Marco descended the other side and saw his father hustling from one customer to the next, in a packed outside seating area. If they had been on better terms, Marco would have been excited to tell him about being hired at Palazzo Venezia. Marco wondered if those days were truly over.
He reached the bar and crossed to his father. “Papa, were you at Piazza Venezia for the speech?”
“No, I was busy here.” His father frowned. “Where have you been?”
“Buonacorso brought me over. I work at Palazzo Venezia now. I was in the same room as Il Duce. It was a wonderful day for Italy.”
“War may be necessary, but never wonderful.” His father pursed his lips. “And I heard you were in front of Massimo’s house last night, saying the most hateful things. Shame on you.”
Marco’s mouth went dry. “I didn’t mean it, I was angry—”
“Go put on an apron, big shot.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Elisabetta
September 1940
Elisabetta served coffee while the women took their seats around a long table at Casa Servano, ready for the meeting. The war had gone on over the summer, with awful bombing in London and other cities. Rome had been spared so far, and day-to-day life in the capital city continued mostly unchanged. Local businesses thrived due to the influx of dignitaries and military. There were shortages of men and food, but one bothered Elisabetta more than the other. She was through with love.
Nonna sat at the head of the table, having recovered from her pneumonia. “Ladies, settle down. We have to get started.”
Elisabetta sat down behind her gleaming black Olivetti typewriter, with its black letters on lovely white keys. Women quieted their children and took babies onto their laps. There were seven of them, all mothers who ran restaurants in Trastevere since their husbands had gone to war. Nonna had formed an informal restaurant association to help guide them, for they had besieged her with questions. She was solely in charge of Casa Servano now, because her son, Paolo, had enlisted.
“We’ll begin where we left off. Elisabetta, please read the minutes from the last meeting.”
Elisabetta began. “‘We in the restaurant business are experiencing difficulties getting flour, olive oil, and butter from our regular suppliers. Rationing has been affecting flour, butter, olive oil, rice, and pasta. Our main problem is getting flour from our regular vendors at reasonable prices. Italy has always produced abundant supplies of wheat for flour. As you may know, the government devised the ammassi plan, whereby farmers who produced wheat would give it to a central collective, which would ensure the food was evenly distributed—’”
“You mean, ensure the graft was evenly distributed,” Nonna interjected, and everybody laughed, then Elisabetta continued.
“‘Farmers are being sent to war, and farms are being shut down, so food production is suffering. In the provinces, families are becoming malnourished.’” Elisabetta felt a pang that this would happen in her country, which loved its food so well. “‘Wheat and flour supplies are diminishing, and the decrease is hurting us. A black market has sprung up, but it is not an alternative for us, as we require large quantities. Some of us reported ridiculous prices, like these: Flour, 260 lire per kilo. Sugar, 450 lire per kilo. Butter, 700 lire per kilo. Oil, 800 lire per kilo. Parmesan cheese, 600 lire per kilo. Salt, 350 lire per kilo. Rice, 250 lire per kilo. Eggs, 15 lire each.’”
Nonna clucked, and the women around the table shook their heads. The babies in their laps patted the tablecloth or played with napkins.
“‘At our last meeting, we distributed a list of suppliers that Casa Servano has found the most reliable and low priced. Feel free to use them.’ That is the end of old business. We can proceed to new—” Elisabetta stopped talking when she heard the door opening and looked up, shocked to see that it was Beppe Terrizzi.
His large, muscular frame filled the doorway, backlit by the sunlight, and his build was an older version of Marco’s. All of the women gawked at him, reacting to his dark good looks and powerfully masculine presence. Elisabetta understood instantly what her mother had seen in him, for she herself had seen the same things in Marco. The thought disturbed her, and she lowered her gaze to her typewriter.
Nonna acknowledged him with a nod. “Ciao, Beppe. It’s been a long time.”
“Yes, it has, Giuseppina. I heard about the meeting and thought I might attend, to help.”
“Good. Feel free to take a seat.”
“Thank you.” Beppe brought over a chair and sat down at the other head of the table, opposite Nonna.