His mother, Gemma, was an elegant woman, dressed tonight in a sheath of gray linen with a pearl necklace and matching earrings. She wore her graying hair back in a chic twist, and her eyes were bluish-gray behind her steely glasses, which perched on her long nose. Her face was long, too, but in a refined way, with a neck like a Modigliani painting. She was weary after a long day at the hospital, and Sandro was proud of having a mother who was also a doctor, though the neighbors talked behind their hands about her, for not being at home like a proper mother.
The aroma of fried conch and roasted potatoes wafted in from the kitchen, where their housekeeper, Cornelia Rossi, was preparing the meal. “Mamma, can’t we eat?” Sandro asked, his stomach growling.
“Of course not. We’ll wait for the others.”
“Dottoressa, I can’t keep the first course warm any longer.” Cornelia, a heavyset widow in her sixties with a cheerful temperament, entered the dining room with a platter. She had been Sandro’s nanny, but had stayed on as a housekeeper, and he loved her like a second mother. Her hooded eyes were dark, her nose wide, and her smile omnipresent.
“I understand, thanks.” Sandro’s mother shook her head. “We’ll watch it get cold.”
Cornelia set the platter on the table. “Buon appetito. Sandro, I made olive all’Ascolana.”
“Thank you!” Sandro said. Cornelia was from Ascoli Piceno, and her specialty was its signature dish, breaded olives stuffed with lamb, beef, cheese, vegetables, and seasoning. “Mamma, please, may I start?”
“Just one.”
Sandro popped a fried olive into his mouth, and it exploded with taste on his tongue. The breading was thin, golden brown, and crunchy, and the meat filling had a warm, spicy sweetness. “Delicious, Cornelia.”
“Yes, grazie.” Sandro’s mother reached for an olive.
“You’re welcome.” Cornelia smiled, then left the room.
Gemma turned to Sandro. “So, how was school today?”
“Fine, and I picked up a new assignment from Enzo, Levi-Civita’s graduate assistant.”
“Good.” His mother chewed thoughtfully. “Are you enjoying the work?”
“Yes, but it’s difficult.”
“You can do it.” His mother smiled. “Have you met Levi-Civita yet?”
“No. He’s always busy in his office.”
“Maybe you should introduce yourself. I’m sure he’d love to meet such a brilliant young man.”
Sandro chuckled. “Levi-Civita once found an error that Einstein had made in his calculations, in his Entwurf paper. Do you really think he would love to meet a fairly able student from a local liceo?”
His mother laughed. “You could be the next Levi-Civita. Did you ever think of that?”
“Perhaps, in my dreams.” Sandro wasn’t kidding, for he had dreamed as much.
“You must believe in yourself. Levi-Civita chose you, didn’t he?”
“He also chose a slew of students from all over the world.”
“Still, I’m proud of you.” His mother touched his arm. “I know you think I’m nagging you, but don’t mistake me. I urge you forward not for your own personal ambition, but for something more important. God has given you a magnificent gift in your intellectual abilities, and He did so for a reason. That reason is for you to discover, and pursue.”
Sandro blinked in surprise, having never heard his mother speak that way, and he knew all of her lectures. He had no immediate response, but the conversation was interrupted by the opening of the apartment door, and it was Sandro’s father. Massimo Simone was older than most of the fathers of Sandro’s classmates, and his hair, sparsely black with silvery strands, looked windblown. He was of such a short stature that he had been called Minimo in school, so he had sought refuge in his studies, which had led to his profession as a tax lawyer. Sandro’s father always told the story to show that one could turn disadvantage to advantage.
“Buona sera, sposa e giovanotto.” His father took off his hat, his dark eyes lively behind his bifocals. “Sorry I’m late, but the meeting at the synagogue ran long.” His father came over and kissed his mother. “Guess who’s the new general counsel to the Board?”
“Not you, is it?” his mother asked, with indulgent disapproval.
“Yes, the very same. Perhaps I’ll make something of myself yet.” His father sat down, with a wink.
“But you’re already so busy, Massimo.”