*
—
Once home, Marco washed his face in the bathroom. His right cheekbone was swelling, and the skin had split. His mother was asleep in bed, and his father stood in the doorway, his arms folded against his naked chest, a formidable figure even in his undershorts. The expression on his face was grave.
“Marco, there were two of them?”
“Carmine and his pet, Stefano.” Marco rinsed blood from the sink.
“Stefano used to be an informer. He got kicked up to OVRA. They say he’s sadistic.”
“Sounds right.” Marco had sensed that Stefano had enjoyed beating him.
“So they’ve been watching you.”
“Evidently.” Marco turned off the water and patted his face dry, gingerly. “They can go to hell. We can’t leave the Simones without help.”
“Of course not. I’ll feed the entire Ghetto, to spite them.”
Marco looked over, surprised to find his father smiling. “Are you enjoying this?”
“Absolutely.” His father chuckled. “There’s nothing like a good fight.”
Marco smiled, feeling closer to his father. They had a common enemy, rather than each other. He rinsed blood out of the towel and hung it up on the rack. “So what do we do now?”
“The same thing as before, but smarter.”
“How so?”
“I have ideas.”
Marco unbuttoned his shirt and eyed his reflection in the mirror. Pinkish bruises swelled on his chest and abdomen.
“But how’s the bike?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Elisabetta
March 1940
Elisabetta hovered outside Nonna’s bedroom while Dr. Pastore finished his examination, as Nonna’s bronchitis had worsened. Elisabetta felt on edge, worrying about Nonna, and she remembered Dr. Pastore from the day that her father had died. Dr. Pastore hadn’t mentioned it, and she tried to dismiss thoughts of that awful morning now. Dr. Pastore had grown balder, wider, and more standoffish since then, though he came whenever Nonna needed him, even in the evening, as she was so well regarded in the neighborhood.
“Giuseppina, good night.” Dr. Pastore stood in the threshold of Nonna’s bedroom, holding his worn black bag. “Get some sleep.”
“Then why keep me awake?” Nonna called back, and Dr. Pastore left the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
“How is she?” Elisabetta asked, holding her breath.
“Her usual difficult self.” Dr. Pastore crossed to the front door, and Elisabetta dogged his steps, feeling defensive for Nonna.
“She doesn’t like being sick. She knows the restaurant needs her. She feels her responsibilities acutely. She’s been sick for a while—”
“She’ll be fine, in time. She needs to rest and continue her medication.”
“Why isn’t she getting better? What’s the matter with her? This has been going on for months.”
“She has pneumonia now.”
“Oh no. Is pneumonia better or worse than bronchitis?”
“It means she has mucus in her lungs.” Dr. Pastore opened the front door, but Elisabetta stopped him, grabbing the sleeve of his suit jacket.
“I’m worried. When I came home from work, she was lethargic. That’s not like her.”
“She wasn’t lethargic just now,” Dr. Pastore said matter-of-factly.
“Because she perks up for you, and her son.” Sometimes Elisabetta thought she was the only person who truly understood Nonna. “I see her day to day. I’m worried she’s hiding how bad she’s feeling. She’s not a young woman.”
Nonna called out, “Elisabetta, will you please quiet down? I’m sick, not deaf!”
Dr. Pastore rolled his eyes. “See? Not lethargic. The medication takes time. I really must leave. Goodbye.”
“I’ll call you if she worsens?”
“Yes.” Dr. Pastore turned away, trundling off down the street.
“Good night.” Elisabetta was just about to close the door when she spotted Marco, coming toward her in a nice jacket and slacks. They were supposed to go out for a drink tonight, but she had forgotten after she’d come home and found Nonna sicker.
“Buona sera, Elisabetta!” Marco kissed her quickly on the lips, smelling of a spicy aftershave she had come to favor, but not tonight.
“Oh, Marco, I’m sorry, I can’t go out.”
“Why not?” Marco’s face fell. “It’s a beautiful night.”
“Nonna has pneumonia, and the doctor just left. She needs to rest. I should stay home.”
“Okay, then, why don’t I come in and visit? We don’t have to go out.”
“No, that won’t work. We’ll disturb her, and she needs to rest.”
“Why don’t we take a quick walk?” Marco touched her arm gently.
“No, I don’t want to leave her alone.”
“We won’t be long, just around the block.”
Nonna yelled from the bedroom, “Leave or stay, but kindly let me sleep, will you?”
Macro smiled, taking Elisabetta’s hand. “Come on, cara.”
“Okay.” Elisabetta let herself be led out of the house, closing the front door behind her. Via Fiorata was one of the most charming little streets in Trastevere, with two-story houses with façades