A Fly on the Wall

The joints in my abdomen twitch as I recover my route. A stiff gust of air has just nearly bowled me over, toppled me down, derailed my ascent. But I have retrieved my groove, set myself back on course. On my course for what? In all honesty, I’m unsure. I’m unsure of most things, in fact. Indeed, though I was birthed atop the entry for “stopwatch” in the 1992 edition of the World Book encyclopedia, my intelligence possesses gaping holes that no reference book could ever fill. Hey, what’s that? Never mind. I’ve learned I’m adept with measurements and trivial tidbits, for instance, but struggle to navigate my Lilliputian brain anywhere else. I am aware that for the past ten days, four hours, and nine minutes, I have seen it all happen. Everything. My birth. My camaraderie with my one hundred and seventy-two siblings. My separation from my siblings. My mating. The birth of my children. The camaraderie among my one hundred and twenty children. Their separation.

However, at this point in time, precisely forty-seven seconds past the seventh hour in the evening on Wednesday, the thirteenth of March, two thousand and twenty-four, I know that my ephemeral life is set to enter a new stage: the final one.

I’ll tell you why. My weaknesses will catch up with me. I’ve learned I am truly inept at resisting temptation, or understanding the consequences of my behavior, or even prioritizing long-term gain over short-term pain. That much, I am sure of. I think it’s about time my life will have run its course.

But fluttering in solitude in crooked circles due to my “strong instinctive drives and amazingly sensitive senses” that prevent me from “colliding with walls and other airborne obstacles” (thanks, World Book), I find myself mingling amid the light-hearted din of an eager crowd of adult humans, standing in a queue on a bright red carpet. The hum of excitement outside the entrance to this newly-renovated brick building rivals the hum of the blinding, off-white lightbox that awaits them in Helvetica letters:

The World Premiere of:
MARGHERITA WANTS POWER, OR: Mussolini’s Muse
The true story of Margherita Sarfatti, the Jewish mother of fascism
A one-act play by Cyrus Sarfaty

This goes over my head instantly. Keep in mind that when I was born, it was still March, two thousand and twenty-four. Ooh– fruit! I feast on a banana peel tucked away on top of a sign reading “COAT CHECK”. In a matter of four seconds and two milliseconds, however, I turn around to find myself inside a massive space: stage, seats, curtains, lights. Glaring fluorescent bulbs illuminate the happenings within this 150-seat, eggshell-white-and-cement-gray auditorium.

“Good evening, Toronto!” a voice thunders from below, tainted with tinny feedback. The din endures from the sophisticated, artistically-minded women and men seated in rows of retractable velvet seats below me. “I said… good evening, Toronto!”

“Good evening!” the crowd responds in near unison like a herd of ovine robots.

“That’s better.” I notice the origin of this voice: a dashing sixteen-year-old human roves around the black, tape-clad stage with a microphone in his dry, lovely, porous hand. “Welcome to the inaugural performance…” I’m in no mood to listen. I apologize: an evanescent attention span is another weakness of mine. As is ‘telling’ and not ‘showing’ when I describe my behavior. My wings flap. I’m hungry. What time is it? Wait, where’s my watch? Did I even wear it here? Where is it, for crying out loud?! I’m hungry. Do I even own a watch? Do I have a wrist? Did I just say “for crying out loud”? Does that mean I should have a cane and dentures with me? You rapscallions, get off my lawn! What does a lawn look like? What the hell is lawn bowlin–

Another sharp gust of air clips the back of my right wing: the ushers have shut the doors to the lobby. A loud click.

I am trapped.

“... she’s my ancestor, in fact! And her half-hearted effort to preserve a diverse Italy may have directly led to the deaths of millions.” The teenage boy puts extra emphasis on those last few words. “Full disclosure, everyone, my mouth was agape once I found out I’m a descendant of hers! So without further ado, Margherita Wants Power.”

The audience energetically bangs its hands together like a herd of ovine robots as the incandescent lights dim to black. A wooden table polished a tawny brown rolls onto center stage with the help of two similar-looking, shorter-than-average, black-haired stagehands. A red, white, and green flag associated with Italy, a country in southern Europe; population 59,800,000 (estimated 2015); population 0 (estimated 2,000,000 BCE) capital, Rome; official language, Italian; Italian name, “Italia”, is bound to the front of the table with a strip of masking tape, alongside a stack of newspapers.

A beam of light descends from a perfectly-circular, two-pi-r hole in the ceiling, pointed just above a chair at the table. A woman in her twenties sporting a brown, curly wig, silver necklace, heavy woolen dress, and clangy heels enters from stage right, absorbing the spotlight. She is followed by an elegantly-dressed man with an elegantly-coiffed head of approximately 100,000 elegant strands of elegant hair.

“This is my desk right here, in fact,” the actress projects. “Typewriter, lamp, the latest copy of The Socialist World. A ‘who’s who’ of the Yugoslavian art scene. I truly feel at home here.”

“Well, that’s marvelous, mi amor,” the man responds. “They just gave all of this to you?”

I’m hungry. Where did my wrist go? How do I get out of this room? What does the fox say?

“Look,” the man onstage cautions. “I greatly admire Marx, you know I do. That’s why you married me of all people. But sometimes I can’t help but feel like you’re politicizing everything.” The metal band on the actor’s finger (a ‘ring’) implies that he is married to the female performer onstage alongside him. (Incidentally, the metal band I briefly heard exploding out of a motorcycle on my circuitous route here implies that there are two meanings to the phrase ‘metal band’.)

“So?” the actress replies.

“So, I’m worried your boss is getting to you. You were never this dogmatic about anything.”

“Cesare, I think you just haven’t tested my boundaries. The outer limits of my ambitions. You would know that I am, in fact, quite an opinionated lady.”

