By now it was sunset and the Gora had filed out of the gorge, doubtless on their way across the desert and as glad to be free of conflict as ourselves. Leaving Kolya sleeping at the water’s side, I filled the metal fantasse myself, loaded it onto Uncle Tom and led her back up the steep path to where the aviatrix waited. Signorina von Bek had been reading to pass the time. I had already noticed the little bundle of brightly-coloured paper-covered books and magazines she kept. They were all English and seemed to be tales of adventure. She had developed a taste for blood-and-thunder, she said, at Cheltenham. ‘It was so uneventful, you know, otherwise.’
Carefully marking her place, she put the book on her table and drew from another fitted locker a collapsible canvas bathtub which she stretched carefully upon its frame. Into this, I emptied the four-gallon fantasse. She clapped her hands. ‘I have longed desperately for this for three days!’ Discreetly I returned to the oasis and saw to Uncle Tom’s grooming. She grumbled and snapped the whole time but could not disguise the pleasure she took in my attention. What was more, the mechanical and familiar actions helped me gather my thoughts. Our best escape from the desert must surely be in the repaired balloon. But what if it also delivered us directly into the hands of the authorities? If we continued on the Thieves’ Road it would be months, perhaps longer, before we reached civilisation. If we took the balloon and kept our disguises we had every chance of slipping away into a town before the Italians or French became over-curious. There was also a good possibility we would again be waylaid and this time murdered for our camels and goods. The Gora were doubtless not the only outlaw band in these parts. They would pass on the news. At best we must expect a fight or two. And we must consider the camels.
‘My dear, your feeling for those camels is positively obscene.’ Kolya had risen and walked over to one of our grazing pack animals to feel for something on the beast’s hump. It was only then I noticed the recently healed scars. ‘I grew concerned that you would decide to trade a couple of our camels for me!’
‘I would have been ashamed if I had bid more than your value,’ I replied. This badinage was usual with us. In my heart I was of course deeply relieved at my friend’s survival. Save for Captain Quelch I do not think I have ever had quite such love for a man. We were Roland and Oliver, fellow adventurers, followers of the Code of Chivalry.
I owed my life to him. Nonetheless, it still seemed to me pure folly to continue with his original plan. It was even possible that we might convince the lady to drop us off at some convenient spot. ‘Please remember to take it easy, Kolya, dear. You are still weak and your sanity remains, I would guess, a trifle fragile.’
He shrugged this off and casually hummed some jazz number, as if to prove to me that his mind was fully restored.
When I mentioned her name my friend was anxious to be introduced to Signorina von Bek. ‘I have heard of the woman. She was Benito Mussolini’s mistress. I remember her from Paris! And she flew with the Spanish Barcelona-to-Rio expedition a couple of years ago.’
I explained that, given his status, it would be both dangerous and unseemly for him to socialise with our hostess. Considering her history there was some small chance she could be an Italian government agent. At all costs we had to preserve our disguises until we knew we could trust her. He understood this but did not relish, he declared, remaining a fool for long. He would be glad when we were on our way. He remained obsessively fixed in his determination to follow the Thieves’ Road.
I dined that evening with my new friend. Below us my old friend cooked himself kus-kus to which he added a hard-boiled egg Signorina von Bek had given him. My female alter ego possessed the same spontaneous generosity which had led me into so many scrapes! Yet I do not regret being this way. Better to follow a virtuous impulse, I have always said, than to think always of self-interest. ‘Yer give ‘em too fuckin’ much, Ivan, and then yer regret it, silly bugger,’ said Mrs Cornelius to me the other day and it is true. But I have few regrets of that sort. I have never quite understood what she and Signorina von Bek had in common, for they were chalk and chips, but it might have been a quality of self-possession. Certainly it was not a similarity of enthusiasms! The last time I described an engineering principle to Mrs Cornelius, she ran from the pub claiming a weak bladder and I had to borrow a pound from Miss B. to pay for the round. With Signorina von Bek, however, I had an uncanny affinity. Together we discussed enormous projects. As soon as Kolya was bedded down I told her a little about my Desert Liner. She, in turn, sketched for me her rocket-powered tube-train. She said the Italian government was about to commission an experimental prototype. Knowing Mussolini’s preference for co-opting famous people to help him, she had agreed to this flight for publicity reasons rather than from genuine scientific curiosity. ‘I was finding it all extremely jolly until I was shot down. It was partly my own fault for dropping too low to ask those Arabs where I was. Still, I suppose even that was providential. What larks, eh, Sheikh Mustafa!’
From dawn until ten o’clock the next morning we worked on repairing the balloon fabric, and gathering material to build a fire which would funnel up air for the initial inflation. With Kolya’s reluctant help, we took the whole apparatus to the top of the hill looking out over the dead city and at Signorina von Bek’s instruction arranged the fabric to funnel heated air into the balloon proper. As I watched the huge egg-shaped canopy begin to fill I could hardly contain myself.
Now the Italian flag swelled across the sky. I imagined Mussolini’s thrusting New Rome, his great African empire which would at last stamp Carthage into non-existence. His firmament would be full of such ships. Architecture grand and graceful as Ancient Rome’s would rise upon the ruins of an honourable past. The balloon was a vision! It was as if an angel had spoken. My manhood was returning. I knew I must make my way to Il Duce’s court as soon as I could and link my destiny with his. It was not idealists like me who gave fascism a bad name. However, I would not be a Christian gentleman if I did not admit to past loyalties. The excesses of Benito Mussolini’s lieutenants are best seen as the excesses, say, of the Spanish Inquisition which followed Ferdinand and Isabella into Moorish Spain. They discovered corruption, dark superstitions, decadence, voluptuous orientalism, academic abstraction and answered the Holy Call to cleanse eight centuries of evil and moral turpitude from their land. They revitalised their people and gave them back a history. Sometimes a man indulging in too many scruples fails to face the evil nature of his enemy. The Italians are a sentimental people. They need a dictator, the disciplines of fascism, to make them great, or their inherent laziness will always win. That they turned their backs on the only leader who could have made them great again is proof of my point. Now what are they? What is their wealth? A few ruins and Renaissance fountains they can hire out as props for the latest Cinerama epic! For all my powers of precognition, I saw, in this case, only a glowing future. I glimpsed perfection.
Soon the canopy was swinging overhead shimmering like a netted whale and Signorina von Bek started the little engine, firing it up until blistering steam whistled through the valves. This kept hot air in the canopy but no longer powered our abandoned propeller. Now, as the basket jerked impatiently at the ropes, the aviatrix jumped expertly to her work, adjusting ballast, checking trim and giving particular attention to the neatly fixed patch of blue silk which obscured part of the national arms and the letters Fert. She moved like a nymph between her engine and her ropes, cheering whenever her ship responded as she should. Excitedly she leaned out of the basket waving to Kolya, who stood open-mouthed, watching the airship come to life. All the tethering ropes were at full stretch with one or two threatening to drag loose their pegs. She called for us to remove the funnelling fabric and she cheered again. ‘Hooray! Wonderful! What a godsend you fellows proved to be! Let’s get the luggage aboard. I say, what are you going to do about your camels?’