"There will be an economic crash."
...
Huh ?
That's the only thing that Alberto De Stefani could think, as the man in front of him, behind the well-crafted black desk, suddenly spoke.
The prime minister, because it is what he is and not any of these cocky titles he gave himself, had finally spoken, after a lingering period of time, the longs minutes of an awkward silence had already settled in the room for quite a while, where Einaudi and his unknown companion waited, as the man in front of them didn't even look in their general direction once, the eye focused on the pile of paper that seems to permanently haunt his desk.
Taking one after the other with a lot of diligence, in a repeated and precise movement, concise, like a machine. Taking, reading, and signing, or toring apart before barefacedly throwing it in the office trash can.
"He seems way more dedicated than i remember"
De Stefani thought while watching the methodic and seemingly unflagging work of the man. maybe he took conscience than ruling a nation is more than uniforms speech and gesture.
"Although i don't think he can permet himself to not be, as any man who is prime minister, minister of foreign affair and minister of the interior at the same time would have quite a lot of work on his shoulders."
He thought, amused.
As the party fully put his grip on this nation, with its ugly tentacules reaching everywhere and as it rejected the non-members to the government positions, it quickly appeared that a bunch of illiterate idiots in blackshirts aren't really made for this kind of jobs.
Oh, the fascist party has its intellectual and skilled people, for sure.
From Gentile and his state-worship disguised under a thin veneer of philosophy to Alfredo Rocco, the round-faced and gruff lawyer, with his perpetual aspect of a bulldog in a suit, dressing up dictatorship behind the thousand words of judicial langage.
Yes, the party had its brains, but not a lot. Not enough.
Far from enough, especially now, when they are in power, occupied to fight each other for power, when they don't just do blatant clientelism. The good ones being rarely the one in charge.
This party is too young, and too popular to be able to fully rule. After all, most of its members are what you could call "poorly educated".
It is whispered that even some of the new mayors, and among the highest members, can't even read.
A popular ideology, a thirst for absolute power, individualism at its wors and preference on loyalty rather than ability. The cocktail to disaster.
So, some of them, some of the less... reduced mind, they have to take the charge, especially after firing the liberal and conservative ministers.
Like him.
So, they end up in this situation, with the man in front of him being at the same time prime minister, minister of the interior and minister of foreign affairs. Quite a busy man.
Although he didn't know what really fueled this, was it the lack of brain in the fascist party, Temporary measure while searching candidate for these post ? Future reform on ministries ? Or just the enormous ego of this bald man ?
Probably a mix of all of these, with a big part of the last one.
He sure is a man of...excessive autocentrism
If confidence were humility, he'd be a saint.
But what did he mean by this ?
Economic crash ?
is he saying that a bunch of street gang fighters and military-loving guys aren't well-suited for economic gestion ?
And that maybe the old right-wing government had more sense that this one ? At least on the economic matter ?
Wow... a fascist admitting being wrong... would be a first.
Or maybe he just didn't hear that right.
Or mayeb he did, but whatever.
You could think anything about this man, but the thing you could never tell about him is that he is not good at catching you off guard and surprising you. Especially recently.
His work was surprising recently. Very different, very reformist and very ongoing. And relentlessly continuing whatever the hour is.
From the first sight of the sun to hours after it settled, disappearing behind the Palatine Hill, sinking into Rome's ancient heart where emperors once ruled and legends were born, you would always see the light from the window of his cabinet.
And it wasn't just propaganda; he heard that one of the guards was recently almost fired for interrupting him during his work, entering abruptly his cabinet to see if he was still alive, after he had passed two consecutive days in it without ever going out or receiving food.
Although maybe it is half-truth, Farinacci has a tendency to always inflate a story, especially when it is about the duce.
Embarrassing himself and the fascist by his bootlicking demeanour that would make a Neapolitan Street hustler shy in comparison. Making even the most fervent fascist roll his eyes in front of such a carpet bahaviour.
Alberto sat upright in the leather chair opposite the desk, his wire-framed glasses catching the golden reflection of a single desk lamp. Waiting patiently, he was used to the way great people tend to make others wait for them, this one is not merely different than any other party leader or prime minister or than the king himself, he just wears a different uniform.
So he wait, and wait, and wait, while Mussolini, pen in hand, is still hunched over a stack of papers, reviewing whatever these lists are about, scribbling annotations with an almost unnatural calm, before occasionally underlining a number with sudden sheer of violence, like the simple idea or reading this line or seeing this number is an abomination to his eyes.
The clock on the wall ticked, a slight and regular disrupt of the deep silence that resonate in the whole room. The ticking allying with the scratching of the pen to create a concerto of parallel and unwavering noise, the scratch and the ticking, like a duo playing a concerto, captivating the attention of the entire room in slight moves of the hand.
The clock and the pen
The instrument of time and the instrument of power
But what kind of time are we living in, and what kind are we writing into being?
Will we write with care or with command?Will we measure time to cherish life — or to dominate it?
Alberto gaze slightly on the hour before dismissing the thoughts, he wasn't there for political philosophy. And criticizing a dictatorship wouldn't be very honest of him.
After all, he was very happy to work for it as long as it suited his liberal agenda.
And he would still do it if he could, Italian don't need to vote, they need money
whatever the man in charge is, as long as fiscal conservatism and economic liberalization are implemented in this state, who cares if he wears a military costume, a politician's tie or dandy clothes ?
The clock continues perpetually its course, ticking down toward some unnamed inevitability. As the click and the clock passes tirelessly.