“Alright, well, I still maintain that your boss is manipulating your opinions somehow.”

“Cesare! You are decidedly wrong! I am in shock that you would even conceive of such a thought.”

I try to wrap my head around the information presented, but the next line jolts me before I can reasonably prompt my 250-micrometer-long cerebrum to think critically. A burly rectangle with legs (is that Mussolini from the “M” volume?!) enters the scene and makes a seemingly-flirtatious gesture toward the actress. I cannot discern the nature of this gesture from my vantage point. Moreover, I do not particularly care. The actress (whose character seems to be named “Margherita”, and whose own name could be anything from Abigail to Zoe) and the man rush into an empty ‘room’ on the set, a space with three walls, no ceiling, and nondescript furniture. For whatever reason, the elegantly-coiffed man exits the stage, huffing indignantly. He won’t reenter. He has been written off as a character in Margherita Wants Power, a one-act play written by Cyrus Sarfaty.

Margherita turns toward the audience of spectators below me, seemingly unaware that she is simultaneously being subjected to the bemused gaze of a lost housefly. “All my life I have wanted power on the global stage.

“Every human has their own desires, their own wishes, independent of their parents’ wishes, their friends’ wishes, their upbringing. Some want money, others want glory, others want calm.

“But I, Margherita Sarfatti, want power. I am not out to conceal my desire. I am not adhering to any implicit moral codes. My name is Margherita Sarfatti,” she states. “And I want power.

“Why? Why do I want power? What good can come from controlling people? I suppose there is both a simple conclusion and a complex conclusion. To satisfy the feeble mind of a nonagenarian–” Wait, hold your horses. I am hungry. I– “I would claim that the quest for power is human nature. And I seek it more than others simply because I am superior. I am more talented, more shrewd, more sage. I face conflict with aplomb, and I carry myself with poise.

“My acquaintances have deemed it regrettable to think of me in such a manner. They say, ‘haven’t you read the fables?’ They say, ‘are you not aware that hubris is the pride that blinds?’ They say, ‘Margherita Sarfatti, you delusional megalomaniac.’ But all I hear is my name, and all I respond is that ‘you have never met a woman of my caliber’.

“Which ties me to the complex conclusion. I was raised on bookshelves upon bookshelves. Indeed, my sister, Nella, and I grew up well-off and well-read, in an era when my sex was at a disadvantage in society, I dare say. (And we still are.) They say knowledge is power, but with the immense knowledge I possess, I surely cannot be expected to masquerade as the bourgeois housewife of a Venetian intellectual. I want power, and Benito is my medium. Indeed, I want power, and Benito Mussolini is my vessel.” Do I really not have a wrist?

“Just watch: I will cast myself into the great, wide ocean, daring the shark to sink its teeth into my flesh. Just watch: I will reel myself back to the surface, safe and sound… and fully in control of what was once my predator. It should come as no surprise: I, Margherita Sarfatti, want power. And just like an earthworm, split me in half and I will thrive.”

She exits the stage temporarily as the pi-r-squared lights dim again. Polite applause from down below is drowned out by the surprisingly-clanky rattle of the table as the stagehands roll it offstage. As the lights brighten, I see it has been replaced with a plywood podium, one with intricate engravings on its outward-facing side but little attention to detail along its lectern– the slab of wood meant to hold literature seems to have been recently nailed to the rest of the structure, resulting in an awkward color combination and uneven slants. Remember the Alamo. The sun never sets on the British Empire. I am hungry.

“Oh, Cesare called you, did he?” Margherita stands alone with a faded-black cylinder pressed against her left ear. “You fail to understand, Nella. You have always known that I desire additional influence– and I think Benito is the key. He’s… quite boorish, to say the least. But also quite malleable. My words are like droplets of wine to him.”

She pauses. “Yes, in fact, Nella, I revealed that to him yesterday. He was fine with it; in fact, he has many Jewish friends. And I’m sure you remember when Luzzatti was in charge. Benito said that ‘antisemitism does not exist in Italy’– that we have always been good citizens and brave soldiers, Nella. And I can promise you that as much as I’m attempting to… civilize him and prepare him for the modern world, I can give you my word that I haven’t discussed the ‘Jewish problem’. I promise you, there is not even a modicum of him that believes we are a menace to society. Nella, fascism is a legitimate ideology, and it is both of our opinions that Italy is crying out for it right now.” Wait… should I be writing this? The words passing through your retinas into your frontal lobe combine to form a humorous, postmodern take on a pivotal story (well, that’s just my opinion), but what’s all this about fascism? Don’t forget that I first saw the light of day in the World Book; I would say I have quite a fine grasp of the political spectrum. I want to showcase my postmodern chops, but is it crossing the line to showcase them against a backdrop of fascism?

“Nonsense. He thirsts for me.”

Indeed, nonsense. This piece does have taste, not unlike a smushed cranberry.

“Is that a threat? Nella, the audacity! Do you know my potential? Are you familiar with my worth?” She pauses. “So you’re going to shun me like a sewer rat. I see how it is. Very well, go ahead. I hear the gauntlet being thrown down. Very clearly in fact.”

Margherita storms offstage. Hey! Reader! Do you have any food hidden around where you’re at? Whoa, who’s that woman down in the back row? I didn’t know so many sequins could congregate in one place!

My wings flutter at a rapid pace for the next three minutes and nineteen seconds as I travel in concentric circles around the auditorium. I can tell from an audience member’s angry reaction and pointed finger that the noises emitted from my fluttering wings may be burdensom– I’m hungry. Where’d my watch go? Leave the gun, take the cannoli. I am not a crook.

Margherita and Rectangle Man Benito Mussolini are seated in the same set, albeit with slightly different decor. A banner now hangs from the ceiling: