A Fly on the Wall

1938

Well before my time.

“My maiden!” Rectangle Man exclaims with a newspaper in his hand. “Lay your eyes upon this! Adolf truly is the height of human endeavor. The paragon of what it means to lead. He dominates whole populations. He resonates with his country. His speeches are truly breathtaking!”

Silence. Margherita’s eyebrows heighten ever-so-slightly. “Are they? Well, he certainly exemplifies fascism.”

“It’s 1938 and I’ve held the top post for sixteen years now–” For your information, the sixteen years Rectangle Man refers to translates to approximately 208.57 lifetimes of a housefly like me. 208.57 lifetimes of brutally regaining control over Ethiopia, 208.57 lifetimes of guiding the nation through economic difficulties, 208.57 lifetimes of his other accomplishments that the World Book failed to cover. I am hungry. Where am I? Does that make sense? Do flies notoriously have bad memories? I’ve never written for a fly before. Or have I? Not? Not not?

“That’s… very true,” Margherita responds. “Sixteen birthdays, sixteen summers, sixteen Christmases, all holding the reins!”

“We’ve per-me-a-ted Italian society!”

Margherita speaks in a more distant tone. “Very good, Benito.”

She and Rectangle Man press their faces against each other.

“But merriment aside, I love what Adolf has been achieving up in Germany–” Okay, hold your horses once again, for crying out loud. How distasteful can one possibly be to put a Holocaust story in what was supposed to be a cheeky postmodern piece? This story could have covered any subject matter, but who said I had to make this about something so serious? Don’t mind me, I’m just expounding.

“Enriching the land. Elevating the standard. What’s that he said yesterday?” He picks up the newspaper. “Ah, yes, it is printed right here on the front page, in fact: ‘German architecture, sculpture, painting, drama, and the rest bring today documentary proof of a creative period in art, which for richness and im-pe-tu-os-i-ty has rarely been matched in the course of human history. And although the Jewish-democratic press magnates–” Hold your horses– “in their effrontery–” I know this is wrong– “even today seek brazenly to turn these facts upside down–” Please, close your mouth!– “we know that the cultural achievements of Germany will in a few years have won from the world respect and appreciation–” That is horse manure, and I would know– “far more unstinted even than that which they now accord to our work in the material field.’ My maiden, there is no doubt I respect him.”

How might Margherita respond? “He is certainly an effective leader.” Praiseworthy equivocation, but now what?

“Naturally. That fact is merely a diversion from my aim, however. Are you familiar with his discourse on the hierarchy of races? How Europe needs purity? How ‘blood mixture is the sole cause of the dying out of old cultures’? He is unmistakably correct, and we must do something similar– if not better– here in Italy.”

Margherita speaks in a whisper. Her eyes’ irises widened, her eyebrows contracted together, Margherita’s panic is apparent. Her heartbeat exceeds my wings’ flapping pace. “Well, I suppose we have formed a pecking order, what with the ordeal in Ethiopia, civilizing the inhabitants. Establishing the natural hierarchy. We, the Italians… we, the civilized, absolutely must band together.” Uh oh, here we go.

Rectangle Man pauses. “No. Not Ethiopia. It’s not Italy versus the world. Italy itself must be purified.” I’m hungry. And I know exactly where this plot is going.

Margherita’s eyes dart around the set with heightened urgency. “I’m sure Adolf would admire you if you implemented it. But–”

“He would?”

“Certainly, certainly. And then that would mean more power for both of us. On a monumental stage.”

“Marvelous. You know how much I yearn to be feared. When do we begin?”

“Your wish is my command.”

“My maiden, he is simply a genius. A mastermind. His ideas resonate with me, and–”

“Adolf?”

Rectangle Man’s gaze softens as his lips widen into a warm smile, not unlike the one I will don when I can once and for all satisfy my rumbling belly. Do flies have bellies? “Yes, Adolf… what a majestic person.”

“He is, he is–” No, he isn’t– “But if I may, you were never this dramatic about anything.”

Rectangle Man’s smile transforms into a concentrated grimace. “Margherita, you just haven’t tested my boundaries. The outer limits of my ambitions. Otherwise, you would know that I am, in fact, quite an opinionated man. And when I know what I want, my roar shall command the people.”

