father, Massimo, minor party officials, and tifosi. The last stage of the Tour de France was just ending, and the radio played the finish. Everyone listened, holding his breath, and the announcer shouted that Roger Lapebie, a Frenchman, crossed the finish line first, winning the race. The Italian rider Mario Vicini came in second.
Marco and everyone else erupted into profanities. “Dio, no!” “Non possibile!” “Mamma mia!”
The customers slumped into their seats and stared into their wine.
“Beppe, how did this happen?” one man shouted to Marco’s father. “It was Bartali’s to win! We were robbed, were we not?”
“Absolutely!” His father scowled, standing among the tables. “First, Bartali should have won. He won the Giro last year. It was his race, everybody agrees. But after stage eight, his injury became too much for him. He struggled, but could not maintain his lead. That was the end for Bartali, but it wasn’t the end for Italy, was it?”
“No, no, it wasn’t the end!” “A new hero emerges, Mario Vicini!” “His first Tour, never even in the Giro, correct, Beppe?”
“Esatto!” Marco’s father nodded. “Imagine Mario Vicini, from Emilia-Romagna, enters the Tour de France, not affiliated with any team. He proves his worth, stage after stage. He finishes second in the general classification.” His father raised his glass. “A toast to Vicini!”
“A Vicini!” everyone shouted, toasting.
His father nodded. “Vicini should have won, and Lapebie cheated during the mountain stages.”
“Yes, Lapebie cheated!” “I heard that spectators pushed him up the hills!” “I heard that, too! The judges penalized him for it!” “But Lapebie said he didn’t want them to do it! They did it on their own volition!”
“Allow me to clarify this issue, legally,” Massimo interjected, from his seat next to Sandro. “Lapebie got help from the sidelines. As a lawyer, I will tell you that it was illegal, and Lapebie should have been disqualified.”
“An excellent point, Signor Simone!” said a party official at the same table, whom Marco had never seen here before.
“Lapebie was a victim as well!” somebody called out. “I heard they sawed his handlebars!”
But everyone else chorused in disapproval, telling the customer he was not only wrong but disloyal, maybe even a traitor. The customer shouted back, others joined the hollering, and Marco sensed the mood turning volatile, as alcohol and defeat made a bad marriage.
Marco raised a glass of red wine. “Everyone, I propose a toast! To Italy!”
“To Italy!” Everybody joined in, raising his glass.
Marco kept talking. “Friends, Italy wasn’t robbed today, not to my mind! We have so many treasures here, especially in Rome! Treasures that no one can ever take from us!”
“Bravo, Marco!” Massimo called to him, and Sandro grinned.
Marco warmed to his topic, even though Aldo looked at him like he was crazy. “After all, who cares who wins the Tour de France? It’s not the Giro d’Italia! We’re not French, we’re Italian!”
The customers burst into joyful chatter. “Yes, we have our own race!” “The Giro is more difficult—and more fair!” “Italians don’t cheat! We have heart!”
“Yes, and we have so many treasures in this amazing city!” Marco thought of the ancient sights he had seen when he rode at night. “We walk by them every day, but how often do we really see them? Do we really appreciate them?”
Agreement rumbled from the room.
Marco gestured to the open door. “For example, right outside this bar stands the Ponte Fabricio. A footbridge built by the ancient Romans, still in use! We inherited it as a legacy from ancient times, even before Christ himself! Such a wonder is our birthright!”
The customers nodded and cheered.
“And Trajan’s Column, rising into the sky! Have you ever really examined its figurines? They tell a story! Someone carved those figures! Do you know who? Romans! We Romans!” Marco bubbled over, feeding on the enthusiasm of the customers. “What about the Coliseum, the greatest arena in all the world! Have you noticed the perfection of its design? Like a big bowl of Roman sky!”
“That’s true!”
“Marco has grown into a brilliant young man!”
“And a patriot!”
“An excellent cyclist, too, I hear!”
Marco beamed. “Here is my point, everybody! Our city was here before the rest of the world! We were first about what matters! Not a silly bicycle race, but Western Civilization!”
Everybody clapped, even Aldo.
Marco acknowledged the applause, then caught sight of his father motioning to him from the back of the room, his expression grim. Marco threaded his way through the customers, then entered the hallway, where his father took him into the stockroom, closing the door.
“Marco, you’re