Marco raised a glass of red wine. “Everyone, I propose a toast! To Italy!”
“To Italy!” Everybody joined in, raising his glass.
Marco kept talking. “Friends, Italy wasn’t robbed today, not to my mind! We have so many treasures here, especially in Rome! Treasures that no one can ever take from us!”
“Bravo, Marco!” Massimo called to him, and Sandro grinned.
Marco warmed to his topic, even though Aldo looked at him like he was crazy. “After all, who cares who wins the Tour de France? It’s not the Giro d’Italia! We’re not French, we’re Italian!”
The customers burst into joyful chatter. “Yes, we have our own race!” “The Giro is more difficult—and more fair!” “Italians don’t cheat! We have heart!”
“Yes, and we have so many treasures in this amazing city!” Marco thought of the ancient sights he had seen when he rode at night. “We walk by them every day, but how often do we really see them? Do we really appreciate them?”
Agreement rumbled from the room.
Marco gestured to the open door. “For example, right outside this bar stands the Ponte Fabricio. A footbridge built by the ancient Romans, still in use! We inherited it as a legacy from ancient times, even before Christ himself! Such a wonder is our birthright!”
The customers nodded and cheered.
“And Trajan’s Column, rising into the sky! Have you ever really examined its figurines? They tell a story! Someone carved those figures! Do you know who? Romans! We Romans!” Marco bubbled over, feeding on the enthusiasm of the customers. “What about the Coliseum, the greatest arena in all the world! Have you noticed the perfection of its design? Like a big bowl of Roman sky!”
“That’s true!”
“Marco has grown into a brilliant young man!”
“And a patriot!”
“An excellent cyclist, too, I hear!”
Marco beamed. “Here is my point, everybody! Our city was here before the rest of the world! We were first about what matters! Not a silly bicycle race, but Western Civilization!”
Everybody clapped, even Aldo.
Marco acknowledged the applause, then caught sight of his father motioning to him from the back of the room, his expression grim. Marco threaded his way through the customers, then entered the hallway, where his father took him into the stockroom, closing the door.
“Marco, you’re making fun of a bicycle race? Calling it silly? That’s our stock in trade!” His father smacked him on the side of the head. “I finished twentieth in the Giro d’Italia, need I remind you? It was the proudest day of my life!”
“Papa!’’ Marco felt stung. “I was only trying to help!”
Suddenly the door opened, and Massimo stood smiling in the threshold, gesturing to the party official who was standing next to him. “Beppe, excuse me. Allow me to introduce Commendatore Buonacorso, who is the commander of the local fascio. He wanted to meet you.”
“Piacere, Commendatore Buonacorso,” his father said, extending a hand.
“Piacere, Beppe. Please, call me Romano.” Buonacorso shook his father’s hand, flashing a politician’s smile. His eyes were small and brown-black, his pencil mustache shiny with oil, and his nose unfortunately bulbous. He was of average height, reasonably fit, and impeccably groomed, with the creases of his uniform pressed into sharpness.
“Romano, to what do I owe the pleasure of this introduction?”
“Your son Marco is an impressive young man. May I speak with you both?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sandro
August 1937
Sandro could barely wait for Professor Levi-Civita’s lecture to start. The lecture hall was the largest at La Sapienza, filled with university administrators, professors, and staff from the mathematics and physics departments, even in the summertime. He was proud to be sitting with Enzo and the graduate students. Everything was so much more grown-up than high school, and he was among the most brilliant mathematicians and physicists of his time. For once, Sandro wasn’t at all the smartest person in the room, and the notion electrified him. He had so much more to learn, and they could teach him. Someday, he would make a contribution of his own to Italian mathematics. He realized that his mother had been right in that regard, and he knew now what she had meant. God had given him his gift for a reason. Maybe the reason was to give to his country.
Professor Levi-Civita appeared from the side of the stage and walked to the lectern, and the audience burst into applause. Sandro was charmed by Levi-Civita’s demeanor and appearance, having seen the great mathematician only once or twice in person. Levi-Civita smiled modestly, then adjusted the microphone downward, since he was of remarkably short stature, perhaps 152 centimeters. He had thinning silvery hair, his face was a small oval, and his eyes twinkled behind his round glasses. He wore an old-fashioned suit with wide lapels, light pinstripes, a stand-up collar, and a silk ascot.