A Fly on the Wall

NINE YEARS LATER

As a being who came into existence merely ten days ago, these details do not preoccupy me. Virtually every reference floats so far above my head they might as well hail from the Asteroid Belt. I am hungry. I am confused. And I am trapped.

“No, no, no, Benito! We must merge state and corporate power!”

“We must merge state and corporate power,” Rectangle Man repeats monotonously as an ovine mechanoid would. “But what for?”

“It’s necessary to control all parts of civilian life. For the greater good.”

Rectangle Man nods. “Yes, of course.”

“Indeed. Naturally, we have goals. And together, by permeating Italian society, we can achieve these efficiently. I included this in your speech from last week before the other party leaders.”

“Yes, I remember. It’s all for power!” What is this play, with its flat characters, its overt plot, its banal dialogue? And yes, I know what “banal” means because it kind of sounds like “banana”. Which I long for.

For I, your disgruntled housefly, want something. I don’t know what I want. Well, that’s an overstatement. I want to exit this theatre promptly and/or feast my abdomen on the scrumptious insides of a fig, dandruff, or the like. And yes, I know I just wrote the conglomo-junction “and/or” unironically. What can I say? A hungry stomach has no ears. I suppose I must continue to “understand” this plot in the third-person so as to satisfy those who read my testimony.

“Yes, yes, Benito, we need power. Lest you forget that all we pursue together is control over the state. You are the head of the Fascist Party (somehow…) and I bolster your influence. We must show Europe that we’re not insipid weaklings, entering into a backward spiral like the Russians and their Communist buffoonery.”

“Those damned Communists!”

“You have said it yourself, and I have urged you many times: might makes right, Benito.”

“Certainly.”

“There is an inherent hierarchy among classes and cultures in this world–” This is entering some difficult territory, and once again I worry I may dilute this play’s content with confusing absurdism or an ill-timed pun. I’m just a fly, though, so I might as well wing it. (See what I did there?)

“Not quite, Benito. Manifestly, the unemployment caused by the war may have led to some social unrest. Which makes a powerful leader all the more necessary.” Margherita pauses. “So, Benito?”

“Yes, my maiden?” Rectangle Man responds.

“I think it’s time.”

“Time for what?”

“Benito, it’s time we march on Rome. Tens of thousands already support our Fascist cause. If we rally them together and all demand for Prime Minister Facta to go, he will surely resign. The time is now. Our fate is upon us, Benito. And no leader is stronger than you. You are a lion among lions. Your passion, your charisma. If you make your voice heard, we can absolutely seize power. I truly do.” Stop rambling. ‘Power’ count: 11

“Tremendous!”

“‘Tremendous’ is an understatement. When we march on Rome, the country will be ours! We are already close with the king. The constitution states that martial law is to be implemented in the case of insurgency. And insurgency is exactly what we are trying to accomplish, Benito. (Softening our goal will lead us nowhere, I dare say.) But if– nay, when– we can entice him to avoid martial law and instead transfer power over to you–” ‘Power’ count: 12– “it will be just the beginning. If the situation is deemed too severe for a remedy, Benito Mussolini will be il Duce.” Rectangle Man moves his head up and down in an excited fashion and exits the stage.

Margherita continues. “And I will be il Cervello. ‘The mastermind.’ I can taste it. All I have wanted was the chance to amplify my voice. To elevate my standing. To be regarded as a pillar in the Italian arena.” I am hungr– “To have the grandchildren of every family asking their elders, ‘How did our country become the leader of the free world?’, and for the elders to reply saying, ‘Children, that, too, was Margherita. Our country is a powerful–” I’ll count that as numero 13– “world leader because of Margherita Sarfatti. What an enthralling woman.’”

I am hungry. And ever more claustrophobic. And the content in this play is still way over my head.

The lights dim and then brighten. The table has been replaced by a bed with wheels, rolled onstage by the gangly stagehands. A new banner is hoisted from the ceiling: