“Just be patient.” Sandro couldn’t bear the thought of Elisabetta in bed with Marco. He shooed it from his mind.
“And she’s talking about wanting to be a writer or something.”
“She wants to be a novelist.” Sandro flashed on the time after the Deledda lecture, when he and Elisabetta had sat outside, talking. Now it seemed like a magical night from another time.
“Am I supposed to wait for her to finish her novel? One that she hasn’t even started?”
“It sounds as if she’s too busy to write, with Nonna sick.”
“Hmph! If she wanted to write, she would write.”
Sandro felt a pang, for Marco and for Elisabetta. He loved them both, and he wanted Elisabetta to be happy and safe. It struck him that Marco could make her safe, but he himself could make her happy. Suddenly he got an idea. “You want my advice?”
Marco smiled crookedly. “You, give me advice about women?”
Sandro bit his tongue. He would never tell Marco that Elisabetta had chosen him. “Brother, for what it’s worth, encourage her writing.”
“How?”
“Her birthday is next month. Buy her a fancy notebook.”
“How’s that going to make her marry me?”
“It’s not.”
“Then why do it?”
“It will make her start writing, and she’ll be happier. Isn’t that what you want?”
“But I can make her happy. All she has to do is say yes.”
“Writing will make her happy, and maybe if she’s happy, she’ll come around sooner.”
“I should go.” Abruptly Marco glanced over his shoulder. “When I get up, I want you to take my rucksack.”
“Why?”
“It’s for your family.”
“What’s inside?”
Marco pushed his rucksack over with his foot. “Groceries and things.”
Sandro felt torn. His family needed the groceries, but he didn’t want to accept charity. “No, thanks. My family is my responsibility.”
“Please take it, Sandro. My father will kill me if I come home with that rucksack.”
“Tell him I insisted, then. We have money, and we barter. Everybody does. One of my father’s clients leaves us groceries in return for legal help.”
Marco pursed his lips, and Sandro read his expression, since Marco could never hide his emotions.
“Marco, are you the one who leaves the food at our door? And the money?”
“Yes, but don’t make it a big deal.”
Sandro felt grateful, but ashamed to need the help. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You wouldn’t have taken it.” Marco looked over his shoulder again, and Sandro realized what was going on.
“They know you’re helping us, don’t they? They’ve been watching you, haven’t they? We’re meeting at the Spanish Steps, where we never go, wearing these hats . . . I can’t let you do this.” Sandro took off the hat and pushed the rucksack back to Marco.
“Take the bag, please.”
“No, thanks.”
“On our friendship.” Marco rose. “Please. I have to leave. I can’t argue about it any longer.”
Sandro relented, with a sigh. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Good. My bike’s around the corner, and I don’t think I was followed. Nevertheless, wait five minutes, then go.”
“Goodbye, Marco. Stay safe.” Sandro watched Marco thread his way through the students, slip his orange hat into his back pocket, and vanish into the crowd.
Sandro heaved a deep sigh. He despaired that things had come to this, with his family struggling and Marco risking so much to help. It wasn’t the life he had foreseen for himself, Marco, or Elisabetta. He prayed that they would survive whatever the future held in store. It terrified him to think that the three of them were sliding toward war, into the gaping maw of a monster that could swallow them whole, like Jonah into the whale.
Sandro picked up the rucksack and left, heartsick.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Elisabetta
9 June 1940
Elisabetta awoke to the sound of Nonna’s coughing downstairs, and she lay in bed, waiting for it to stop. The older woman’s health had been up and down, but Dr. Pastore had said that the warm weather would do her good. Elisabetta took off her sheet, about to get out of bed until she remembered that today was her birthday. She put her sheet back on and gave herself a moment to rest.
Sunlight brightened her bedroom, and her gaze fell on her father’s watercolors of Trastevere, which hung on the wall opposite her bed. She couldn’t feel completely happy on her birthday without him. He had always made a fuss on the day, though he hadn’t had money for gifts. He made her feel special, and she mourned him still.