Elisa hastened her steps to force her mind to the task ahead, narrowly avoiding the man striding out of Bar Birbo. Elisa cut her eyes to the flower boxes set against the windows of the gelateria to avoid the look of annoyance that no doubt twisted the man’s face. The morning had already been difficult enough. But she couldn’t avoid his heavy hand on her shoulder. She looked up at Massimo and tried not to cower.
“Piano,” he told her, his voice almost soft. Elisa nodded and focused on reining in her legs’ frantic energy. She peeked up at the familiar face of the Madonna leaning out of her blue niche, but Elisa wouldn’t stop to touch her, no matter how much luck she believed it would bring. After a few dramatically slowed steps, the thought of the school door closing consumed her once again and her steps quickened as she hurried down Via Romana.
The scent of almonds wafted above her as she passed L’Antico Forno, the town’s bakery. She would not allow herself the pleasure of stopping to inhale. Or to check if the window display of baked goods had changed from the late summer design of a sun made of bread and flowers constructed from biscotti, to the boar-shaped cookies the forno always created in honor of Santa Lucia’s autumnal festival of cinghiale.
She wove around parents chatting beside parked scooters and through the blessedly still-open door of the school. The school secretary, who had unhinged the door to prepare it for closing, began reprimanding the latecomer, until she realized it was Elisa. It was often Elisa, but how could she be angry at a child that thin, with eyes that haunted.
Instead she offered an encouraging smile and called after Elisa’s receding back, “Tranquilla!” Be calm.
Elisa gave no sign of having heard her, and instead stumbled up the steps, scurried across the catwalk situated above the dank hole offering glimpses of the Roman blocks below, through the linoleum-lined hallway smelling faintly of disinfectant with a curious cat food muskiness. She paused outside the door of her classroom. Her head darted over her shoulder, and she furtively tucked a strand of her no-particular-color hair behind her ear as she surveyed the jackets stretched down the wall like offerings. No one could see her—did she dare?
At the sound of squeaking chalk, Elisa quickly shrugged off her coat, deposited it on a hook, and ducked into the classroom. She dropped into her seat as Maestra Cocinelli turned away from the board to face the class.
Massimo leaned down to buff an imagined smudge off his relentlessly shiny left shoe. He stood and considered the polished leather before tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket and pulling back his sleeve once again to check the time.
He smelled Luciano before he saw him—the air became ripe with the dinginess of potatoes forgotten at the back of a dark cupboard. Massimo quickened his footsteps. If Luciano was as drunk as usual, Massimo could outstrip him without too much fuss. But the lurch of footsteps gained on him. Before he could formulate an escape plan, Luciano stood before him, shouting and waving his hands.
“You devil! You did this! Of all the games in all the fields you had to befoul me! Mine!”
Massimo rolled his eyes and glanced about to see if there were any bystanders. Only Carosello turned from an alley onto the road, steadfastly trotting toward the school. Massimo noticed that the tuft of fur that covered the dog’s missing eye was coated with coffee grounds.
Luciano continued, crying, “You are not a man! Just a pile of empty, a twisted sack . . . no standing, no morals, you . . . you are mouse feces! Yes, that with the cat and the pile and all the defecation under the couch . . .” The rest of his words collapsed into garbled slosh.
Satisfied that he was alone, Massimo grabbed Luciano’s lapel and pulled him close to his gritted teeth. “No more, old man. You will get out of my sight. You are nothing. You are worthless. You are nobody. Get out of here before I call the police and tell them everything.”
Luciano shivered, whispering, “Everything? What . . . what? But, it was you!”
Massimo sneered, “Who will listen to you? Now get away from me! Vai!” Massimo pushed Luciano backward. The older man’s arms pinwheeled as he fought to keep his balance. Stumbling over the uneven cobblestones, Luciano collapsed, a fall of rags.
Luciano clutched his ears and moaned, “No! It’s unhinging the bell. It’s you.”
“Massimo!”
Massimo’s head twisted. He straightened and uncreased his forehead with an easy smile. “Patrizia! How good to see you. Perhaps you can help? Luciano seems to have fallen and I must get to Rome.”
Patrizia took in the huddle of Luciano. “Why is he crying?” Her gaze narrowed. “Massimo? What happened?”
“Who can say?” Massimo pulled back his sleeve to consult his watch. “He attacked me, running at me with his hands waving, screaming something about mouse droppings under his couch, or some such. Insane, yes? Then he just tripped and fell. A loose cobblestone, perhaps. Anyway, he’s fine.” Massimo stepped around Luciano who was leaning on Patrizia’s arm to rise. As he walked away he called over his shoulder, “I certainly am grateful that you came along when you did. I didn’t want to leave him there, but,” he chuckled, “I couldn’t really see him home either. Please send my regards to Giuseppe. My mother will be by later today for sausages.”
Patrizia shook her head as she helped wipe the dirt off Luciano’s pants and coat. “Luciano? What happened?”
Luciano’s cloudy gaze
