Fabio stepped to the bar and said in a carrying whisper, “Marcello’s coffee is on me, Chiara. I’ll leave a five with you for whatever he wants.” He pushed the money toward Chiara before turning to pat Marcello’s shoulder and stepping out of the bar, down the street to the hardware shop.
Marcello sighed. “Solo un caffè, Chiara, grazie.”
Chiara hesitated, before she turned to prepare the espresso.
When she turned back with their jots of coffee, she saw that the shorter one, Alessandro, was holding Marcello’s hand like they were boys in grade school again. Marcello was wiping his eyes on the thin waxy napkins from the bar’s dispenser.
Chiara reached for her purse which always held a packet of tissues. She wordlessly offered the packet to Marcello.
“Grazie, Chiara,” murmured Marcello, while Alessandro smiled weakly at her.
“Non fa niente, it’s nothing.”
“I’m sorry, Chiara, I shouldn’t be crying, especially on the job, but Mamma . . . Mamma is in the hospital, and I’m so worried.” Marcello’s voice sank into a whisper and he pulled another tissue from the pack and wiped his eyes angrily. “I’m sorry.”
“Nobody apologizes for crying in my bar. Now, what happened to Laura? I saw her yesterday, and she seemed fine.”
“Sì, when I went home for dinner last night, too. But my father called me at 2:00 in the morning to say that she had heart pain and he was taking her to the hospital. I met him there, and the doctors admitted her. They think it was a heart attack. A mild one, but you know Mamma has never been strong.”
Chiara closed her hand over Marcello’s fist, which was gripping the tissue.
“How is she now?”
“I don’t know.” He sniffed, “I had to leave to go to work.”
“You could’ve taken the day off.”
“I know, that’s what Alessandro was just telling me. But the doctors are doing tests, and I can’t be in there. If I was sitting in the waiting room, I’d be a mess. Which I guess isn’t any different from how I am now, eh?”
Marcello looked up at Chiara with blurry eyes. He offered her a half smile, and Chiara remembered how thin he’d been as a child. How Laura was always trying to get him to finish his cornetto or panino, how she fussed over the crumbs and made sure he drank the last drop of his latte caldo, warm milk, which she sprinkled liberally with cocoa powder, believing the chocolate to be salubrious. She’d fussed over her daughter too, but once Marcello was born, he’d been the child she wrung her hands over. And then she took a mother’s pride in his tallness once he reached adolescence and filled out. He’d never been as smart as his sister, but his family didn’t care. He was smart enough to pass the exams to become a poliziotto, and how pleased they had been when he’d been able to find work in Santa Lucia.
Chiara remembered how Laura had been saddened when Marcello decided to move out, citing his late hours and not wanting to inconvenience the family. But even while Laura sniffled at the thought of her baby leaving home, she also swelled with pride. This was her little Marcello striding through the town, his baton swinging at his side.
Alessandro patted Marcello’s back again, and then sipped his coffee. Chiara asked, “Does your sister know?”
“No. Damn! I should call her. But she hasn’t spoken to Mamma in almost a year. Since she moved to Brussels, I think. And what can she do from there?”
“Probably nothing. But she needs to know.”
“After the words she and Mamma exchanged before she moved, I’m not sure.”
“Ma dai, Marcello, come on. You know how hard it was for her, always being in your shadow. She’d been the center of your mom’s world for six years before you were born. Maybe she didn’t handle it well, but to work as hard as she did, getting a doctorate in linguistics at such a young age, and yet never making her mother feel a tenth the pride she felt for you . . .”
Marcello’s face clouded and he pulled his hand away from Chiara. “You shouldn’t say bad things about my Mamma. Especially when she’s sick.”
Chiara leaned forward to catch his eye, “I’m not, Marcé, I promise. I love Laura, and I’ll go visit her tonight. I’m just saying, maybe try to understand that your sister’s anger at your mom is probably hurt. Because she loves her mother. She just wants to feel loved, too.”
Marcello nodded and wiped his eyes. “Okay. Okay, yes, you’re right. I’ll call her.”
“Good. Now, I’ll bring a bottle of water and some pastries to Laura later today, but let me go upstairs to get the book I was telling her about last time. You can bring it to her this afternoon, and let her know I’m coming.”
“Okay, Chiara. Thank you.”
“It’s nothing, Marcé. Your mom will be okay. She loves you too much to go anywhere.”
After school, Fatima and Elisa parted ways at the piazza with a wave.
As she watched Elisa stroll down the sunlit street, Fatima felt a pang of gratitude. The last year had been lonely. People were nice in Santa Lucia, friendly even. Friendlier than she expected, and far more so than her own classmates in Morocco had been to the Palestinian kid who had moved to her neighborhood. Fatima wondered, not for the first time, what on earth could have prompted a Palestinian family to move to Morocco? Were they an Embassy family? But those kids tended to go to the International School. Were they displaced by the fighting with Israel? Or did their family just crave adventure? Fatima never found out because she wasn’t allowed to speak to boys. He was ignored, as far as she could tell. She remembered seeing him alone
