“Ehi, fratello.” Aldo smiled in his tight-lipped way, self-conscious due to his teeth, which were crooked in front. He took after the Castelicchi side, with a quieter temperament, eyes set close together, and a characteristic cleft in the chin. Aldo was the shortest of the Terrizzi sons, but he loved cycling and still had on his sweaty white jersey and bike shorts. If their mother wished he would change for dinner, she would never say so. Everyone knew who ran the household, and it wasn’t her.
“Mamma, that looks delicious. Brava.” Marco kissed her as she was ladling pomodoro sauce with whitish chunks of crabmeat onto a platter of spaghetti for the first course. Bright orangey claws stuck through the reddish pulp, their pincers jagged, and the uniquely fishy tomato aroma made him salivate.
“Ciao.” His mother smiled up at him, her small, light brown eyes warm. Steam billowed from the sink, curling the dark tendrils that had escaped her long braid, and she had a flat nose, a broad smile, and the honest, open face of a country girl. Marco’s parents were contadini, of peasant families, and they had grown up in houses shared with goats and chickens. They had married and moved to Rome, where his father had parlayed his cycling celebrity into Bar GiroSport. The café was frequented by hospital employees, locals, and cycling fans, called tifosi, for they were as crazy as those afflicted with typhus.
“Just sit, son.” His father motioned from at the head of the table.
“Here, boys.” His mother set the platter of spaghetti near Marco’s father, served him first, then the rest. They prayed over the meal, and everyone ate quickly except for Marco, who savored every bite while his father quizzed Aldo about his training times. Emedio stayed out of the line of fire, having escaped a cycling career by entering the priesthood. Marco could never make such a sacrifice, as he had a duty to the female population. And someday, to Elisabetta.
His mother turned to Emedio, who worked at the Office of the Holy See. “What news? Anything?”
“Did you hear about the German encyclical on Palm Sunday?”
“No, what is it?”
“Mit Brennender Sorge. It means ‘With Burning Anxiety’ in German. The Pope issued an encyclical that was distributed to almost thirty thousand German churches, a direct message to German Catholics.” Emedio leaned over. “Cardinal Pacelli assisted in its composition, but I tell you that confidentially.”
His mother drew her index finger across her lips like a zipper, and her eyes twinkled. To her, Vatican gossip was the best gossip.
“The encyclical was read by German parish priests to their congregations, with no prior notice to anyone. Can you imagine, all those churches, and no one let it slip out? It was printed and distributed in complete secrecy.”
“Why in secrecy?” His mother frowned. “It’s the word of Our Holy Father.”
“It was reiterating his teaching that German Catholics should follow God, not Hitler. As a result, Hitler sent the Gestapo to arrest those who had printed and distributed the encyclical.”
“How terrible!”
His father shot Emedio a look. “No politics at the table.”
Emedio fell silent, and their mother pursed her lips. His father was a Fascist of the First Hour, meaning he had joined in 1919, even before the March on Rome in 1922, when the King appointed Mussolini to be Prime Minister. Traditional by nature, his father believed that the party would be good for small business owners, as well as bring law and order to Italy.
His father cleared his throat. “Now, as I was saying, this will be a significant year for the Giro, and I know who will win the pink jersey. I predict Bartali will repeat his victory.”
Aldo nodded. “I agree, though I’m putting a side bet on Bini. And Olmo, who was so fast in the Milan–San Remo.”
“No, wrong.” His father sipped some wine. “The Milan–San Remo is child’s play. And Del Cancia won, anyway. You’ll lose your money, Aldo.”
“No matter who wins, he shouldn’t wear the pink jersey. Think of it. Pink?” Aldo chuckled, and Marco had heard this before. Mussolini had declared that pink was an effeminate color, confusing Fascists and tifosi alike.
His father scoffed. “The color of the jersey isn’t the point. The achievement is all. Right, Marco?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Marco, you know, I was at the window tonight, watching you when you turned onto the bridge. You were late for dinner.”
“I’m sorry, Papa.”
“That’s not my point.” His father rested his bulky forearms on the table, his gaze newly intense. “You rode very well. You held your line. You even picked up speed. You surprised me.”