"Michael Moorcock - An Evening at Home" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

visionaries are allowed to dominate daily politics, their talents are wasted,
their decisions are a disaster. Yet occasionally there springs a man of vision
who also has the intelligence and will to overcome such a discrepancy and
Mussolini, of course, was just such a man. Nothing which happened between us
subsequently has ever given me cause to change that view.

Unfortunately, such giants also attract pygmies, who elevate themselves by
association, and it is these pygmies, scarcely noticed by anyone, who
eventually drag the giants down. Only Franco took the example of his
colleagues and, like a good army officer, selected the best men for the work
he had in Spain, bringing his country a stability it had not known for
centuries. He had a much better background. Though both Mussolini and Hitler
had both served in the trenches with distinction, they had never been
considered officer material. Blood will out, as they say.

My Chief tugged suddenly on the wheel of the huge car, making the tyres squeal
and judder. Arnaldo the chauffeur uttered a kind of gulping scream. The whole
vast chassis swung in an arc as Mussolini applied the brake.

With the engine still running he grinned, panting, at me. I was still
recovering from the experience and had not noticed, until the Chief pointed it
out, that we had arrived at my house. I asked the Duce if he would care to
come in and rest but he refused. I think there were memories he did not wish
to revive at that time. He said he would wait in the car and smoke a
cigarette. He asked me if I had a match.

The evening had been a confusing one for me and I planned to help myself to a
quick sniff of cocaine (of which the Duce rather prudishly disapproved) and be
able to continue in better mood. As I walked along the little crazy-paving
path, I thought I saw two figures through the window. I opened the door and
went in quietly. There was a man standing with his back to me. Slowly he was
turning one of the pictures I had placed facing the wall. He adjusted it and
stepped away from it. I saw that several other pictures had been turned, all
of a similar style. I did not demand to know what the man was doing because I
thought I recognised the set of his shoulder.

When however I coughed and he looked back rather wanly to see who it was I did
not immediately recognise his face. One of the eyes was closed shut, badly
bruised. The nose had been broken. The mouth was split and scabbed and most of
the front teeth were missing. I felt sick. The single large brown eye regarded
me with the expression of a dying horse. I knew it was Fiorello.

"The pictures," he said. "They're mine. Don't you like them?"

I would not have hurt his feelings for worlds. This was the man who had done
most to help me reach my present eminence. "I love them," I said, "I was
afraid the sun would get to them. "I know nothing of oils. My God, Fiorello,
were you in a crash?"
"You might say that." With a sigh he flung himself into an armchair, wincing.
"A fall from grace, maybe. I'm not the golden boy I was a few short weeks ago,