“Come in,” came the reply, and she opened the door to discover her father was not at his desk but at the table by the window, and next to him was one of his oldest friends.

“Father Bernardi! Papà didn’t tell me you were visiting—it has been months and months.”

He stood, a little creakily, and shook her hand. “I know, my dear, and I am sorry for it. Your father was telling me that you were visiting your mother. How is she?”

“The same as ever, I suppose, but happy. At least I hope she is. And you?”

“I am well enough. Weary of travel, and longing for my own bed, but that’s the worst of it.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Hasn’t Marta brought you anything?” she asked dutifully, though she doubted they had anything worth sharing with guests.

“I only arrived a few minutes ago, and you know how your father and I are when we get talking. But wait a moment—I have something for you.”

He reached for the overcoat he’d slung over the back of his chair, pulling it across his lap until he could rummage in its pockets, and after a few moments held up a small packet wrapped in newspaper. An impossibly delicious scent filled the air. “From friends who live abroad,” he explained.

“Coffee. Oh, Father Bernardi. You are so kind. Let me dig out our caffettiera. I won’t be long.”

She was standing on a chair, searching through the top shelves of the pantry cupboard, when Marta reappeared.

“What are you doing up there?”

“Looking for the coffeemaker. Father Bernardi is visiting. We haven’t had coffee since his last visit, and that was months ago.”

Marta sighed. Typical of her sighs, it was drawn out, mournful, and vibrating with resentment. “It will get people talking. A Catholic priest, of all people, coming to visit. How your father even knows the man . . .”

“He’s been a patient of Papà’s for years and years, and his friend, too. And Papà always has people coming and going. I doubt anyone will care.”

Her protest was a formality, for Father Bernardi’s visit would certainly be noted and remarked upon by everyone they knew. Had they lived anywhere else, no one would have cared; but the gheto was a close-knit place, the sort of neighborhood where people loved nothing better than burrowing into each other’s business, and so her father’s agnostic leanings, as well as his avowed determination to be guided by science rather than faith, had long been a focus of local gossip.

Her fingers closed around the worn aluminum of the caffettiera, dusty from disuse, and she pulled it from its hiding place. “Where’s the grinder?”

“In the next cupboard over.”

“Do we have any sugar for the coffee?”