Elisabetta flushed, ashamed when her mother disparaged her father, especially in front of someone else. Her mother resented that her father didn’t support their family, even though Elisabetta worked harder than her mother. It was her own waitressing money, not her mother’s singing lessons, that paid the rent. But her mother had wanted to become an opera singer, and losing the chance had embittered her.
Giulia smoothed over the awkward moment, fishing in her purse and handing Elisabetta the essay. “Here we go. Good luck. Just don’t offer it to Il Tevere or Il Popolo. Fascists don’t care about a woman’s point of view. Or cats.”
“Thank you.” Elisabetta turned to her mother. “Mamma, what did you think of it?”
“I didn’t read it. I told you I was too busy. Did you feed your father?”
“Yes, he’s in bed.”
“Of course.” Her mother sighed heavily again. “Don’t you have to get to the restaurant?”
“Oh yes.” Elisabetta picked up her purse and put the article inside. “I’d better go. Goodbye.”
Her mother nodded, still rubbing her feet.
“Goodbye, dear.” Giulia kissed Elisabetta’s cheek. “I hope to see you again soon.”
“Me, too.” Elisabetta left the house, brightening as she stepped outside, since it was impossible to stay glum walking through Trastevere. She loved her neighborhood, with its small houses and pretty pastel fa?ades, and each home unique, with a wrought-iron balcony that had ivy dripping down, or a little shrine to the Virgin embedded in a fa?ade, or a window strung with festive, colored lights. It felt freer here than in Rome proper, and because the buildings were fewer stories, more sky showed. Twilight was a wash of transparent blue with the stars shimmering behind, waiting for their chance to shine.
Elisabetta passed the Basilica di Santa Maria in Trastevere, its graceful arches lighted, illuminating its lovely cornice and gilded mosaics. Taller buildings ringed the cobblestone piazza, and couples held hands or sat kissing on the steps of the fountain. Everyone socialized in the evening during the passeggiata, showing off their most presentable clothes. Girls promenaded in hopes of being seen, and boys did their best to oblige.
Elisabetta thought about Marco and Sandro when she kissed her pillow, but after experiencing the real kiss with Sandro, even her vivid imagination couldn’t transform the dryness of the cotton fabric into the remarkable warmth and softness of a boy’s mouth. But Sandro hadn’t tried to kiss her again, and Marco had been monopolized by Angela and the other girls, all of whom flirted with him. Meanwhile the teasing about Elisabetta’s not having a brassiere had intensified, and Angela had started calling her Centesimi, copper pennies, claiming that her nipples showed through her shirt. Now Elisabetta held her books or schoolbag against her chest at all times.
She took a left, winding her way through the narrow streets, approaching the restaurant, Casa Servano. The place wasn’t much to look at from the outside, an old converted house with an ugly door of brown wood set in a fa?ade of cracked gray stucco, and only a single window. Neither a sign nor a menu was posted, and no one frequented Casa Servano except locals, who knew it served the best homemade pasta in Rome. Since working here, Elisabetta had learned why.
She reached the restaurant and let herself into the dining room, which was empty because they weren’t open yet. The ground floor of the house fit only ten tables and on the right, a bar with stools. The ceiling was of embossed tin, and the white stucco walls were adorned with photographs of the Servano family, who had owned the place for generations. At the center of every photo was Nonna Servano, the matriarca.
“Ciao, Elisabetta.” Paolo, Nonna’s son, smiled from the bar, where he was drying wineglasses. He was short and skinny, balding even in his forties, but of a genial manner that served him well as manager and bartender.
“Ciao, Paolo! Well, what kind of mood is she in, good or bad?”
“Good. So I say agnolotti.”
“I say tortellini.” Their game was to guess which type of pasta Nonna would be making that night. In a good mood, she would make pasta ripiena, which were stuffed pastas like ravioli, tortellini, and caramelle, as festive as a gift wrapped with fresh dough. In a bad mood, she would make easy types like spaghetti, bigoli, and tagliatelle. Customers who were lucky enough to get a table at Casa Servano ate whichever pasta Nonna had made, for as she often said, Only the pilot flies the airplane.
Elisabetta reached the kitchen and pushed open the swinging door, greeted by delicious aromas. Paolo’s wife, Sofia, labored over a cauldron, slow-cooking thick tomato sauce with meat, seasoned fresh basil, bay leaves, onion, and garlic. Paolo’s cousin Vito was sautéing garlic, cousin Nino was filleting branzino, and second cousin Giovanni was scooping hot marrow from a bone. Steam billowed from a massive pot of boiling water, and sinuses were always clear in the kitchen.