and his eyes glinted with mischief. “And we’re going to dance—”
“We can’t—”
“—just like this!” Marco encircled her waist with his arm and swept her into the air, spinning her around so that her dress billowed gaily, and Elisabetta felt herself dizzy and laughing, even as he spun her closer to Palazzo Braschi. She saw the fancy people around them as a blur and she clung to him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and when they reached the entrance, Marco set her down under the archway, where he kissed her softly, chasing her objections away.
* * *
—
Marco took Elisabetta onto the glistening parquet floor, guiding her through dance after dance, and she followed his lead, whirling past walls lined with painted friezes, oil portraits, and polished bronze sconces that shed a romantic light. The ballroom was grand, and couples danced to a wonderful orchestra playing in front of a stage under a large tricolor sash, strung between two marble columns. Painted murals covered the vaulted ceiling, and the only time they stopped dancing was to accept flutes of bubbly spumante from passing waiters.
Elisabetta found herself having fun, and by the third glass of spumante, she began to feel less worried, though she noticed that many of Marco’s former friends seemed cool to him. She didn’t understand why, nor did she know if Marco had noticed. He focused only on her, making sure she was having a good time.
Suddenly excitement rippled through the crowd, and everyone burst into animated chatter, turning to the ballroom entrance. The orchestra launched into a rousing rendition of “Giovinezza” as an entourage of Blackshirts marched into the ballroom, and the partygoers moved quickly aside to admit them.
“What’s happening?” Elisabetta asked, standing on tiptoe.
Marco gasped. “Il Duce is here!”
The crowd gave the Fascist salute, chanting, “Duce, Duce, Duce!” Marco joined in, and Elisabetta felt stunned at the notion that she was in the same room as such a powerful man. She craned her neck to see him, astonished to find that Mussolini looked just like his image in the photos, posters, stamps, and coins. He had round, dark eyes, a prominent brow, and a strong jawline—a pugnacious visage at odds with his formal attire, a black coat with tails and a shiny top hat. His magnetism was undeniable even to Elisabetta, who was no Fascist.
The crowd and Marco cheered wildly as Mussolini climbed the steps of the stage to a lectern, surveyed the chanting partygoers, then motioned for silence as he began to speak. “Ladies and Gentlemen! Greetings! Tonight we celebrate the promotion of Commendatore Buonacorso, who has served our glorious party!”
All of a sudden, the tricolor sash above the stage came undone and began to flutter down, heading for Mussolini. The partygoers gasped, the Blackshirts shouted a warning, and Mussolini stepped aside just before the sash fell on the lectern.
The partygoers burst into astonished chatter, and Blackshirts leapt to the stage. Mussolini stood aside, and Blackshirts started calling for a ladder to reattach the sash. There was chaos at the lectern, with everyone running this way and that. The mishap threatened to reduce the momentous occasion to a cartoonishly silly scene.
“What an embarrassment for the fascio.” Marco muttered to Elisabetta. “We don’t have a ladder tall enough to fix the sash. The contractor took the big ladder with him.”
“What will they do?”
“Excuse me, Elisabetta. Be right back.” Marco left her side, made his way to the front of the room, spoke with one of the Blackshirts, and hurried to the stage. She watched in bewilderment as the partygoers began to notice him, their heads turning.
On the stage, Marco hurried to pick up the fallen end of the sash, hustled with it to the base of the tall column, and, remarkably, began to climb the column as if it were a flagpole, straddling it with his strong arms and legs.
Elisabetta’s mouth dropped open. The partygoers responded instantaneously, cheering and applauding him. The band struck up a rousing march, and everyone clapped in rhythm as Marco shimmied up the column, climbing until he reached its very top, where he tried to reattach the sash.
Everyone looked up, waiting to see if Marco would succeed. Elisabetta marveled at his bravado. The crowd cheered him on. In the next moment, the sash was affixed. Marco signaled that he had done the job, then slid down the column in a controlled manner, landing safely at the bottom.
The crowd roared, and so did Elisabetta. Mussolini himself strode to Marco, shook his hand,