She picked up her manuscript. “Nonna, the title of my book is A Talkative Girl, so you know it’s about me, even though it’s fiction.” She sniffled, composing herself. “So I’ll read it to you, and I know you’ll hear and that you’re with me right now, together in our house, with our cats and our china. And I know you’ll never leave me, ever. Because you always loved me, Nonna, more than enough.”
Elisabetta wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her nightgown. It would take all night to read the book, and only when she was finished would she reveal the dedication, though she suspected Nonna knew that already, too.
“Chapter One,” Elisabetta said, clearing her throat.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Marco
13 April 1941
Bar GiroSport closed for Easter Sunday, and Marco climbed the stairs to the apartment, late for the holiday meal. He hadn’t been home since yesterday and had missed Mass this morning, having been in bed with a woman who wasn’t the churchgoing type. He entered the kitchen to find his father and Emedio at the table, having already eaten the first course. Both men looked at him with disapproval, but Marco pretended not to notice.
“Buona Pasqua, Emedio.” Marco went to his brother and embraced him. “You never visit us anymore. Can’t that Pope do anything for himself?”
Emedio released him, his manner judgmental in his black cassock. “Why didn’t you come to Mass? It’s the holiest of all days.”
“I had to work,” Marco lied. He couldn’t tell the truth in front of his mother.
“On Pasqua? The office is open?”
“Not officially, but I had things to do for the bosses.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“Are you my father now, Father?” Marco wisecracked, then went to his father, dressed for the holiday in his suit and tie. “Buona Pasqua, Papa.”
“To you, too, Marco. You need a shave.”
“Sorry.” Marco remained distant from his father, but it mattered less to him than it used to. He spent all his time at Palazzo Venezia, where he received promotion after promotion. Everyone was delighted with his performance, and he was the youngest assistant in supply administration. His new boss was higher up than Buonacorso, and Marco was being groomed for leadership.
“Buona Pasqua, figlio.” His mother carried abbacchio to the table, a leg of lamb with rosemary, white wine, and anchovies, served with roasted potatoes.
“Buona Pasqua, Mamma. Sorry I missed the first course.” Marco kissed her on the cheek and took the heavy platter from her, breathing in its delicious aroma. He set it on the table next to a ring of golden-brown Easter bread, braided with hard-boiled eggs dyed pink and green. It satisfied him to know that the abundance of the meal was due to him, bringing home extra food coupons from work.
“You missed Mass?” His mother began serving the lamb. Her mood seemed better, perhaps because of the holiday. She had on her best black dress, with her dark hair in its braid.
“I’m sorry.”
“Our Lord sacrificed Himself for you.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“We lit candles for Aldo.” His mother finished serving and sat down.
“Good.” Marco sat down, glancing reflexively at Aldo’s chair, which held only a newspaper.
Emedio caught his eye. “It’s hard to celebrate today without him here.”
“No, it’s not,” Marco shot back. He had hardened his heart toward Aldo, after what he learned about anti-Fascists at Palazzo Venezia. They killed soldiers and destroyed materiel and equipment. He had to work twice as hard to make the bosses forget what Aldo had done. Many knew, due to jealous gossip.
“Aldo was our brother,” Emedio said, his tone corrective. “We mourn him still.”
His mother frowned. “Marco? Why would you—”
His father raised his hand, which silenced her. “We all mourn our Aldo.”
His mother blessed herself. “Of course we do, we always will. God rest his soul. Emedio, please say grace.”
Emedio prayed while Marco fell silent.
His father nodded, picking up his fork. “Let’s begin.”
Marco took a bite of meat, and it tasted juicy and flavorful, owing to the anchovies. “So, Emedio, how are things for you, these days?”
“The war is keeping us very busy at the Curia.”
His father interjected, “It’s going badly for Italy. We were defeated in Egypt and pushed out of Greece and Albania.”
Marco knew the details, even more than his father. “True, but the Germans have been a strong ally. They sent Rommel and his Afrika Korps to retake North Africa. My new boss says even the British admire Rommel—”