front floor, ran outside, and found himself in Piazza Mattei amid a cadre of drunken Blackshirts, their laughter raucous. They swarmed the lovely turtle fountain, its lighting illuminating their faces from below, exaggerating the shadows on their features like masks at Carnevale.
Sandro searched for Rosa, but an inebriated Blackshirt jostled him, then one of them began urinating into the fountain.
Sandro spun around, reeling. His sister was leaving Rome, his family was breaking up, and his country was losing her mind.
He turned and fled inside the house.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Elisabetta
January 1938
The dinner shift at Casa Servano was in full swing, and Elisabetta left the kitchen with a carafe of red wine, served the couple at a table against the near wall, and scanned the dining room. Her gaze stopped at a table across the room, where, to her surprise, Sandro was sitting. He spotted her at the same moment, breaking into a smile, and she felt a surge of happiness. She had no idea what he was doing here, but he was unusually dressed up in a nice blue sweater with a jacket, a loose dark scarf, and slacks, like a real university student.
Elisabetta crossed to him. “Sandro, what are you doing here?”
“I’m hungry.” Sandro beamed up at her.
“Really?” Elisabetta asked, feigning suspicion.
“Well, I wanted to see you alone, and since you work so much, I came here.” Sandro took a gift wrapped in silvery paper from his backpack and presented it to her. “I brought you a present.”
“How sweet! What for?”
“To make you happy. Need there be another reason?”
“Oh, Sandro,” Elisabetta said, feeling a little thrill. She unwrapped the paper, delighted to find a copy of the novel Cosima, by Grazia Deledda. “Oh my, it’s just what I wanted!”
“I know, you said so. Now turn to page thirty-seven.”
Elisabetta flipped to the page and wedged inside was a flyer from the Literature Department at La Sapienza, which she read quickly. “What’s this? A notice about a lecture on Deledda?”
“I thought we could go together.”
“Davvero?” Elisabetta asked, her heart soaring. Sandro was asking her on her first real date. “That would be wonderful.”
Sandro’s grin widened, but Elisabetta became distracted by shouting coming from the street, which sounded as if someone was calling her name. She tensed, fearing it was her father again, and diners were turning to the noise. The older couple at the table by the window was looking outside, and Paolo hustled to them.
Elisabetta went to the window to see a sight so romantic it could have been in an old-fashioned movie. Marco was standing in the street in his dark uniform, holding a bouquet of red roses. She could see him clearly in the streetlight, and he met her eye, smiled his dazzling smile, then dropped to one knee as in a proper, traditional serenade. He burst into “Chitarra Romana,” a popular love song about a young woman of Trastevere:
Under a mantle of stars
beautiful Rome appears to me
Elisabetta gasped, dumbfounded. Marco sang well and with sincerity, not like when he clowned around in school, and she couldn’t help but think he had rehearsed. She had never dreamed that he, or any boy, would serenade her, but the timing was terrible. She’d spent months wondering whether either boy could view her in intimate terms, and they had both shown their hand on the very same night.
Excitement rippled through the restaurant, and the diners made comments to each other: “What a handsome young man!” “He’s singing to the waitress!” “Why didn’t you ever serenade me, dear?”
Outside, passersby stopped to watch Marco, who threw his arms open and crooned the next verse at the top of his lungs, leaving Elisabetta flushed with happiness—but also confusion. She had just agreed to a date with Sandro, but here was Marco, making a grandly romantic gesture.
Out of the corner of her eye, Elisabetta saw Sandro leave his table and join the customers behind her, just as Marco was ending his serenade. He strolled to the restaurant with his bouquet, and when he opened the door, the customers burst into applause. Marco acknowledged them with a brief nod, but his gaze focused only on Elisabetta.
“Wine on the house!” Paolo called out, caught up in the moment, and the customers cheered, heading back to their tables.
Marco strode to her, his dark eyes shining. He bowed and presented her with the red roses. “These are for you.”
“Thank you.” Elisabetta accepted the roses, flustered and moved, breathing in their sweet fragrance.
Sandro stepped beside her, chuckling. “That was quite