“I’m leaving.”
“Leaving what? Home? For good?” Elisabetta shook her head in disbelief. “But you can’t!”
“I have to. I have one last chance and I’m taking it.” Her mother picked up the suitcase and the gramophone, then walked into the kitchen.
“What do you mean?” Elisabetta hurried after her, stricken. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve given your father my best years. I’m done. Finished.” Her mother grabbed her purse and kept going. “If you’re smart, you’ll learn from my mistake. Marry well.”
“Mamma!” Elisabetta caught her mother’s arm, but her mother wrenched it away, almost dropping the gramophone.
“Elisabetta, let me go.”
“But you can’t just go!”
“Yes, I can. My mind is made up.” Her mother glanced down at her father with contempt.
“He’s your husband!”
“I’ve done enough for him.”
“But what about me?” Anguished tears filled Elisabetta’s eyes. “You can’t leave me.”
“I’m sorry, but I have to. You can take care of yourself. You’re a young woman now. You told me that.”
“What? When?” Elisabetta wracked her brain, her thoughts in tumult. What did her mother mean? Was it the brassiere? Was she leaving because of the brassiere?
“Goodbye.” Her mother turned away and hustled through the entrance hall, but Elisabetta dogged her step, grabbed her arm again, and turned her around to face her.
“Mamma, don’t you love me?”
“Yes.”
“But not enough to stay?”
Her mother’s gaze hardened, and her lips seemed to seal.
Elisabetta burst into tears. She released her grip. Her arm dropped to her side. Her mother turned her back and left, without another word.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Marco
25 July 1937
Marco and Aldo worked behind the counter on a banner day at Bar GiroSport, which was packed with regulars, Sandro and his father, Massimo, minor party officials, and tifosi. The last stage of the Tour de France was just ending, and the radio played the finish. Everyone listened, holding his breath, and the announcer shouted that Roger Lapebie, a Frenchman, crossed the finish line first, winning the race. The Italian rider Mario Vicini came in second.
Marco and everyone else erupted into profanities. “Dio, no!” “Non possibile!” “Mamma mia!”
The customers slumped into their seats and stared into their wine.
“Beppe, how did this happen?” one man shouted to Marco’s father. “It was Bartali’s to win! We were robbed, were we not?”
“Absolutely!” His father scowled, standing among the tables. “First, Bartali should have won. He won the Giro last year. It was his race, everybody agrees. But after stage eight, his injury became too much for him. He struggled, but could not maintain his lead. That was the end for Bartali, but it wasn’t the end for Italy, was it?”
“No, no, it wasn’t the end!” “A new hero emerges, Mario Vicini!” “His first Tour, never even in the Giro, correct, Beppe?”
“Esatto!” Marco’s father nodded. “Imagine Mario Vicini, from Emilia-Romagna, enters the Tour de France, not affiliated with any team. He proves his worth, stage after stage. He finishes second in the general classification.” His father raised his glass. “A toast to Vicini!”
“A Vicini!” everyone shouted, toasting.
His father nodded. “Vicini should have won, and Lapebie cheated during the mountain stages.”
“Yes, Lapebie cheated!” “I heard that spectators pushed him up the hills!” “I heard that, too! The judges penalized him for it!” “But Lapebie said he didn’t want them to do it! They did it on their own volition!”
“Allow me to clarify this issue, legally,” Massimo interjected, from his seat next to Sandro. “Lapebie got help from the sidelines. As a lawyer, I will tell you that it was illegal, and Lapebie should have been disqualified.”
“An excellent point, Signor Simone!” said a party official at the same table, whom Marco had never seen here before.
“Lapebie was a victim as well!” somebody called out. “I heard they sawed his handlebars!”
But everyone else chorused in disapproval, telling the customer he was not only wrong but disloyal, maybe even a traitor. The customer shouted back, others joined the hollering, and Marco sensed the mood turning volatile, as alcohol and defeat made a bad marriage.