“Elisabetta, what’s the matter?” Sandro came running up behind her, putting an arm around her.
“I’m—sorry—I couldn’t stay.” Elisabetta wiped her eyes. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you.”
“Not at all, what is it? Here, let’s go sit down.” Sandro guided her to a sitting area out of the path of travel, with hedges on either side.
Elisabetta tried to compose herself as they sat down on a bench, and Sandro rubbed her back.
“What upset you? Was it me?”
“No, not you, it’s nothing.” Elisabetta didn’t want to trouble him with her drunken father or her runaway mother.
“I know, the book is upsetting in some parts. Is that it? I felt the same way. I had to set it down after the scene the professor described.”
“You read Cosima?”
“Of course. I knew we were going to the lecture. We couldn’t talk about it if I hadn’t read it, and I wanted to read what you were reading.”
“That was so thoughtful of you.” Elisabetta wiped her eyes again, recovering her composure.
“I imagined myself as Antonino, the brilliant and handsome young man that Cosima falls in love with.” Sandro smiled. “Though Cosima says he is too involved with his ‘eternal studies.’ When I read that, I thought, ‘Oh no, is that what Elisabetta thinks of me?’”
“No!” Elisabetta smiled back. “I don’t think that of you. Antonino is smart, and I understand why Cosima was attracted to him.”
“That’s good.” Sandro reached for her hand. “I knew you would like the novel. Remember when she says she likes the ‘magic’ of words?”
“Yes.” Elisabetta remembered that part, which had struck a chord. She marveled that Sandro knew her so well, and a wave of affection for him swept over her. Her hand was warm in his, and she wasn’t inclined to move it away.
“And what about when Deledda says Cosima has an Amazon instinct in her? You have that, too. That strength. You always have. So what bothered you, what made you upset? Something about Santus?” Sandro’s expression softened. “Is it because of your father?”
“You know about him?” Elisabetta felt mortified. Her face warmed, and tears came to her eyes again. She should have figured he would know about her father.
“Elisabetta, listen.” Sandro held her close. “You mustn’t feel bad about your father. I don’t think Santus was selfish, as the professor said.”
“You think the professor was wrong?”
“Well, I disagree with him. I can read the book for myself, and you can read the book for yourself, too. We can interpret it how we wish. I thought Deledda’s portrait rang more true to life.”
“I did, too. Deledda said that Santus was ‘at heart good and mild’ and that he was ‘the first to be mortally unhappy about his vice.’ That’s how my father is, exactly.” Elisabetta realized it was the first time she had spoken about her father, to anyone. “He feels terrible for drinking so much, and I know he loves me.”
“I’m sure he does, too.” Sandro gave her hand another squeeze. “So let’s not go back inside the lecture hall. I’ve learned enough for one night.”
“Okay,” Elisabetta answered, relieved. “But what did you learn?”
“Beh, I always preferred mathematics to literature, since mathematics is absolute and literature is subjective.” Sandro looked away, up at the stars. “I used to believe that subjectivity was a bad thing, until tonight. But now, I think it’s a good thing.”
“How so?” Elisabetta rested her head on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his neck and the vibration in his throat as he spoke. She loved the sound of his voice, which had a softness and sibilance unique to him. She didn’t know if it was possible to prefer one voice to all others, but her ears attuned to Sandro’s like music.
“The fact that the interpretation of the novel is subjective leaves room for the reader to enter the analysis. It offers a space for the reader to think for himself, thereby leaving open the possibility of a higher, more universal truth. I didn’t learn that from the professor, I learned it from you.”
“No, that can’t be true.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, ever. I love talking to you.”
“I love talking to you, too.” Elisabetta snuggled against him, wishing she could stay here forever, cozy on a bench, the two of them talking under a spray of white stars in a black sky. Sandro had become a part of this world, a vast campus of lecture halls, libraries, and classrooms she would never see, professors she would never meet, and textbooks she would never open, but when she was with him, she felt like she fit in.