CHAPTER TWENTY
Elisabetta
January 1938
The dinner shift at Casa Servano was in full swing, and Elisabetta left the kitchen with a carafe of red wine, served the couple at a table against the near wall, and scanned the dining room. Her gaze stopped at a table across the room, where, to her surprise, Sandro was sitting. He spotted her at the same moment, breaking into a smile, and she felt a surge of happiness. She had no idea what he was doing here, but he was unusually dressed up in a nice blue sweater with a jacket, a loose dark scarf, and slacks, like a real university student.
Elisabetta crossed to him. “Sandro, what are you doing here?”
“I’m hungry.” Sandro beamed up at her.
“Really?” Elisabetta asked, feigning suspicion.
“Well, I wanted to see you alone, and since you work so much, I came here.” Sandro took a gift wrapped in silvery paper from his backpack and presented it to her. “I brought you a present.”
“How sweet! What for?”
“To make you happy. Need there be another reason?”
“Oh, Sandro,” Elisabetta said, feeling a little thrill. She unwrapped the paper, delighted to find a copy of the novel Cosima, by Grazia Deledda. “Oh my, it’s just what I wanted!”
“I know, you said so. Now turn to page thirty-seven.”
Elisabetta flipped to the page and wedged inside was a flyer from the Literature Department at La Sapienza, which she read quickly. “What’s this? A notice about a lecture on Deledda?”
“I thought we could go together.”
“Davvero?” Elisabetta asked, her heart soaring. Sandro was asking her on her first real date. “That would be wonderful.”
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—”
“Do you like these boys?”
“Yes, I like them, I know them both very well, and they’re both wonderful. One is more serious minded and one is more adventurous, and—”
“Please, enough. Why must you talk so much?”
“I’m sorry.” Elisabetta tried to calm down, but she couldn’t. “I can’t decide which to choose.”
“What does your mother say?”
Elisabetta hesitated. She had been too embarrassed to tell Nonna about her mother, especially since that awful night with her father. “Well, uh, she’s gone. She left.”
“What?” Nonna looked up, her frown fierce behind her glasses. “Your mother left you? Elisabetta, why didn’t you tell me?”
Elisabetta had no immediate reply. “I’m fine. My father’s home.”
Nonna sniffed. “How are you doing?”
“Let’s not talk about it now.”
“But why would you keep that from me? Don’t you know I can help?” Nonna pursed her lips, making the wrinkles pucker more. “Then you need my advice about these boys, don’t you? Don’t choose either. See both of them.”
“I can’t. They’re best friends.”
“So?” Nonna rolled the inky dough with a wooden rolling pin, pressing it against the wire.
“We’re good friends, all three of us.”
“Again, so?” Nonna rolled the pin on the dough until it was cut by the wires, then dropped in strands onto the bottom of the wooden frame. “You’re unmarried, aren’t you? Why act married when you’re not?”
“But I don’t want to hurt either one of them.”
“Elisabetta, mark my words.” Nonna’s hooded eyes met hers. “It’s not like in my day. I was sixteen when I married. Fortunately for me, my husband understood I was my own woman. Our marriage worked for that reason. Stay your own woman. Preserve your independence. Mentally.” She pointed to her temple, leaving a faint fingerprint in flour. “Take your life in your hands, like dough. Form it the way you want it to be. Choose a boy only when you’re ready. Not a minute before.”
“How do I choose between them?”
“Your heart already knows which love is true, and it will tell you its secret when you are ready to listen.” Nonna lifted the wire frame off the chitarra, revealing perfect squid-ink pasta lying in the bottom wooden tray.
“Really?”
“Do you doubt me?” Nonna separated the black strands of spaghetti with her curved fingernail. “Now. Tell me about these two boys, and please, don’t go on and on. Compose your thoughts, then speak.”
“The one who came with the book is Sandro, and he’s very nice and very smart. We have wonderful talks, and he’s a good listener.”
“That, you need.” Nonna snorted. “Does he come from a good family?”
“Yes.”
“Last name?”
“Simone.”
“His mother is the female doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Very nice. What about the other one, who thinks he’s Enrico Caruso?”
Elisabetta smiled. “Marco. His father owns the bar on Tiber Island.”
“Bar GiroSport? His father is Beppe Terrizzi?”
Elisabetta detected a chill in Nonna’s mood. “What’s the matter?”
“Terrizzi’s not for you.”
“Why?”
“Elisabetta,” Nonna said with a rare sharpness. “Just mark my words. And get back to work.”