In the next moment, the door swung open and Paolo popped his head into the kitchen. “Mamma,” he said, “he’s here.”
Elisabetta jumped up. “Gualeschi is out there now? May I meet him?”
“You must.”
“Thank you!” Elisabetta squealed.
“Don’t embarrass me.” Nonna’s hooded gaze shifted sideways. “By the way, you need a brassiere.”
Elisabetta reddened. “I’m trying—”
“Ascolta, I told Gualeschi that you wrote an article, and he agreed to read it.”
“My article? How did you know about my article?”
“You never shut up about it. Do you think I’m deaf? Send it to him.”
“I have it with me, in my purse.”
“Then show it to him.”
“Do you really think I should?”
“I just said you should.” Nonna dusted flour from her fingertips. “I told him you’re a magnificent writer.”
“But you haven’t read it. What if it’s no good?”
“Have you read what they print?” Nonna pinched another cappelletto. “I told him to hire you immediately. People are always wondering what young people think. Mistakenly, in my view, but there you have it.” She brushed flour from knobby fingers. “Go meet him. Don’t go on and on like you do. Get to the point. You’re too talkative.”
“Thank you, thank you!” Elisabetta retrieved her article and headed for the kitchen door. “Wait, what does he look like?”
“Like a rigatone.”
Elisabetta hurried off, pushed through the kitchen door, and glanced around. Several tables were occupied with couples, but seated alone near the door was a dark-haired man with heavy glasses, who was short and wide. A rigatone, indeed.
She beelined for Gualeschi’s table. Her heart beat harder, and she realized that she could be taking the first step toward writing for a real newspaper. She wondered if she would look back on this day and tell this as a funny story, sitting at a table with her fellow journalists. If Sandro could have a brilliant future, then perhaps so could she.
Starting right this minute.
She reached Gualeschi’s table. “Signor Gualeschi, my name is Elisabetta D’Orfeo, and I admire your writing very much. I read you every day, and your article yesterday was especially interesting.” She remembered Nonna’s advice not to talk too much. “I’m sorry, I talk a lot, I know. It’s just that I have so many thoughts.”
“You can never go wrong praising a writer for his writing.” Gualeschi blinked with amusement behind his glasses.
“But everyone must praise you, all the time.”
“Not enough for my satisfaction, or with sufficient specificity. My mother thinks my apartment is too big, but I fill it with my ego.” Gualeschi chuckled. “In any event, thank you for your kind praise. I understand you’ve written a piece for submission. You may send it to my attention at the newspaper.”
“I have it with me, in fact.” Elisabetta held out her essay, and Gualeschi accepted it with a smile.
“Excellent. I will read it during my meal, and we can discuss it afterward, if you have a spare moment.”
“I would like that very much.”
Suddenly the door of the restaurant burst open and slammed back against the wall, rattling the framed photographs. Standing in the doorway was Elisabetta’s father, so drunk that he had to brace his hand on the wall to keep from falling over.
“Papa.” Elisabetta’s face flamed. Gualeschi grimaced, recoiling, as her father lurched toward her.
“Betta, my darling, look at you! I came to see if you had a few lire for me. Do you?”
Elisabetta felt mortified in front of Gualeschi. “Papa, no, please.”
“I only need enough for a glass of red, or perhaps you can offer me one, on the house?” Her father looked around, stumbling, and the diners turned to watch. Her father tripped, and Elisabetta opened her arms just as he fell into them, a dead weight that knocked her off balance.
“Oh no!” Elisabetta struggled to stay upright, and Gualeschi leapt to his feet and took her father’s arm.
“Allow me,” the journalist said, dropping the essay.
“My Betta is so pretty, so smart, and I love her so, she’s my darling angel.” Her father mumbled, oblivious, then he started to cough.
Elisabetta realized what was going to happen.
In the next moment, her father vomited on her and Gualeschi.
And on her essay, which lay forgotten on the floor.