Standing in the doorway was Elisabetta’s father, so drunk that he had to brace his hand on the wall to keep from falling over.
“Papa.” Elisabetta’s face flamed. Gualeschi grimaced, recoiling, as her father lurched toward her.
“Betta, my darling, look at you! I came to see if you had a few lire for me. Do you?”
Elisabetta felt mortified in front of Gualeschi. “Papa, no, please.”
“I only need enough for a glass of red, or perhaps you can offer me one, on the house?” Her father looked around, stumbling, and the diners turned to watch. Her father tripped, and Elisabetta opened her arms just as he fell into them, a dead weight that knocked her off balance.
“Oh no!” Elisabetta struggled to stay upright, and Gualeschi leapt to his feet and took her father’s arm.
“Allow me,” the journalist said, dropping the essay.
“My Betta is so pretty, so smart, and I love her so, she’s my darling angel.” Her father mumbled, oblivious, then he started to cough.
Elisabetta realized what was going to happen.
In the next moment, her father vomited on her and Gualeschi.
And on her essay, which lay forgotten on the floor.
CHAPTER TEN
Marco
July 1937
Marco rode on Lungotevere Aventino under a dark sky, after Aldo had departed to see his secret girlfriend. The full moon was as round as a bicycle wheel, and lamps shone along the length of the Tiber. A fishy breeze blew off the water, and its rushing sounds soothed him.
He spotted a gelateria and headed toward it, then dismounted and went inside. A few people were in line, and the brightly lit place smelled of chilled fruit, sugar, and fresh cream. A glistening aluminum display case dominated the shop, and behind it two pretty girls scooped gelato.
Marco looked over the mounds of green pistacchio, rich brown cioccolato, and the happy yellow of ananas, or pineapple. Each had a handwritten sign that he couldn’t read, but he didn’t need to, and he could never decide which flavor. His current favorite was nocciola, hazelnut, and before that, his favorite had been fiordilatte, made from cream. Elisabetta loved cioccolato in a cone and she never changed.
“May we help you?” the shopgirls asked in unison, when Marco reached the counter.
“Yes, I can’t decide which.”
“Take your choice.” The shopgirl smiled slyly. “We’re both off at eleven.”
The other shopgirl flushed. “Teresa!”
“That’s a very generous offer.” Marco smiled, but he wasn’t tempted. He took this as a sign of maturity, or perhaps he had lost his mind due to his utter celibacy. Nevertheless he made his ice-cream choice in Elisabetta’s honor. “I’ll take two scoops of cioccolato, in a cone.”
Gelato in hand, Marco paid and left. He licked his dessert, which tasted creamy and sweet, then he hopped on his bicycle, steering with one hand. The gelato began melting, so he looked for a place to stop. He found himself in the centro storico, the oldest part of the city, near the Roman Forum on Via dell’Impero, which was being expanded to showcase the ruins, under Mussolini’s plan. The area was under excavation, avoided by most of the traffic, which meant it would be quiet, so he rode in that direction.
He reached a wooden fence that was more a suggestion than a barrier, like most in the city. He got off his bike, draped it against the fence, then climbed through an opening and looked for a place to sit down. The excavation site was a gigantic hole shaped like a square and shored on all sides by retaining walls of wooden planks. At the bottom of the hole was a floor of gray-white marble, glimmering in the moonlight.
Marco stood and ate as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He had ridden through this district many times, but it had never been excavated before, and it intrigued him. He noticed a rope strung across railroad ties serving as a staircase to the bottom, so he finished his gelato, went over, and descended. The rich smell of earth filled his nose, and the air cooled as he went deeper. The sounds of the city receded into the distance, as the walls cocooned the site in silence.
Marco neared the bottom, where the marble floor seemed to collect and reflect the moonlight, creating a spectral haze that hovered like the ghosts of the ancients. He marveled at the phenomenon, and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck when he reached the bottom, standing in the soft glow of light all around him.