Her hair had been combed and her face had been made up to hide her pallor. She smiled, she nodded, she replied to questions, but there was no emotion, no human connection. Her eyes were enough to make one weep. For Domenico, all the joy had been squeezed from the occasion. It was the tranquilizers that were making her so spiritless, Luzzatto said, but both men knew there was more to it than that.

Even Franco, for once in his life, had been genuinely worried about his wife’s state of mind for the last month. Responding to the stress in true Franco fashion, he had run off to be with his family in Caprera for the final two weeks of Emma’s pregnancy, claiming that his presence only added to her nervous tension.

Domenico, who had considered his absence God-sent, had said nothing about this desertion, but he was blunt with Franco at dinner that night, while Emma stayed in her bed. She had so far refused even to look at the infant, which was being cared for by a wet nurse.

“What she needs is a baby of her own,” Domenico told him.

Franco shook his head. “Sure, that’s what I told her. But she doesn’t want to go through it again. I’ll tell you the truth, neither do I.” He puffed his cheeks and blew air from his mouth. It had been a few days since he’d shaved. “So what’s to be done?”

Domenico pushed away his untouched plate of pasta and let his chin fall to his chest. “I don’t know.”

But later that night, sitting in his darkened room, unable to sleep, he had an idea, and the next morning it was Domenico de Grazia who carried Emma’s breakfast of caffe latte, focaccia, and marmalade to her. He set the tray on the bed for her, pulled a chair up next to her, and got quickly to the point.

“Emma, my dear, your friend Gia-has she had her child?’”

“I don’t know, Uncle. Any day now.”

“And what will happen to it? Is it true that she plans to give it up for adoption?”