“No, I’m too busy, and the new baby will be here soon.”
“But you’re only at the restaurant in the mornings, and I’ll help more. I know exactly what you need to start.” Marco reached into the bag, retrieved her old typewriter, and placed it atop the stone wall, in its slim black case of covered cardboard.
“My Olivetti?” Elisabetta burst into astonished laughter.
“Yes, I just picked it up. I had it reconditioned.” Marco opened the lid, and its black top gleamed in the sun. He smiled inwardly, thinking of the time that Sandro had urged him to buy her a notebook, way back when. Marco had thought of that advice when he had come up with this idea, so Sandro was still helping him, even now.
“Why did you get it reconditioned?”
“To make it like new. I got ribbons and paper, too. Don’t you want to start writing again?”
“Don’t be silly.” Elisabetta waved him off, but Marco sensed that all she needed was encouragement.
“Why not?”
“I wouldn’t know what to write about, anymore.”
“You’re just afraid, but don’t be. Remember when you stood on the ledge at Palazzo Braschi? Or when you drove my boss’s car? You were afraid then, too, but you always did well. Just take a chance.” Marco gestured at the manuscript. “Besides, if you wrote one book, you can write another. You read all the time, and you’re always talking about that new author. What’s her name, the one who won that prize?”
“Elsa Morante. She won the Viareggio.”
“What does she write about?”
“Families, and love.”
“And what about the other author, the older one who won the Nobel?”
“Grazia Deledda.”
“What does she write about?”
“Families, and love.”
Marco grinned, but said nothing.
Elisabetta smiled back. “You think I should write about families and love?”
“If that’s what you like, yes.” Marco put the lid back on the typewriter, placed the manuscript on top, and handed it to her. “Start now. I’ll watch Sandro. You become the next great Italian female author.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“You’ve done harder things. Go up to the rooftop to work. It’s quiet up there.” Marco had moved Elisabetta’s garden to the rooftop of Bar Terrizzi. Their family, including Gnocchi and ancient Rico, enjoyed growing fresh herbs and flowers. “Just get started, and see what happens. I’ll make sure the boy doesn’t fall into the Tiber.”
“Maybe I will.” Elisabetta beamed. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Marco said, giving her another kiss. She walked off happily, and he watched her go, thinking to himself: Thanks for the advice, Sandro. This time, I listened.
EPILOGUE
Elisabetta
May 1957
Elisabetta finished telling her son the story, and Sandro had listened with complete absorption, for he had inherited his father’s characteristic powers of concentration. She had begun the story from its earliest, on that afternoon by the Tiber when she had decided that Marco would be her first kiss, then had been kissed by Sandro. It had taken her most of the morning to tell the story, and she had ended it with the day that Marco had presented her with the reconditioned Olivetti. Her son had heard some of the stories before, but never in the context of finding out the truth about his paternity.
His expression had changed only slightly throughout, except he had burst into knowing laughter at the story of Marco climbing the pillar to retrieve the Fascist flag during the party at Palazzo Braschi, and a troubled frown had creased his young brow over the part about the gold of Rome and the rastrellamento of the Ghetto. Tears had filmed his warm brown eyes toward the end of the story, when Elisabetta had told him what had happened at the Modena train station, where Sandro had been killed saving Marco’s life, but he hadn’t cried, nor had she, remaining in emotional control for his benefit.
The sun streamed through the window of the dining room, filling it with a golden warmth. She liked having a large apartment, which they could afford thanks to Marco’s success with his Bar Terrizzis. Gnocchi slept on her chair at the table, though Rico had passed away, having lived a long and admirable life.
Elisabetta exhaled, with finality. “Well, that’s the whole story. I know it’s a lot to hear all at once, and some parts are very sad, but I wanted you to know the truth, now that you’re old enough. Do you understand?”