Sandro’s grin widened, but Elisabetta became distracted by shouting coming from the street, which sounded as if someone was calling her name. She tensed, fearing it was her father again, and diners were turning to the noise. The older couple at the table by the window was looking outside, and Paolo hustled to them.
Elisabetta went to the window to see a sight so romantic it could have been in an old-fashioned movie. Marco was standing in the street in his dark uniform, holding a bouquet of red roses. She could see him clearly in the streetlight, and he met her eye, smiled his dazzling smile, then dropped to one knee as in a proper, traditional serenade. He burst into “Chitarra Romana,” a popular love song about a young woman of Trastevere:
Under a mantle of stars
beautiful Rome appears to me
Elisabetta gasped, dumbfounded. Marco sang well and with sincerity, not like when he clowned around in school, and she couldn’t help but think he had rehearsed. She had never dreamed that he, or any boy, would serenade her, but the timing was terrible. She’d spent months wondering whether either boy could view her in intimate terms, and they had both shown their hand on the very same night.
Excitement rippled through the restaurant, and the diners made comments to each other: “What a handsome young man!” “He’s singing to the waitress!” “Why didn’t you ever serenade me, dear?”
Outside, passersby stopped to watch Marco, who threw his arms open and crooned the next verse at the top of his lungs, leaving Elisabetta flushed with happiness—but also confusion. She had just agreed to a date with Sandro, but here was Marco, making a grandly romantic gesture.
Out of the corner of her eye, Elisabetta saw Sandro leave his table and join the customers behind her, just as Marco was ending his serenade. He strolled to the restaurant with his bouquet, and when he opened the door, the customers burst into applause. Marco acknowledged them with a brief nod, but his gaze focused only on Elisabetta.
“Wine on the house!” Paolo called out, caught up in the moment, and the customers cheered, heading back to their tables.
Marco strode to her, his dark eyes shining. He bowed and presented her with the red roses. “These are for you.”
“Thank you.” Elisabetta accepted the roses, flustered and moved, breathing in their sweet fragrance.
Sandro stepped beside her, chuckling. “That was quite a show, friend.”
Marco burst into laughter. “Ehi, what are you doing here?”
Sandro shrugged, smiling. “Your singing wasn’t terrible.”
“Thank you.” Marco bowed again. “Elisabetta, I would like to take you to dinner, on a proper date. Would you like to go with me, the next night you have off from work?”
“Oh my!” Elisabetta blurted out, caught betwixt and between. The two boys were smiling as if they thought it was funny, but she felt completely awkward, holding Sandro’s book and Marco’s bouquet. The only thing worse than having neither boy interested in her was having both of them interested in her. It struck her that romance with either Marco or Sandro wasn’t without risk. If one of them broke her heart, or she broke one of theirs, she would lose their friendship. She was inevitably going to lose one of them, and choose one of them. Or might she somehow lose both? She hadn’t anticipated that the situation would be so complicated.
Sandro chuckled again. “Marco, she can go out with you after she goes out with me.”
“Or before,” Marco shot back.
Sandro shrugged. “Either way, a girl has to eat.”
“Yes, okay, Marco,” Elisabetta answered, confused.
Meanwhile, Paolo motioned to her, meaning she had to get back to work, and Elisabetta turned to Marco and Sandro.
“Thanks so much, both of you. I have to go.”
* * *
—
After Marco and Sandro had left, Elisabetta fled the kitchen, and Nonna motioned her into the pantry, where she sat making the final batch of pasta, her knobby fingers dusted with flour. Tonight they had served spaghetti alla chitarra, which was made on a chitarra, a pasta guitar, a set of fine gauge wires strung across a wooden frame. The dough was black with squid ink and dusted with flour. Only connoisseurs loved squid-ink pasta, but only connoisseurs ate at Casa Servano.
“Yes, Nonna?” Elisabetta asked, coming over.
“What just happened in my restaurant? Two boys came courting you?” Nonna draped a flat sheet of dough over the chitarra wires. “Sit down.”
Elisabetta obeyed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know they were coming, I had no idea—”