Chapter 15: The Empty Pen

The restaurant was on the second floor of an old hotel, with white cloths and a waiter who bowed.

My mother took the chair facing the door, as she always did.

Tommaso sat to my left, and he chose the table himself, away from the kitchen.

"The soup is a cream of leek," the waiter said. "No shellfish in the house today, madam. I confirmed it with the chef myself."

"Thank you," I said.

"A gentleman at the bar asked us to send over the house soup for the table," the waiter added. "He said you would enjoy it."

"What gentleman?" said Tommaso.

"He's gone, sir. He paid in cash."

Tommaso's eyes went to the bar, then to the stairs.

"Nobody eats until I say," he said.

My mother lifted a hand.

"It's soup, Greco. The waiter swore it."

"The waiter swore the kitchen," he said. "Not the man at the bar."

I was tired, and my side hurt, and I said, "One spoon each. We'll leave after."

I have thought about that sentence every day since.

I took my pen from my bag and set it beside my plate, the way I had done in every restaurant since I was nine.

Tommaso looked at it, then at me, and said nothing.

My mother raised her glass.

"To the twenty days," she said.

"To the twenty days."

The soup came in wide white bowls.

It smelled of butter and pepper.

My mother and Tommaso each took one spoonful and set theirs down, to humor me.

I ate three spoonfuls and then stopped, because my lip had begun to tingle.

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