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Authors: Michael Moorcock
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sober. âYour story sounds so wonderful! I know that a lot of what you do is secret, but Iâd guess thereâs more than enough for an article. Or even a series.â
Assuming she sought a useful rationale for a liaison, I paid little attention to this at first. Since Americans were so ignorant of the realities of Europe and the Middle East, I hinted it might be possible for me to say a few words and illustrate them with an anecdote or two, but I must first consider the wisdom of such a decision.
She interpreted this as cautious acquiescence to her approaches and we were both for the moment satisfied.
The launch rounded the point. Even though I had been prepared for something reflecting Fiorelloâs demanding modernist taste, I had not expected to see a magnificent long-distance flying boat built on the very latest lines, large enough to accommodate a substantial number of passengers and crew. I was impressed. We drew alongside
La Farfalla Nera
. She was a breathing mass of dark glowing paint and red brass straining at her anchor like a captured bird. She represented the aggressive, arrogant, triumphant spirit of what even the provincial
ras
referred to as
mussolinismo
. Some of these
ras
grumbled that the cult of Il Duce conspired to diminish Fascism, but for most of us Mussolini
was
Fascism,
was
Italy,
was
the living embodiment of our faith in a glorious future. He was the voice, the strength, the will of all those millions of us who had been disinherited in the Great War.
For young people grubbing among the dresses and shawls I sell in Portobello Road, the twenties was a Golden Age of flappers and jazz, but for those of us who lived through them they were an Age of Assassination and Chaos in which year in and year out we heard of the death of this nationalist intellectual or that left-wing premier almost always by pistol, sometimes by bomb, by one rival political group or another. It is fashionable, these days, to blame the fascists for everything. But before them the German parliamentarians were murdering one another willy-nilly and the same was true in France, Greece, Italy and Spain. The Great War had familiarised them with the smell of death. Even in England Winston Churchill called out the troops to fire upon revolutionists. In mainland Europe, our future was nonexistent until Mussolini and Hitler came along.
At dinner that evening, surrounded by the elegant appointments of the marvellous flying boat, all ivory and mother-of-pearl inlays and polished chrome, I was the centre of attention. Everyone wanted to know about my experiences in Egypt and North Africa and while I had to dress the facts in a less alarming and even less dramatic way in order to make them convincing, I regaled them with tales of the
Dar-al-Habashiya
, the Thievesâ Road across the Sahara, of the powerful Berber kingdoms no outsider had ever penetrated, of the lost oases and the bizarre mirages, the character and disposition of native chieftains, and so on. Their own interest, of course, was in Libya where Italy, some thought, was spending far too much money. âThose natives live like pampered house pets while Italians at home are having to tighten their belts,â declared Margherita Sarfatti suddenly and then laughed. âBut Il Duce knows best. The investment will benefit us eventually. You said you met some rebel Senussi, Prince Max? Theyâre good-looking savages, I hear.â
That was her description of the great Saharan lawmakers. The Senussi were revered by Arab and Berber alike. While following the caravan to Khufra I had heard them spoken of with hatred, with admiration, but always with respect. I said as much to the other guests. The Senussi leader Omar was known as a scholar and a statesman of impeccable probity. One fellow, a bucolic
ras
from Tuscany with some pretensions as a folk poet, violently objected to my description, insisting the Senussi were ignorant zealots sworn to destroy all Christians
Assuming she sought a useful rationale for a liaison, I paid little attention to this at first. Since Americans were so ignorant of the realities of Europe and the Middle East, I hinted it might be possible for me to say a few words and illustrate them with an anecdote or two, but I must first consider the wisdom of such a decision.
She interpreted this as cautious acquiescence to her approaches and we were both for the moment satisfied.
The launch rounded the point. Even though I had been prepared for something reflecting Fiorelloâs demanding modernist taste, I had not expected to see a magnificent long-distance flying boat built on the very latest lines, large enough to accommodate a substantial number of passengers and crew. I was impressed. We drew alongside
La Farfalla Nera
. She was a breathing mass of dark glowing paint and red brass straining at her anchor like a captured bird. She represented the aggressive, arrogant, triumphant spirit of what even the provincial
ras
referred to as
mussolinismo
. Some of these
ras
grumbled that the cult of Il Duce conspired to diminish Fascism, but for most of us Mussolini
was
Fascism,
was
Italy,
was
the living embodiment of our faith in a glorious future. He was the voice, the strength, the will of all those millions of us who had been disinherited in the Great War.
For young people grubbing among the dresses and shawls I sell in Portobello Road, the twenties was a Golden Age of flappers and jazz, but for those of us who lived through them they were an Age of Assassination and Chaos in which year in and year out we heard of the death of this nationalist intellectual or that left-wing premier almost always by pistol, sometimes by bomb, by one rival political group or another. It is fashionable, these days, to blame the fascists for everything. But before them the German parliamentarians were murdering one another willy-nilly and the same was true in France, Greece, Italy and Spain. The Great War had familiarised them with the smell of death. Even in England Winston Churchill called out the troops to fire upon revolutionists. In mainland Europe, our future was nonexistent until Mussolini and Hitler came along.
At dinner that evening, surrounded by the elegant appointments of the marvellous flying boat, all ivory and mother-of-pearl inlays and polished chrome, I was the centre of attention. Everyone wanted to know about my experiences in Egypt and North Africa and while I had to dress the facts in a less alarming and even less dramatic way in order to make them convincing, I regaled them with tales of the
Dar-al-Habashiya
, the Thievesâ Road across the Sahara, of the powerful Berber kingdoms no outsider had ever penetrated, of the lost oases and the bizarre mirages, the character and disposition of native chieftains, and so on. Their own interest, of course, was in Libya where Italy, some thought, was spending far too much money. âThose natives live like pampered house pets while Italians at home are having to tighten their belts,â declared Margherita Sarfatti suddenly and then laughed. âBut Il Duce knows best. The investment will benefit us eventually. You said you met some rebel Senussi, Prince Max? Theyâre good-looking savages, I hear.â
That was her description of the great Saharan lawmakers. The Senussi were revered by Arab and Berber alike. While following the caravan to Khufra I had heard them spoken of with hatred, with admiration, but always with respect. I said as much to the other guests. The Senussi leader Omar was known as a scholar and a statesman of impeccable probity. One fellow, a bucolic
ras
from Tuscany with some pretensions as a folk poet, violently objected to my description, insisting the Senussi were ignorant zealots sworn to destroy all Christians
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