She left the bedroom and hurried into the kitchen with Rico at her heels, his tail held like an exclamation mark, as all cats have punctuation in their repertoire. He jumped to the table while she went to the refrigerator, which they had come into after the old man upstairs had died. She found a sardine tin and forked some fish onto a plate, mashing the oily gray flesh and flimsy bones.
She started the coffee brewing, got fette biscottate, twice-baked bread, and put them on plates. She ate while Rico purred and chewed, sounding like clothes on a washboard. The coffee began to percolate, and she turned off the stove and poured some for her mother and father.
“Mamma, coffee!” Elisabetta called out, and her mother came hurrying into the kitchen, off to teach singing. Her mother, Serafina, had a heart-shaped face with remarkable light blue eyes, an unusually fine nose, high cheekbones, and a small mouth. Her caramel-brown curls had been combed into a loose topknot, and her filmy dress clung to the lovely curves of her body. She had the stunning beauty of the artists’ model she had once been, which was how she had met Elisabetta’s father, posing for his painting class. She still carried herself as a woman aware of her effect on men, though lately she worried about getting wrinkles, spending hours with a cold rag to the corners of her mouth, hoping to forestall them. And her unhappiness at their home life was palpable, as if it had become a member of the family.
“Good morning.” Elisabetta handed her mother her coffee.
Her mother drank it, squinting. “Oh, that’s hot.”
“Mamma, I really think I need a brassiere. Can we—”
“No, I told you, you don’t need one. Stop asking me. When I was your age, my breasts were twice your size.”
Elisabetta’s face burned. Her mother’s breasts were grapefruits, but that wasn’t the point. “Still, mine are big enough.”
“I said no. You’re too young. Brassieres are for women, not girls.”
“I’m the only girl in my class who doesn’t have one.”
“You can’t be.” Her mother scoffed, setting down her coffee.
“I am. I see through their shirts, and they see through mine. They tease me.”
“Ignore them. You don’t need them. Women are jealous creatures.” Her mother picked up a fetta biscottata and went to the chair for her purse, but Elisabetta went after her.
“Mamma, please, I’m old enough. You don’t even have to buy it for me. I bet I can sew one myself, if you let me keep my pay. The sewing teacher says that cotton costs—”
“Basta. I’m late.” Her mother opened the door and left, closing it behind her.
Elisabetta shook off her disappointment, picked up her father’s coffee and fetta biscottata, and went to the living room, where he was sleeping on the couch. His face was long and slender, unshaven, his shaggy hair a dark brown. An empty wine bottle rested in his misshapen fingers, which had healed improperly after a bicycle accident when Elisabetta was an infant. The injury had ended his painting career and started his drinking career. His vibrant watercolors of Trastevere covered the walls of their apartment, capturing the neighborhood’s charm as well as its mystery, with its tiny alleyways that disappeared into darkness. It was almost inconceivable to Elisabetta that her father had painted them, given his current condition, but they showed her the colors that illuminated his soul.
“Papa, good morning, wake up.” Elisabetta set the breakfast down on a side table.
“Oh, my head hurts.” Her father opened his eyes, a bloodshot brown, and he broke into a smile. “Such a pretty one you are. I love you so much, my darling.”
“I love you, too.” Elisabetta meant it, even though her mother called her father an ubriacone, a drunk. Her parents used to quarrel, but even that had stopped and her mother had withdrawn from him. Elisabetta understood her mother’s unhappiness, but didn’t share it. Her father had tried many times to stop drinking, and he hated himself for his failing. She couldn’t blame him when he blamed himself so harshly, and she knew that he loved her. Wine made one speak the truth, and her father’s words to her were always tender.
Her father stroked her cheek. “My darling little Betta, are you happy? Are you?”
“I am, Papa. Here, have some coffee.” Elisabetta helped him bring the cup to his lips.
“Delicious.” Her father shifted upward on the sofa. “That helps my headache. What would I do without my girl? Your heart, it’s as fierce as a lion. Mark my words, that’s what matters in life.”