mother had gone from slender to gaunt, and when he caught sight of his reflection in a glass window, he saw that he had, too.
Dr. Cristabello emerged from the door, professional in his crisp white coat, with sparse gray hair and thick bifocals. He had a warm, friendly face, but his expression looked grave as he walked toward them.
“How is she?” His mother rose to meet him, followed by Sandro.
“She’ll be fine, and her vitals are good, but I’m going to admit her. I believe it’s gastrointestinal, a parasite or the like. We’re seeing a lot of that, considering the contamination of the food supply.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“We’re giving her fluids and testing blood and urine. It will take a while to get the results back. You should go home and get some sleep.”
“I’d like to stay over, if I may.”
“Fine. I think I can sneak you in.”
“Thank you, Salvatore.” His mother turned to Sandro, touching his arm. “Go home, dear. Keep your father company.”
“But I want to stay, too. We left him a note.”
Dr. Cristabello interjected, “Sandro, I can pull a few strings to get her into your sister’s room, but not you, too.”
“Okay,” Sandro agreed, reluctantly.
“Good boy,” his mother said, kissing him on the cheek.
Sandro left the hospital, and the Ponte Cestio was only steps away, leading to Trastevere, and Elisabetta. A powerful wave of emotion swept over him, and he yearned for her. He couldn’t fathom how he had lived this long without her.
Sandro couldn’t deny himself for another minute. His heart led the way, and he turned right over the Ponte Cestio, crossing the bridge and entering a Trastevere he barely recognized. The streets were deserted, and restaurants and shops permanently closed. The windows in the houses were dark, blacked out in case of an air raid. Trash and rubble lay on the streets, and flowerpots lay in shards. Trellises went unplanted, and their broken slats clung to walls. A bower of ivy hung overhead, a sole survivor that needed no care and therefore got none. Like him.
Sandro walked as if in a fever dream, his steps leading him to the woman he loved. He would beg her to take him in and shelter him, and he would hold her close and they would be together finally, the way they were meant to be, the way God intended before man intervened, and Fascists, and Nazis, and hate, and laws, and injustice. He drew closer to her house and kept walking, praying that somehow his dream would come true and he would finally be with her.
Sandro turned onto her street, and not a soul was in sight. He reached her house, a two-story sliver of gold stucco that radiated like sunshine. The lights were off and the shutters closed. Elisabetta had to be asleep.
He thought of Marco serenading her, but Sandro couldn’t sing. He had no song, he had nothing anymore. Despair swept over him, and he realized he had no future to offer her, no accomplishments, no alleged genius, not even a healthy body, and he felt flayed to his very bone, nothing but his rawest self, longing for her.
Sandro collapsed to his knees, landing on the cobblestones. He slumped over, his head down, and the tears he had held back burned his eyes. He doubled over, breaking down, incapable of anything but sorrow.
“Sandro?”
Sandro could have sworn he heard Elisabetta calling his name. It was a voice he had loved for so long, and it emanated from far above the street, perhaps from heaven itself. He must have been hallucinating, truly descending into madness.
Nevertheless, he looked up.
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
Elisabetta
15 October 1943
Just before bedtime, Elisabetta went to the rooftop with the cats, holding a candle in a jar for light. It had rained while she was at work, which presented a problem for the flowers in the tureens, as they had no drainage. She had to drain them, for she couldn’t let water rot the roots. It was probably one of the reasons that priceless soup tureens weren’t used for planting.
She set the lamp on the table and went about her chore, tilting each tureen and letting the water run out onto the roof. Gnocchi and Rico picked their way from pot to pot, mincing on delicate paws to avoid the puddles. Their noses took in the various smells, giving them information only they received, since animals had abilities that far exceeded humans, especially cats. And especially Gnocchi and Rico, who were geniuses even among