He prayed that Beppe and Marco could make the difference.
PART THREE
Nessun maggior dolore
che ricordarsi del tempo felice
nella miseria.
There is no sorrow greater than in times of misery, to hold at heart the memory of happiness.
—Dante Alighieri, Inferno, Canto 5, 121–23
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Elisabetta
July 1939
Elisabetta and Nonna had a nightly routine, sharing a nightcap of anisette, a sweet anise liqueur. Challenging times were upon them, as rumors of impending war were on everyone’s lips. Business had taken a bad turn at Casa Servano, since the tourist trade was down and Trastevere Jews had been harmed by the Race Laws, which the Trasteverini regarded as an abomination.
Elisabetta thought of Sandro all the time, heartbroken that he didn’t love her anymore. She loved him still and wept at night, missing him and worrying about him. She avoided Marco, not to lead him on now that she knew Sandro was the one. Luckily Marco had gotten busier at Palazzo Braschi.
“Eh, what a dreadful day.” Nonna eased into her chair at the head of the walnut table, where an overhead lamp of milky Murano glass emitted a halo of light. The window was open, but the breeze was warm and barely moved the lace curtains. Via Fiorata was typically quiet at night, and the only sound was Rico purring on the cushioned chair, atop the doily that protected it from his cat hair. His eyes were closed and his paws tucked under him, his tummy full of branzino scraps.
“Things will get better, Nonna.”
“Not before they get worse, girl.”
Elisabetta sipped anisette from a tiny carved glass, which was one of hundreds that Nonna owned. It turned out that the old woman collected all manner of glassware and myriad sets of antique china, as well as breakfronts, credenzas, and display cabinets to store the collection. The cabinetry lined every room in the small, cheery house, set cheek by jowl, displaying stacked sets of Royal Doulton, Limoges, majolica, Capodimonte, Minton, and other china manufacturers. It was somewhat eccentric, but it made the house feel surprisingly homey.
There was a knock, and Elisabetta rose, crossed the living room, and opened the door to find Marco in uniform, with a grin on his face and a large, gaily wrapped box under his arm.
“Buona sera, Elisabetta!” Marco swept her up with his free arm and kissed her on the cheek.
“What a surprise!” Elisabetta said, flustered. “It’s good to see you.”
“Elisabetta, where are your manners?” Nonna called out. “Who’s there? Why don’t you invite him in?”
“Marco, please come in.” Elisabetta opened the door wider, and Marco entered the living room, eyeing the array of cabinetry without comment. She showed him into the dining room. “Nonna, this is Marco Terrizzi, and Marco, this is—”
“Signora Servano.” Nonna’s hooded eyes narrowed. “Doesn’t your father, Beppe, run Bar GiroSport?”
“Yes.” Marco smiled pleasantly.
“Aren’t you the one who serenaded Elisabetta at my restaurant?”
“Yes.” Marco nodded.
“So you’re courting Elisabetta?”
“Yes.” Marco beamed.
“What are your intentions? Are they honorable or trifling?”
Elisabetta cringed. “Nonna!”
Marco straightened. “My intentions are honorable, and I love her.”
Elisabetta felt moved, her heart responding, to her own surprise.
Nonna scowled. “But you’re not a very diligent suitor, are you, Marco?”
He blinked. “Pardon me?”
“You haven’t been here yet, have you? She’s been here a while, did you know?”
“Yes, but I’ve had to work.”
“So why do you come knocking at this hour?”
“I had to work late and—”
“You don’t expect she’s going out with you tonight, do you?”
“Beh, I was hoping we could get a gelato.”
“Don’t you know she has to work in the morning? Do you believe you can just show up and have it your way?”
“No, no, I don’t—”
“Don’t get any ideas, capito? You know she’s a good girl, don’t you? She’s not like the others, do you understand?”
“I know she’s not like the others.”
“So why treat her as you do? If your intentions are honorable, why come by so late, for the very first time?”
Elisabetta wished she could flee, but Nonna was unstoppable, already waving at Marco’s wrapped gift.