“At school. She just moved here with her family. She’s beautiful.”
“And she likes you back?”
“Yes.”
“Bravo, Sandro!” Marco’s heart lifted, for them both. “So you’re out of our competition? You promise?”
“Yes.” Sandro nodded. “Elisabetta’s yours.”
“Thank you, friend! Now we both can be happy!” Marco flooded with relief. “I lost sleep, worrying she’d choose you.”
“No, Marco. It was always you.” Sandro smiled again, a little sadly.
“I wish you the best with Anna.”
“And I wish you the best with Elisabetta.”
“We’re friends forever, Sandro. No matter what.”
“No matter what,” Sandro repeated, sealing the bond.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Elisabetta
October 1939
The late-day sun streamed through the lacy curtains in Nonna’s bedroom, and Elisabetta entered to check on her. Nonna had fallen ill with bronchitis and lay in bed in her pink-flowered nightgown, covered by a white quilted coverlet. Her bedroom felt cozy, if crowded, containing four mismatched breakfronts of china, as well as the conventional bed, ladder-back chair, a pine night table, and a dresser. A ceramic crucifix hung over her headboard next to a faded photo of the last Pope, though Nonna refused to hang any of the present one. She was a Roman Catholic, but considered herself a higher power.
“Nonna, how are you feeling?” Elisabetta set a glass of water on her night table.
“Don’t you remember from the last time you asked?”
Elisabetta smoothed down the coverlet, hiding her worry. “Your color is better today. You’re improving.”
“What would you expect? And when can I resume work?”
“As soon as the doctor says it’s permissible.”
“What does he know?”
“More than we do.” Elisabetta patted Nonna’s arm. If Nonna was cranky, she was feeling more like herself. “Can I get you anything before I go?”
“Would you please stop asking me questions?”
“Okay, I’ll be home as early as possible.”
“To plague me?”
“Yes, exactly.” Elisabetta smiled. “Paolo will look in on you while I’m out.”
“Where are you going? Why are you so dressed up?”
“I’m meeting Marco.” Elisabetta had on her pale blue cotton dress with mother-of-pearl buttons, having come home to change after work.
“Why?” Nonna’s hooded eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “What about his father and your mother?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Elisabetta answered matter-of-factly, not for the first time.
“Don’t you know you’re making a big mistake?”
“I told you, we’re not going to live in the past.”
“You can’t live in the present without acknowledging the past.” Nonna scoffed. “All Romans live in the present and the past, at the same time. Walk by the old Basilica di Santa Maria in Trastevere. You can’t pretend it doesn’t exist.”
“What does that have to do with anything? The church is a building.”
“So? That only allows you to see it better.” Nonna wagged a knobby finger at her. “If Marco’s past were a building, you couldn’t deny its presence. Don’t you understand my point? How will his father receive you? How will his mother?”
Elisabetta didn’t want to fuss. “It’s not Marco’s past, it’s his father’s.”
“If you marry him, you marry his family.”
“Nonna, nobody’s talking about marriage yet.”
“But this is how it begins. Don’t you know by now, I’m always right?”
“Nonna, this will be the one time you’re wrong. Anyway, I have to go.”
“Why don’t you listen to me?”
“I do, Nonna. I just don’t always obey you. Ciao.” Elisabetta kissed her on the cheek, then petted the cat, sitting at the foot of the bed. “Rico, be a good boy.”
“When is he not a good boy?” Nonna moved her toe under the covers, playing with him. “He’s better than you. He obeys.”
“No, he doesn’t.” Elisabetta left the room with a smile. “Goodbye.”
“He obeys me!” Nonna called after her.
* * *
—
Elisabetta and Marco left the restaurant, a local seafood place on the Lungotevere Aventino outside the Ghetto. The city was still lively at this hour, and couples emerged from restaurants laughing and talking loudly, their conversations lubricated by wine. Elisabetta had sensed, even at Casa Servano, that everyone was trying too hard to have a good time. Romans worried all the time that Europe was at war, anxious that Italy would be drawn into the conflict. The night air was cool, smelling of car exhaust.
Elisabetta walked with Marco, feeling happy with him, hand in hand. He looked handsome in a light gray sweater and slacks, like his old self, and the shine on his hair and whiteness of his smile caught the lamplight as they passed.
“So, did you enjoy dinner?” Marco asked, with a smile.
“Very much, thank you,” Elisabetta answered. They had shared a delicious meal of orata al forno con finocchio, sea bream with fennel, while they told each