Alberto waited. He was patient by nature. A trait he had learned to skillfully apply when talking with important people.
Still, the Duce's summons had been very... abrupt.
The message was as rough as it was esoteric.
The file sent to him was cryptic at best. At first, he thought it was sent by telegraph, some morse code translated by some unseasoned hand.
"Trade exposure, foreign debt, 1923–1926 trends."
A riddle. A puzzle of words and numbers.
And Mussolini had not spoken since he nodded him into the room, the need of explanation exulting from Alberto. Of course he had descripted what he read at his best, and it was a logical and very reasoned economic point of view, almost a basic, but lacking any meaningful context.
It was like summoning De Bono to say to him "Every gun need a barrel"... Sure, that's right, but what do you mean ?
So he was lost here, waiting for the prize of the day, an answer to why he was dragged out of his seat in the Grand Council of Fascism to come here.
Not that the travel was very long, the grand council being literally in the same building as the duce's desk room.
He gazes on the man on his left, an unknown who seems as unaware as him of the reason of why they are here.
he has a kind of sculpted composure. The hair thick and meticulously styled, like hours were dedicated to it, the lines are swept back from a broad forehead with an almost architectural precision, mounted like the vaulted arches and domes of a cathedral, with the precision of an infinity of time dedicated to this precision in the construction of this haircut. Same for that preposterous thing of a mustache, bold, sharply curled at the ends, like he wanted this bristle thing to enter his ears. It wasn't just facial hair; it was a statement in itself. A show of confidence, even defiance.
His face was full and firm at the same time, like an otter, the eyes deeply set beneath measured brows. There was calm in those eyes, but not softness, it is the calm of a man used to thinking in layers, who don't talk but think.
Someone who could hold a silence for a thousand of years and still have time at the end to fill it with new thoughts. His skin is pale and seems so unmarked by sun or hardship that you an easily see that he doesn't get out often from whatever deep shadowy laboratory he is hiding in.
Suit is of fine cut, heavy wool perhaps, with a high-collared shirt and a knotted cravat sitting neatly under a waistcoat. Everything that you can see in his dress was deliberately chose for that. Like a precisely crafted display of his persona.
He looks like a man who know exactly what he wants others to see, a scientist, that's for sure, but not the ones to hide behind a desk and to stutter when they can't just nod to people, no, a scientist with pride, style and maybe a bit of a heavy hand on theatricality.
You can see his thoughtful and silent questioning of the situation, but without the nervousness you could see from a young man like him, he seems unsettled by the air around him, even with the slightly tense that the duce seems to always wear around him, like a second coat.
He carries himself like a man who expect the world to keep up. Not with boldness, but without a lot of stress either.
The pen scratched. Pages turned. Time passed.
Finally, without looking up, Mussolini spoke.
"I present you Francesco Giordani, a professor at the Università degli Studi di Napoli Federico II (University of Napoli), a teacher and scientist in industrial chemistry."
Francesco Giordani... does he...
"Don't bother racking your brain to remember him, you probably never heard of our dear friend here. And there is a lot of reasons for that. Science never was your thing, and he isn't particularly keen to appear everywhere in need of attention, even if his style say otherwise."
Right...
"And i suppose i don't particularly need to present you to the man at the left of you, i assume you are already acquainted."
Oh yes, Alberto thought while gazing for the first time on his right, at the bearded and falsely distinguished gentleman on the third armchair, he definitely doesn't need any help to remember this one.
Il Doge.
The nice nickname that the people of Roma decided to bestow on the head of his successor.
Not that he didn't deserve it, from his venetian origin to his flashy manner of showing himself, Giuseppe Volpi di Misurata, the new minister of finance, his replacement, certainly earned any bird name he was given.
Although he doesn't particularly despise or hate this man, Alberto would lie if he said that his firing and his replacement by this big hat venetian corporatist asshole didn't bother him.
"Right... so let's end the suspense and the chitchat, what do you think about the current economic situation ?"
The man continues while putting away his black pen, finally showing them the honor of his gaze.
De Stefani waited some seconds to the others before answering, wanting to be sure it was addressed to him.
"There's a strong drive toward corporatism, and as i relentlessly said before, i think i..."
"Let's be clear." The cut was as sharp as it would have been if made by a blade.
The man joining his hands while his elbow rest on the desk, like the statue of the thinker, in a strange way.
"I don't ask you about Italy, about corporatist policies, about liberalism or about the wages of the workers of Turin. I ask you about everything, globally."
"My question is about the global economy, the economy of the occident more precisely, so, essentially, the whole world."
"What do you see ? What do you predict? How is the economic situation of the occident shaping up ? How is wall street, the new center of the world, going ?"
"What do you see for the future of finance ?"
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Author note :
Hello guys.
1) Thank you for reading my novel.
2) If you ever read another of my novels, you know that English is not my first langage and this novel is he first that i try to write in English, so be cool with it, if you see any wrong spelling or wrong phrase, don't hesitate to tell me.
3) if you have any idea of reform, action that the character could do. Any historical person they could invite, meet or appoint. Any event they could take advantage from. Or whatever, don't hesitate to propose it to me.
I am not fully knowledgeable about Italian and worldwide history and politics of the times, so it would be cool if you could help by participating and proposing.
it can be about an event or person from/in Italy or anywhere in the world. same for the reform and idea of how to manage government, situations or even wars.
Thank you, a lot, again for reading this.