“Don’t find out,” Beppe answered, through clenched teeth. Out of nowhere, the thought occurred to him to kill Carmine with his bare hands, right then and there. It was an instinct forged in combat, the reflex of a soldier to protect a brother of his company. He had done it in war. Many times.
“You don’t scare me, Beppe.”
“Because you’re stupid.” Beppe stepped back and closed the door, eyeing Carmine through the glass. Beppe had always believed there were battles that a man needed to walk away from, and battles that a man needed to fight.
Carmine had just become the latter.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Elisabetta
March 1941
Elisabetta and Nonna sat at the dining room table, nursing their nightcaps of anisette. The house was quiet and tranquil, and the breeze through the open window billowed the lace curtains. Rico slept on his chair, with Gnocchi on hers, their seat cushions covered with white doilies to collect cat hair, which was a lost cause.
Nonna nodded. “We did well this week. We were even with last, so we’re holding our own.”
“You deserve the credit.” Elisabetta smiled, pleased.
“Do I disagree? No!” Nonna laughed, and Elisabetta joined her. Casa Servano was still in business thanks to Nonna’s strategy, which was serving only their house specialty, pasta. All other entrées had been eliminated, and Elisabetta bartered everything they had for flour and eggs. Others in the trade association had followed suit, focusing on their own various specialties. Beppe had never come to another meeting, though he had left them his list of vendors.
“Elisabetta, how are you doing with your book?”
“Fine, thanks.” Elisabetta finished the last of her anisette, which tasted licorice-sweet. She had begun to write the night she first brought home the Olivetti, and what had started as a lark had turned into a discipline. She would start writing after their nightcap and not stop until she had finished five hundred words. Some nights it would take her until one o’clock in the morning, and other nights until almost dawn.
“When are you going to let me read it?”
“When I’m finished,” Elisabetta answered firmly, since they had had the conversation many times.
“Why are you taking so long?”
“It takes time.”
“You’re not going on and on, are you?”
“No, I hope not.” Elisabetta rose, smiling. “Now I have to get to work.”
“Why can’t I read it now? Don’t you realize I’ll have valuable suggestions?”
“I’m sure, and you can make them when I’m finished.” Elisabetta picked up her glass, but Nonna stopped her.
“You think I don’t know how to wash a glass? Now tell me, what’s your book about?”
“You’ll see, soon. Good night.” Elisabetta kissed Nonna on the cheek, picked up the Olivetti, and went upstairs, her thoughts already turning to her book. The story had completely captured her imagination, and she realized that Nonna had been right. Writing had given her something to think about other than Sandro or Marco.
She entered her bedroom, switched on the light, and set the Olivetti on her desk. She changed into her nightgown, so she wouldn’t wrinkle her dress, then sat down at her chair and took out her manuscript, setting it beside the typewriter. A Talkative Girl, read the title page, and under it was something she had wanted to write for years: By Elisabetta D’Orfeo.
She ran her palm over the smooth, cool page, then rested it on the manuscript, as if she could feel its heartbeat. The main character was a girl named Zarina, who was a lot like her, though Elisabetta hadn’t intended that. She had made up the plot as she had gone along, and Zarina had acquired a vain and careless mother, a loving but feckless father, and a pet she loved very much, only it wasn’t a cat, but a parakeet. And when Zarina had fallen in love with a young man who had fallen out of love with her, Elisabetta had realized that she was writing everything she held in her heart, all of the things she thought but hadn’t said, which was when it had struck her that she was a talkative girl with no one to talk to.
And when she had gotten to the middle of the novel, she had found herself writing about an angel who appeared from nowhere, which was strange because Elisabetta hadn’t intended to have any magical elements in her book. Then she had remembered that Grazia Deledda had magical elements in her