful about the acquaintances you make.”
“I am always careful about my acquaintances.”
“Very likely. But there are some persons with whom it is unhealthy to associate.”
I stared hard at him. “I can quite believe you,” I said deliberately.
His lip curled again. “A little Fascist discipline would do you good, signor Marlow,” he said slowly. “Let me advise you once more to be discreet.” He turned his back on me and sat down.
I went, seething. On the way to the Via San Giulio I called at the British Consulate. I was interviewed by a very polite young man in a Savile Row suit. He listened to my tale of woe in silence. Then:
“Well, of course, Mr. Marlow, it is very unusual of them to behave like that, and I’ve never heard of them retaining a British passport like that. But you were probably just unlucky. And they are inclined to be a little touchy at the moment. I’ll have a word with the Consul about it. But I shouldn’t worry. If you don’t get your passport back, let us know. By the way, what did you say your business was?”