“Did you hear about the gold?”
“Yes, I was there, I gave money.”
“You gave? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“And the supplì, did you like the supplì?”
“What supplì? What are you talking about?” Sandro stroked her cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here, I can’t believe you’re really here, on the roof of all places.” He looked around, marveling. “What is this place? It smells so wonderful! What have you got up here? Flowers? Plants? I smell basil!”
“I grow herbs—”
“Peppers? Tomatoes? Food!” Sandro released her and turned to the tomato plants. He grabbed a tomato and bit into it, laughing. “Oh my God, this is delicious! This is so good I could cry! You grow all this food? And basil? I love fresh basil! I miss it so much!”
“Yes, here.” Elisabetta pinched off a sprig of basil and stuck it in the buttonhole of his jacket. “As good as any flower.”
“Better! And these flowers, too? It smells like heaven! My God, Elisabetta, this is paradise! An oasis! You’re a dream!”
Elisabetta reached for him, kissing him, tasting tomato on his lips and tongue, and Sandro embraced her, kissing her back, letting go of the tomatoes, dropping them on the rooftop, and she could feel his hands and fingers as hungry as he was, moving down her body, wanting her.
“Elisabetta, listen,” Sandro said gently, his expression soft. “Tonight, can we forget the past, set aside everything that came before, and everything that will come? I don’t know what the future holds. All I can offer you is my love, my deepest love, from the very heart of me and all that I am inside. That’s all I have, my darling. Can you accept that? Can you offer me yours? Can you give me tonight?”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
Sandro kissed her, and Elisabetta kissed him back with full abandon, and in time she led him to her chaise longue with its flowered cushions and pillows, tucked under the wisteria that enclosed them like a fragrant room made of flowers, and still they didn’t stop kissing even as they lay down, and Sandro showed her tenderness and passion and comfort when he made love to her, and Elisabetta accepted the gift she was being offered, and gave her gift in return.
And afterward, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, under the stars and amid the flowers and the plants and the cats.
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
Sandro
15 October 1943
Sandro woke up, holding Elisabetta. He felt a cold drizzle on his feet and realized it was beginning to rain. They were both nude on the chaise longue, and the bower of wisteria covered them. The sky was still dark, though he didn’t know what time it was. The candle in the jar hadn’t burned down very far. He hated to go, but his father would be home worried about Rosa.
“Elisabetta?” he said softly, but she didn’t stir. He disentangled himself from her, dressed quickly, and gathered her clothes. He went to the chaise longue and lifted her up, cradling her close to his chest.
She murmured in her slumber, burying her face in his neck, and he carried her down the fire escape, with the cats following. There was a door ajar at the first landing, and he went inside a small bedroom, lowered her onto the bed, and covered her. He glanced around her room, which was as neat and pretty as he would’ve expected, with a desk and a bureau against the wall.
Elisabetta turned over, away from the pale light coming in through the open door, and he lingered another moment, allowing his gaze to absorb every centimeter of her, wishing he could remember every detail forever.
Sandro lay her dress over the back of her chair and found a pencil on her desk, to leave her a note. His gaze fell on the notebook he had left on her doorstep for her birthday. He opened it, expecting to find the pages covered with her handwriting, but instead it was blank. He wrote her a note, returned to the bed, and kissed her softly on the cheek. He could still smell the scent of wisteria that clung to her hair.
“I love you,” he whispered, and Elisabetta mumbled something he couldn’t understand.
He left, closing the door behind him. He descended the fire escape, then reached the bottom, held on to the lowest step, and dropped to the ground. The drizzle turned to rain, and he hurried down the alley, finding a new strength. He flew through the dark streets of Trastevere in a world of his own, a paradise that life opens for young lovers, a place devoid of curfews and Nazis.
He raced to his house, ran up the stairs to the apartment, and opened the door to find his father dozing in his chair, in his worn suit and tie. The lights were on, and a newspaper lay on his lap. Sandro went to his side. “Papa?”