subject such as the rights of women, but she had noticed that the few female journalists wrote only about domestic life, household tips, or beauty advice. Besides, cats mattered, at least to her.
“I had no idea you were such a good writer, dear. Your essay was very clever, and your authorial voice is original.”
“You’re not saying that because you know me, are you?”
“Not at all.” Giulia patted her arm.
“Do you think it’s good enough to be published?”
“Absolutely. They might even pay you.”
“That doesn’t matter to me. I would be proud—”
“It should matter.” Elisabetta’s mother interrupted her from the chair, where she sat rubbing her feet. “We need money. Be practical.”
“I am, Mamma.”
“No, you’re not. You’re wasting your time in school.”
Elisabetta didn’t want to fight about school again. She loved learning and wanted to stay until graduation.
“You’ll never be a journalist, Elisabetta. They don’t hire girls. Anyway, it doesn’t pay like waitressing.”
“But I don’t want to waitress my whole life, and money isn’t everything.”
“That’s your good-for-nothing father talking.”
Elisabetta flushed, ashamed when her mother disparaged her father, especially in front of someone else. Her mother resented that her father didn’t support their family, even though Elisabetta worked harder than her mother. It was her own waitressing money, not her mother’s singing lessons, that paid the rent. But her mother had wanted to become an opera singer, and losing the chance had embittered her.
Giulia smoothed over the awkward moment, fishing in her purse and handing Elisabetta the essay. “Here we go. Good luck. Just don’t offer it to Il Tevere or Il Popolo. Fascists don’t care about a woman’s point of view. Or cats.”
“Thank you.” Elisabetta turned to her mother. “Mamma, what did you think of it?”
“I didn’t read it. I told you I was too busy. Did you feed your father?”
“Yes, he’s in bed.”
“Of course.” Her mother sighed heavily again. “Don’t you have to get to the restaurant?”
“Oh yes.” Elisabetta picked up her purse and put the article inside. “I’d better go. Goodbye.”
Her mother nodded, still rubbing her feet.
“Goodbye, dear.” Giulia kissed Elisabetta’s cheek. “I hope to see you again soon.”
“Me, too.” Elisabetta left the house, brightening as she stepped outside, since it was impossible to stay glum walking through Trastevere. She loved her neighborhood, with its small houses and pretty pastel façades, and each home unique, with a wrought-iron balcony that had ivy dripping down, or a little shrine to the Virgin embedded in a façade, or a window strung with festive, colored lights. It felt freer here than in Rome proper, and because the buildings were fewer stories, more sky showed. Twilight was a wash of transparent blue with the stars shimmering behind, waiting for their chance to shine.
Elisabetta passed the Basilica di Santa Maria in Trastevere, its graceful arches lighted, illuminating its lovely cornice and gilded mosaics. Taller buildings ringed the cobblestone piazza, and couples held hands or sat kissing on the steps of the fountain. Everyone socialized in the evening during the passeggiata, showing off their most presentable clothes. Girls promenaded in hopes of being seen, and boys did their best to oblige.
Elisabetta thought about Marco and Sandro when she kissed her pillow, but after experiencing the real kiss with Sandro, even her vivid imagination couldn’t transform the dryness of the cotton fabric into the remarkable warmth and softness of a boy’s mouth. But Sandro hadn’t tried to kiss her again, and Marco had been monopolized by Angela and the other girls, all of whom flirted with him. Meanwhile the teasing about Elisabetta’s not having a brassiere had intensified, and Angela had started calling her Centesimi, copper pennies, claiming that her nipples showed through her shirt. Now Elisabetta held her books or schoolbag against her chest at all times.
She took a left, winding her way through the narrow streets, approaching the restaurant, Casa Servano. The place wasn’t much to look at from the outside, an old converted house with an ugly door of brown wood set in a façade of cracked gray stucco, and only a single window. Neither a sign nor a menu was posted, and no one frequented Casa Servano except locals, who knew it served the best homemade pasta in Rome. Since working here, Elisabetta had learned why.
She reached the restaurant and let herself into the dining room, which was empty because they weren’t open yet. The ground floor of the house fit only ten tables and on the right, a bar with stools. The ceiling was of embossed tin, and the white stucco walls