Elisabetta felt shaken, jarred by a sudden snippet of memory. She remembered one of the times her father had tried to quit drinking. He had experienced delirium tremens, shaking uncontrollably, terrified that Fascists were coming to beat him. She had feared he was losing his sanity and dismissed it as delusion. But maybe it hadn’t been.
Marco smoothed her hair into place. “I’m sorry about that idiot. He’s just drunk, telling stories.”
“But I just remembered something strange,” Elisabetta said, then told Marco the story. She had told Sandro the same thing, after she had left the Deledda lecture in tears. Maybe there was a reason that the memory stuck with her. Maybe it was the truth, refusing to hide.
“It was undoubtedly a hallucination. It doesn’t mean anything.” Marco took her hand, and they resumed walking. “Let’s not let this ruin our celebration.”
“It’s strange, though. My father’s fingers . . . they went in different directions. He always said they healed poorly, or the joints locked, or something. I asked when I was little.” Elisabetta could picture her father’s hands in detail. Even as misshapen as they had been, his fingers had been long, an artist’s hands. “He said it was because of the way he fell off the bicycle, but it could have been caused by someone stomping on his hand. Come to think of it, it makes more sense.”
“Why would a Fascist stomp on his hands? For no reason?”
“I don’t know, but what if it’s true?” Elisabetta felt lost and bewildered. She had thought that the only secret her parents had kept from her was her mother’s affair. This felt like another shock. She couldn’t dismiss it so easily.
“It doesn’t ring true to me.” Marco blinked as they walked along. “Your father wasn’t political.”
“But he didn’t like Mussolini.”
“I admit, the party used to have a thuggish element. But that doesn’t mean they beat people willy-nilly.”
“But those injuries ruined him. It was when he started drinking. He couldn’t paint again. He lost himself. He couldn’t support us anymore. It was why my mother worked, even why their marriage fell apart.”
“Marriages fall apart for many reasons. Ours won’t.” Marco smiled, as they reached the restaurant. “Here we are. Let’s celebrate.”
Elisabetta remained preoccupied, and Marco found them a table by the window. Her mind couldn’t stop racing, even as he ordered them spumante, then talked through dinner, regaling her with his typically funny stories about work. She watched his lips moving, but heard nothing. All of her father’s rants about Mussolini began to make more sense, and she was viewing them in a different light.
Marco kept talking, but her gaze shifted from his handsome face to the utter blackness of his uniform. All she could think of was death. She knew that the Fascists had risen to power via violence. She couldn’t help but wonder if her father had been one of their victims, his elegant hands broken beneath the boots of a Blackshirt. Like Marco.
“Elisabetta, are you okay? You haven’t eaten much.”
“I’m not hungry.” Elisabetta forced a smile.
“Your ring looks so pretty.”
“Thank you.” Elisabetta glanced at the diamond, which seemed to have lost its brilliance.
“You’re not saying much.”
“I’m tired, I guess. I had a busy day at work.”
Marco nodded. “So did I, and I didn’t get any sleep last night.”
“Why not?” Elisabetta asked, trying to rally.
“The boss had an early meeting out of town. I had to pick him up at four thirty in the morning to get him there in time.”
Elisabetta didn’t understand. “You picked him up at four thirty? Then when did you leave me the notebook?”
Marco blinked. “What do you mean?”
“The notebook you left on my doorstep, for my birthday. When did you drop it off, if you had to pick up your boss so early?”
Marco’s smile faded.
Elisabetta didn’t understand what was going on.
Marco pursed his lips, his regret plain. “Okay, I admit it, I didn’t give you the notebook.”
“What?” Elisabetta asked, blindsided. “I thought the notebook was from you. You said it was.”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course. I feel disappointed. I trust you, I always have. You mean you lied to me?”
“I’m sorry.” Marco frowned, newly impatient. “I didn’t know what to say, and I was on the spot. You were so happy, and I didn’t want to admit it wasn’t from me.”
“But that’s wrong.” Elisabetta didn’t know what to say. She had given Marco credit for the notebook. She had thought it showed that he understood her. It had been the thing that had made her decide to