“I still think Adolf is manipulating your opinions. I am that majestic person. I gave you the gems of my genius! I sowed the seeds of your leadership! Benito! You are only il Duce thanks to me!”

Rectangle Man’s brow tilts more and more. This scene seems important. “Margherita Sarfatti! You are decidedly wrong. I am in shock that you would even conceive such a thought, you naive… underling! So often are you– and your lot– fall-a-cious! Living beneath a boulder, all of you do!”

As the lights dim and then brighten following the fifth scene of Margherita Wants Power, a bed is rolled onstage by the stagehands. A black cylinder makes noise next to it.

“Nella? I thought you were never going to call me again!”

She pauses.

“Very well, what seems to be the problem?”

She pauses.

“Actually, we have…up until recently, it seems.”

She pauses. I’m hungry. The character presumably on the other end of this phone call enters from stage right. The actress portraying Nella is approximately 5-feet, 9.5-inches tall with heavy attire similar to Margherita.

“Is that so?” Nella states abruptly. She has a low voice and a long face. “Margie, I sincerely hope you still have some influence over his ideas. I know that’s what you wanted for years, and I don’t suppose you have relinquished this regrettable desire of yours just yet.”

Margherita interrupts her. “Well, in fact–”

“You know what, I don’t really care about the specifics, Margie. I’m not sure if you’ve been following, but your lover Mussolini will enact what he’s calling the Manifesto della razza tomorrow– The Manifesto of Race. It’s going to put Italian Italians– that means neither you nor me– at the forefront of society, and pretty much make life a living hell for anybody else. And it may very well be the most painful for us Jews. So, Margie, you have to step up and do something, or else our property will be confiscated. Our businesses will be Aryanized. We’ll be arrested for no reason. It’s going to be an all-out disaster! Margie, please, for once, step out of your shell and do something for all of us. It’s not about riches or fame: it’s about life.”

I take another glance at the audience below me. It seems I have mistakenly veered in excessively close proximity to the stage, and I glimpse multiple eyes transfixed with my presence.

“Nella, I do see what you are saying and I recognize your plea. However… Benito left me quite recently. I doubt he would be receptive to anything I might suggest. And I demand you to stop trying to influence my opinions. You will never have any say in my life.”

“Margie! You have to escape! Paolo and I are searching desperately for a place to escape and start anew.”

Margherita places down the black cylinder. She steps to the front of the stage as the lights dim, save a scarlet-red floodlight angled directly at her.

Her mouth gradually opens. “What is going on? Am I a villain? Nonsense. I am Margherita Sarfatti, for God’s sake. How was I abandoned like that, scraped aside like the bones of a chicken? The remains of a house cat nobody bothered to feed? Benito and I were two peas in a pod, but now it seems I’m the shell of that pod, discarded without consideration.” Not sure what you mean, but I’m hungry as hell anyway.

“They said, ‘Margherita Sarfatti, you have made it all the way here. You are the de facto decision-maker for Europe’s greatest nation.’ They said, ‘Margherita Sarfatti, surely you are an icon for women across the globe. Intelligent and handsome, a paragon for aspiring female politicians.’” You know what I am? A hungry housefly.

“Has he gotten away? I held him for a quarter of a century. This whole time he was the child, I was the parent. He was my sheep and I was his shepherd. But have times truly changed?” Okay, this is getting a little long. I’ll be sporting a cane and dentures by the time this play finally ends. I need to search for some food. Or a way out. Or something to occupy myself. Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of be…

“This is not the end of Margherita Sarfatti. I will live forever in one way or another. Benito is powerless in that respect. I may continue this journey somewhere else, some other landmass on our sordid planet. But it is the end of Benito. He is a boor. I shall reverse course and expose him for the filthy pig he is. I don’t need to live behind a man.

“I can see it all now: Benito will stand up to beg Margherita Sarfatti to salvage his reputation, for he will realize that the world’s hostility towards him is irrevocable… and that I– and only I– can redeem him.”

The red floodlight dims and brightens. The table set has returned, although the Italian flag has been replaced with a blue-and-white flag representing Uruguay. A final banner hangs from the ceiling: