Emedio’s forehead eased. “Let Sandro have her. He’d be good for her.”
“I’d be good for her! Why do you think I’m not?” Marco stiffened. “You still see me as your baby brother, but you need to take another look. I work for the party now, and they respect me. I know all the top people at Palazzo Braschi. I’m moving up.”
Emedio pursed his lips. “Forgive me if I don’t salute.”
“Watch your step, now.” Marco regretted the words as soon as they had left his lips.
Emedio frowned. “That was your dark side talking.”
“I don’t have a dark side.”
“Everybody does. You’re losing God’s voice, working at the fascio.”
Marco didn’t want to hear any more. He began rolling his bicycle away. “Goodbye.”
“Marco, wait!”
But Marco leapt onto his bicycle and pedaled off. He picked up speed, not caring where he was going. Everything he had known about his family was false. His world had been shattered, and he didn’t know whom to believe in, if he couldn’t believe in his father.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Sandro
April 1938
Sandro opened the door to find his family getting ready for their seder, as it was first night of Passover. He had come from La Sapienza with wonderful news, happy to be able to share it on a special night, with Rosa home. The dining room table was set with their best linens, china, glasses, and silver, and his mother was positioning a vase of flowers as a centerpiece. A Vivaldi violin concerto played softly on the radio.
“Happy Passover, Sandro!” said his father as he straightened his tie in the mirror.
Rosa and David also greeted him, setting wine on the sideboard.
“Happy Passover, everybody!” Sandro hung his backpack on the coatrack, then kissed his father and sister, who was dressed up in a suit of dark blue that set off the glossy russet of her hair. She had on makeup and floral perfume, which she had been wearing more of.
“You smell better than usual,” Sandro said, teasing her.
“You smell worse,” Rosa shot back, with a smile.
“Sandro, good to see you.” David shook his hand, and Sandro liked him, though his brown tweed suit was more stuffy than any Roman would wear, especially in the springtime.
Sandro’s mother embraced him, dressed up in a gray suit with her pearl necklace and pearl-drop earrings, and her hair was swept into its chic silvery twist. Cornelia entered the dining room carrying a silver platter of haroset, a purée of dates, raisins, oranges, and figs—the traditional start to the Passover meal, served to represent the bricks and mortar used by Jewish slaves.
“That looks delicious, Cornelia!”
Cornelia received his compliment with a nod. “We’re having vegetable and lamb lasagna and pesce in carpione, the way you like.”
“Wonderful! Everybody, gather around now, I have something to show you.” Sandro extracted the envelope from his jacket pocket, flushed with happiness. “It’s a letter from Professor Levi-Civita. I wrote to him, and he responded. Look.”
“Let’s see that.” His father hurried over, and his mother, sister, David, and Cornelia clustered around him.
Sandro read the letter aloud. “‘Dear Alessandro, Thank you for your note. I have seen your work, and it is superb. You show great promise for the future of Italian mathematics. I would like to offer you a job reporting directly to me upon your graduation from liceo. I hope to meet you as soon as my schedule allows, and I shall remain in touch. Best regards, Levi-Civita.’”
His father patted Sandro’s back. “Congratulations! How exciting, son! You’re on your way!”
“How wonderful!” His mother clasped her hands together in delight. “I’m so proud of you, Sandro! I told you!”
“Brilliant!” David said, smiling.
“Bravissimo!” Cornelia beamed.
Rosa snorted. “But do we have to call you Mr. Future-of-Italian-Mathematics now?”
“Ha!” Sandro grinned, returning the letter to his breast pocket. “Try Dr. Future-of-Italian-Mathematics!”
They all laughed, especially his mother. “Sandro,” she said, “your father’s new clients, the Ferraras, are coming tonight. Do you mind if we tell them about your job offer?”
“Can anybody stop you?” Sandro answered, and they all laughed again.
“The Ferraras will be so impressed. They’re bringing their daughter, Rachele. She’s your age and an excellent student, so you have that in common.”
“Son, I’ve seen her picture.” His father winked behind his glasses. “She’s a real beauty.”
Sandro realized that his parents were playing matchmaker. He hated to disappoint them, but he couldn’t go along. “Mamma, Papa, I don’t want to meet a girl.”
“Don’t be shy,” his mother said, with an encouraging smile. “You’re old enough and very eligible, with a brilliant future