Uno continued, “I will deliver the money when it’s safe to do so. However, I cannot obtain the guns at the same time. If I was apprehended, the Fascists would have the proof of guns for money, an illegal transaction. So we must divide the transaction in two steps. The money goes separately from the guns.”
“Good thinking, Uno.” Loud Mouth nodded. Aldo wondered how much the guns cost and where Uno was getting the money, but nobody asked.
“So, men, after I have delivered the money, we need someone to travel to Orvieto and pick up the guns.” Uno scanned the men, and though his face was in shadow, the candlelight flickered on his fine spectacles. “Whoever does so will be carrying weapons. If you are caught, you will be arrested. And you can’t travel by train to Orvieto because the police watch for us. It would be best to go by bicycle. It’s quite a distance, so we need an athlete, a cyclist. Who will ride for us?”
The men began looking at each other, then all of the faces turned to Aldo.
Uno turned to Aldo last, then smiled in a newly fraternal way. “Signor Silenzio, you come to our meetings in cycling clothes, and you have the best bicycle. You are young and very fit. Are you, perchance, an amateur cyclist?”
“Yes.” Aldo’s heart pounded so hard that he couldn’t hear himself speak. He had gotten himself into a terrible position. He sensed he had to prove his loyalty after his earlier objection, and Uno’s argument in favor nagged at him. Their cause was undeniably just.
“Signor Silenzio, when the time comes, will you pick up the guns?”
Aldo’s mouth went dry, and his thoughts raced. Maybe this was like a war, a just war. Maybe it was time to act. Maybe he needed to step up, like the other men. He had joined them for love of country. He had to be brave enough to fight, as his father had in the Great War. After all, Aldo was a son of Lazio. Of Roma.
“Yes, I volunteer,” he answered, after a moment. “For Italy.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Elisabetta
July 1937
Elisabetta headed through the Piazza di Santa Maria in Trastevere with her father leaning on her, her dress spattered with vomit. She felt heartsick to remember the disgust on Gualeschi’s face, and knew she would never work for the newspaper, now. She despaired of the opportunity she had lost, and she felt ashamed that everyone at the restaurant knew about her father.
She had never felt so angry at him, but at the same time she felt guilt for her anger. People filled the piazza, enjoying the summer night, and they looked over, talking behind their hands. She spotted some of her classmates and averted her face, hoping they didn’t see her. Thank God Marco and Sandro weren’t around. She would have been mortified for them to see her this way.
Elisabetta and her father left the piazza and joined the throng in the street, where people flowed in and out of shops or sat at tables outside restaurants. Diners turned away when she and her father struggled past. She spotted her house on the corner, with its lemon-yellow fa?ade and wisteria bower over the front door, next to a brass light fixture. It was so picturesque that tourists would often photograph it, and tonight a group was posing in front of her door.
Elisabetta approached with her father, and the tourists turned to watch them, pointing and chattering. She couldn’t understand what they were saying, but she could guess. She tugged her father to their front door, where she fumbled with the doorknob, helped him inside the entrance hall, and closed the door.
She got him to their apartment door, then eased him slowly to the floor. He sat with his back against the wall, falling asleep. He would be too heavy for her to move without her mother’s help. She unlocked the door and entered the apartment, but the kitchen was empty, so her mother must have gone to bed. Rico rose from the windowsill in a crouch, his tail curling into a question mark.
“Mamma, I need help with Papa!” Elisabetta went to the bedroom, and her mother appeared in the threshold wearing her best dark dress, fully made-up.
“Why are you home so early?”
“Papa came to the restaurant.” Elisabetta noticed a suitcase on the bed. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes.” Her mother turned away and picked up the suitcase. “I’m leaving.”
“What?” Elisabetta asked, confused. “Where?”
“That’s not your concern.” Her mother stiffened, averting her eyes. “I have to go. I can’t stay here anymore.”
“What are you talking about? Where are you going?” Elisabetta spotted her mother’s gramophone in its polished wooden case, sitting by the bed. It was her mother’s most prized possession.