“Hey, watch out!” Marco rode over on his bicycle, spraying gravel. His grin vanished when he saw Elisabetta upset. “Betta, what’s wrong?”
Elisabetta wiped her eyes, as this wasn’t the way she had imagined this day to go, at all.
Sandro answered for her. “Her mother left over the summer.”
“No!” Marco’s eyes flared with outrage, and his heavy eyebrows flew upward. “What kind of mother . . . That’s a disgrace!”
Elisabetta cringed. “Let’s not talk about it.”
“You shouldn’t shed a tear over her, not one single tear!” Marco leaned over, took Elisabetta by the arm, and lifted her to her feet. “Come on, you’re coming with me! Get on the handlebars! You need cheering up!”
“No, Marco.” Sandro rose and took Elisabetta’s other arm, holding her back. “She’s upset, and this isn’t the time.”
“Marco, I’m afraid to sit on the handlebars.” Elisabetta was pulled in opposite directions by Sandro and Marco, but not in the way she had hoped.
“Boh!” Marco waved them off. “Sandro, we need to lighten her mood! Elisabetta, if you’re afraid of the handlebars, take the seat! I won’t take no for an answer!” He lifted Elisabetta, put her onto the seat, and before she or Sandro could stop him, he had jumped on the pedals and was riding off with her. “Put your arms around me!”
“Marco, go slow.” Elisabetta’s hands reached around his waist as they lurched away.
“Tighter!” Marco pedaled faster, and they picked up speed, racing along the river. “Here we go, into the sky!”
Elisabetta held on tighter, holding Marco from behind. The sudden intimacy made her giddy, and she found herself feeling lighter and freer, with the wind flying through her hair. A burden lifted from her shoulders, one she hadn’t realized she had been carrying, and it felt good to let it go. They sped beside the water with the trees whizzing past and the birds flying around and the sun overhead. She experienced what it was like not to feel ashamed but to simply live her life, or better yet, the life of every other young girl, who came from respectable families and had properly shaped breasts.
“I’ve been dying to get you on this bicycle!” Marco called out, laughing, and Elisabetta flushed with happiness.
She glanced backward to see Sandro in the distance, shading his eyes with his hand. She felt a pang at leaving him behind, but at the same time let herself be spirited away by Marco, by his emotion, and by hers.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Marco
September 1937
The crowd mobbed the Termini train station, music blared from bands, and flags and banners flew. Mussolini was due to arrive in Rome at any moment, having spent the week with Hitler in Berlin. Rallies, parades, and speeches had been scheduled all over the city to celebrate his return. Only dignitaries, officials, and topmost military brass from Palazzo Venezia, the head of national government, and the fascio were authorized to be inside the station, to welcome Mussolini as soon as he disembarked. Each man expected to get a glimpse of Il Duce, except for Marco, who was attending to Comandante Spada at the very back of the crowd, with Commendatore Buonacorso and Comandante Terranova.
“Here you go, sir.” Marco took the cap off the bottle and poured water in a glass for Spada, who had decided that he was thirsty. Marco had found himself indentured to the old man, as Spada’s list of needs never ended and Buonacorso’s were relatively few. Spada tried Marco’s patience at every turn, demanding his espresso blazing hot, his tea medium cool, and his biscotti warm from the morning bake.
Spada squinted at the bottle. “Boy, is this water sparkling, as I asked?”
“Yes, sir, it’s sparkling.” Marco hoisted the bottle to show him, but Spada only frowned.
“You can’t expect me to see that label in this light? With my eyes.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“You know sparkling improves my digestion.”
“Yes, sir.” Marco masked his repugnance, since after Spada drank his sparkling water, he customarily emitted a fetid belch.
“Hurry up, boy. I can barely swallow, I’m so parched.”
“Here we go.” Marco handed the glass to the old man, who took it but didn’t drink.
“Are you sure this glass is clean, boy? I loathe a dusty glass.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Dust is the last thing I need in my throat right now.”
“I understand, sir. The glass has no dust inside.”