I gently took him by the chin, turning his face to look at me. “The provincial government of Milan and the aristocracy of Piedmont are ignorant to what a true Italian is. The people of Rio Grande do Sul are better off because of you. Uruguay is independent of Argentina because of you. You are the smartest, most accomplished man I know. The eyes of those men are clouded, and they will learn. Trust me on this, they will learn what happens when they lose faith in the one man who can unite them all under one banner.”

José wrapped his hand around my wrist. “I can do what Machiavelli and the Medicis couldn’t, but these men, they dismiss me like a child.”

“Then husband, make so much noise that they can’t dismiss you.”

José chuckled. “I am already screaming. I can’t yell any louder.”

“What is it that you tell Menotti from that book, The Prince?”

“There is a lot I tell him from The Prince.”

“José, I’m being serious, what’s the quote? The one about how people see you?”

“Everyone sees what you seem to be, few know what you really are.”

“Perhaps it’s time for them to see what I see.” I kissed his forehead. “Make them see the great unifier that I know you are.”

Forty-Eight

September 1848

José stayed with us in Genoa as he reorganized his supplies, new weapons included. He decided it was time for his family to move to his childhood home in Nizza. There we would stay with his mother while he and his troops gained some much-needed rest.

As we sailed from Genoa, I felt a longing in my heart for the place that was our first home in this new land. Now we were going to live with José’s mother, the loving saint I had heard so much about. My longing gave way to trepidation as a rough image of the woman formed in my imagination.

The port city of Nizza was beautiful with its richly painted homes. The bright houses reminded me of Montevideo. José held Teresita as we sailed into port, lightly bouncing her in his arms. “You’ll be able to see where your papai grew up. Every morning you’ll be able to smell bread from the bakery downstairs and your nonna will give you all kinds of treats.”

José had often spoken of his childhood in Nizza. His father, a successful merchant, had provided for his family of four sons. They had lived in a large second-story flat in the center of town, above a bakery. Every morning the aroma of baking bread rising up from the first floor would wake José. He spoke of his father being a fair, hardworking man. His mother was a gentle, loving woman, attentive, the picture of Italian womanhood.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself as we set anchor. Beyond the palm tree–lined beach, brightly painted buildings with burnt-red tiled roofs stretched out toward the soft rolling hills in the distance. For a moment I felt like I was home in Brazil. José placed a hand on the small of my back and said, “Welcome to Nizza. The most important city in all of Italy, my home.” He moved to the railing, entranced by the coast. “The ancient Greeks named it Nikaia, after the goddess of victory, Nike. Over the years, the French have tried to lure it from us. They even call it Nice. A terrible name in my opinion, but I never seem to agree with the French on anything. “