"Drive on, Giuseppe," he murmured, like an aristocrat giving the order
to the driver of the tumbril.
On the long hot dusty drive into Asmara, the Count lay without interest
in his surroundings, without even attempting to marshal his defence
against the charges he knew he must soon face. He was resigned, abject
his only solace was the considerable damage he would do this upstart,
ill bred peasant, once he returned to Rome, as he was certain he was
about to. He knew that he could ruin the man politically and it gave
him a jot of sour pleasure.
Giuseppe, the driver, knowing his man as he did, made the first stop
outside the casino in Asmara's main street.
Here, at least, Count Aldo Belli was treated as a hero, and he perked
up visibly as the young hostesses rushed out on to the sidewalk to
welcome him.
Some hours later, freshly shaven, his uniform sponged and pressed,
his hair pomaded, and buoyed UP on a fragrant cloud of expensive eau de
cologne, the Count was ready to face his tormentor. He kissed the
girls, tossed back a last glass of cognac, laughed that gay reckless
laugh, snapped his fingers once to show what he thought of the peasant
who now ran this army, clenched his buttocks tightly together to
control his fear and marched out of the casino into the sunlight and
across the street into the military headquarters.
His appointment to meet General Badoglio was for four o'clock and the
town hall clock struck the hour as he marched resolutely down the long
gloomy corridor, following a young aide-de-camp. They reached the end
of the corridor and the aide-de-camp threw open the big double mahogany
doors and stood aside for the Count to enter.
His knees felt like boiled macaroni, his stomach gurgled and seethed,
the palms of his hands were hot and moist, and tears were not far
behind his quivering eyelids as he stepped forward into the huge room
with its lofty moulded ceiling.
He saw that it was filled with officers from both the army and the
airforce. His disgrace was to be made public, then, and he quailed.
Seeming to shrivel, his shoulders slumping, his chest caving and the
big handsome head drooping, the Count stood in the doorway. He could
not bear to look at them, and miserably he studied his gleaming toe
caps
Suddenly, he was assailed by a strange, a completely alien sound and he
looked up startled, ready to defend himself against physical attack.
The roomful of officers were applauding, beaming and grinning,
slapping palm to palm and the Count gaped at them, then glanced quickly
over his shoulder to be certain there was no one standing behind him,
and that this completely unexpected welcome was being directed at
him.
When he looked back he found a stocky, broad, shouldered figure in the
uniform of a general advancing upon him. His face was hard and
unforgiving, with a fierce grey mustache over the grim trap of his
mouth and glittering eyes in deep dark sockets.
If the Count had been in command of his legs and his voice, he might
have run screaming from the room, but before he could move the
General seized him in a grip of iron, and the mustache raking his
cheeks was as rank and rough as the foliage of the trees of the Danakil
desert.
"Colonel, I am always honoured to embrace a brave man," growled the
General, hugging him close, his breath smelling pleasantly of garlic
and sesame seed, an aroma that blended in an interesting fashion with
the fragrant clouds of the Count's perfume. The Count's legs could no
longer stand the strain, they almost collapsed under him. He had to
grab wildly at the General to prevent himself falling. This threw both
of them off balance, and they reeled across the ceramic floor, locked
in each other's arms, in a kind of elephantine waltz,
while the General struggled to free himself.
He succeeded at last, and backed away warily from the Count,
straightening his medals and reassembling his dignity while one of his
officers began to read out a citation from a scroll of parchment and
the applause faded into an attentive silence.
The citation was long and wordy, and it gave the Count time to pull his
scattered wits together. The first half of the citation was lost to
him in his dreamlike state of shock, but then suddenly the words began
to reach him. His chin came up as he recognized some of his own
composition, little verbal gems from his combat reports "Counting only
duty dear, scorning all but honour" that was his own stuff, by the
Virgin and Peter.
He listened now, with all his attention, and they were talking about
him. They were talking of Aldo Belli. His caved chest filled out, the
high colour flooded back into his cheeks, the turmoil of his rebellious
bowels was stilled, and fire flashed in his eye once more.
By God, the General had realized that every phrase, every word,
every comma and exclamation. mark of his report was the literal truth
and the aide-de-camp was handing the General a leather-covered jewel
box, and the General was advancing on him again albeit with a certain
caution and then he was looping the watered silk ribbon over his head
