only response was to blink, then stretch the way he always did, first extending his front legs and arching his back, then his back legs, with his tail straight up in the air like an exclamation mark.
He crouched, looking down from the box, and Elisabetta realized he was getting ready to jump to the table, but his perch was too high and the table was too far across the room, a dangerous trajectory.
“Rico, no,” Elisabetta said, warning him off.
Rico sat back down, generally disappointed in her for preempting his acts of bravery and athletic daring. He would be good company going forward, and she still had Marco and Sandro. She didn’t want to risk losing one or hurting the other, which would happen if she made her choice.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Rico, who had nevertheless decided to leap from the tower of boxes to the table. Despite the danger, he landed perfectly, then sat down and tucked his tail around himself in a perfect circle, forming a period at the end of his own sentence.
Elisabetta chuckled, admiring Rico for taking the risk, as he trusted himself that much. She found herself wondering if she could learn something from him. If she trusted herself more, perhaps she could choose between Sandro and Marco. She remembered what Nonna had told her, that her heart had already made its choice and would tell her its secret, when she was ready to listen.
She found herself sitting among the boxes, in the hollow husk of her house, with only a male cat for female advice. She closed her eyes, quieted her thoughts, and opened her heart wide enough for it to release its secret, which fluttered out like a dove from a cage, flying heavenward.
In that moment, Elisabetta made a choice, and as soon as she did, her heart affirmed that she had chosen correctly, for the decision resonated within her. Joy suffused her, and her happy gaze met Rico’s.
Prego, Rico said, with his eyes.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Marco
November 1938
Marco ran home over the Ponte Fabricio and found his father working in the outside seating area. They weren’t speaking, but this was an emergency. Out of breath, he took his father aside.
“Papa, do you remember a blond customer who came to the bar the day Aldo was killed? She was pretty and sat outside. She met with him that day.”
His father frowned. “No, I don’t remember. Why?”
“What about the photographer, who takes pictures of the tourists, for money? The one you always shoo away?”
“You mean Corrado?”
“Yes, was he here that day?”
“I don’t know. He’s a pest though.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“No, but he works at a camera shop in Trastevere. On Via della Lungaretta.”
Marco took off, running full speed over the Ponte Cestio into Trastevere. He darted past mothers with children and deliverymen pushing barrows, then made a left, hurrying under ivy bowers. He ran until he spotted the camera shop up ahead, with a hand-painted sign and storefront.
He burst through the door, startling the elderly shopkeeper, who was small with flyaway white hair. He had been reading the newspaper with a magnifying glass, and he looked up from behind a display case that held an array of used Leica, Bencini, and Kine Exakta cameras.
Marco had no time for small talk. “Sir, does a man named Corrado work here? I need to speak with him.”
“In the darkroom, in back.” The shopkeeper set down the magnifying glass. “But he’s busy.”
“I can’t wait.” Marco came around the counter, and the shopkeeper edged backward, raising his arthritic hands.
“Don’t hurt me!” he cried out, which caught Marco up short. He forgot that some people were intimidated by his uniform.
“I wouldn’t hurt you, sir. I need to see him without delay. It’s an urgent matter, about my family.”
“Okay, I’ll show you. The darkroom must remain light-tight.” The shopkeeper led Marco behind the counter to a heavy curtain, which he moved aside, then knocked at a door, calling out, “Corrado, there’s a man who needs to see you. He says it’s urgent.”
“Fine,” Corrado called from within.
“Use the double door.” The shopkeeper held aside the curtain, and Marco opened the door, found himself in a dark vestibule with another door, and closed the first door behind him. He opened the next door, entering a room that was completely dark, except for a small orange lamplight that illuminated a shelf of bottles and jugs, and a table with trays of liquid. An acrid chemical odor filled the air. A clothesline held drying prints