“I want to own them. When you’re rich, no one can tell you what to do. The mayor and the bishop? No one tells them what to do.”
“Your conscience tells you what’s right, rich or poor. And that’s what has your mother and me worried. You didn’t show good judgment.”
“If we borrow books from the library, why can’t we borrow a map? Doesn’t the library belong to all of us?”
“The map belongs to the state. You could have been badly hurt today. Silvio will have a scar.”
“Like a pirate.”
“Pirates are not saints. They are thieves. I forbid you from hunting for that buried treasure. It doesn’t exist. It’s a fable that resurrects itself in the village and makes the rounds whenever people believe that money will save them. I am sorry my own daughter believes that nonsense. Your friend could have lost his eye. And you could have lost yours. The boy who threw the rock didn’t care who got hurt—he was just trying to stop you.”
“Where’s his punishment?”
“Aniballi doesn’t know which boy threw the rock.”
“Aniballi was on the dunes. He could see the whole beach. Only Saint Michael on his blue cloud saw more. It doesn’t matter. I know who threw it.”
“You saw the boy?”
“No. But Guido Mironi got to me first and took the map from me. So it was him.”
“You can’t accuse him unless you’re certain.”
“The wound on Silvio’s brow was long and deep and the rock was heavy, which means the boy who threw it was close. The angle of the cut on his forehead meant the rock came from overhead, so it was thrown hard by someone taller than we are. It was the Mironi boy. He taunts Silvio at school. He takes his book and his bread. Half the time Silvio doesn’t eat because they steal his food.”
“And you share yours with him.”
“Yes, Papa. But don’t tell Mama.”
“You will not be punished in this house for being kind. But it doesn’t make up for stealing the map. You had the angels on your side today, Domenica. I don’t know if you will the next time you take something that doesn’t belong to you.”
“The angels know the difference between stealing and borrowing. They’re on my side. Trust me on that.”
Cabrelli sighed. “Say your prayers.”
“I did.”
“Say a few more.” Pietro walked to the door.
“Papa, why doesn’t Silvio have the same name as his mother? She is Signora Vietro and he is a Birtolini.”
“Signora Vietro could not marry Silvio’s father because the man already had a wife.”
Domenica thought about that. “Is Birtolini his father’s name?”
“No. The way Italian law works, there’s a letter for each month, and the mother without a husband chooses a name, any name, using the letter. Silvio was born in a month where B was the designated letter. His mother chose his name from a list.”
“Poor Silvio. Il bastardo,” Domenica said softly. “Papa, I thought you said that in Viareggio the only two things you cannot be are a beggar or a thief.”
“That’s right.”
“But that’s not true. You can’t be il bastardo either.”
“Domenica.”
“It’s not Silvio’s fault. How can he be blamed for something he didn’t do? Why is he marked?”
“We have to pray for him.”
“That’s not going to get him a father.”
Domenica was right, and her father knew it. Il bastardo was not simply a taunt. It was an indictment of his future. Silvio would inherit nothing and was barred from getting an education beyond primary school.
Aldo’s snores could be heard from the alcove in the next room. Prepuberty had turned him into a hulking, burping, flatulent bear of a boy. He was even offensive when he slept. Domenica couldn’t wait to grow up and get as far away from Aldo as she could.
“Are you hungry?”
“No, Papa,” Domenica lied.
“Mama will make a frittata for you in the morning.”
“How do you know?”
“She arranged for the eggs.”
“She did?” Domenica settled under the covers with the confidence that her mother hadn’t blamed her for the events that day after all.
Cabrelli blew out the flame inside the hurricane lamp, and sweet almond oil filled the air. “The sooner you sleep, the sooner you eat.”
Domenica turned over in her bed. When she heard the gentle click of her parents’ bedroom door as it closed, she flipped onto her back, put her hands behind her head, and looked up at the ceiling. She said a quick prayer of thanksgiving for the eggs. Her mother loved her. She prayed for her father because he loved her no matter what she did. She also prayed for Aldo because she was obligated to do so.