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direction, but Madame Geri grabbed his arm.
    “No! Call the police.” She pulled out her cell phone
and handed it to him.
    Before he could punch in the number, Marco continued with his tirade: “Get out, you loser! I’m not saying it
again.” He advanced toward the younger man, raising
the knife over his head.
    “Stop it, right now!” I screamed, as I pushed back my
chair and stood up. Where did that come from?
    Both men turned and looked at me.
    “You’re … uh, ruining everyone’s lunch.” That was
lame, but it was the best I could come up with. My
knees shook as if I had palsy.
    “Leave Guido alone!” another diner yelled. “He’s a
good kid.”
    A chorus of agreement echoed around the dining
room.
    Marco lowered the knife and put a hand to his head,
swaying back and forth. “I … I don’t feel well.”
    The knife dropped to the floor with a thud; then he began to wheeze and cough but managed to stay on his
feet. “I can’t b-breathe.”

    With his face turning red and blotchy, he clawed at
his throat.
    “Call 911!” I yelled, sprinting across the room just
in time to see Marco topple over and Guido catch him.
They both sank to the floor.
    Marco gulped for air, his whole body shuddering.
    By the time I got to his side, he wasn’t moving.
    “Quick, try CPR!” I exclaimed.
    Guido quickly complied. After several minutes of
breathing into Marco’s mouth and pumping his chest, the
young man leaned back, tears in his eyes. “I don’t think it
will help.”
    No, it wouldn’t.
    Marco was dead.

     

Silence descended on the diners like a heavy blanket
of darkness at the sudden appearance of death’s shadow.
No one moved; no one spoke.
    I cleared my throat, and as if on cue, everyone began
shouting and yelling on cell phones in unison.
    In the midst of the total chaos, I sank to my knees next
to Guido, not sure what to do. “Where are those damn
paramedics?” I grabbed Marco’s hand, frantically trying
to get a pulse.
    It felt cold, without a detectable heartbeat. Then I felt
the side of his neck. Nothing. A mute cry of sadness
rose up in my throat.
    Tears slid down Guido’s face. “I tried, I tried,” he kept
repeating as he rocked back and forth on the floor next
to me.
    “What’s going on?” A young woman appeared in the
kitchen doorway, her delicate, cameolike face knit with
concern and confusion.
    “Beatrice!” someone exclaimed. “Stay in the kitchen.”

    But when she spied Guido and me on the floor, she
raced over and then halted, her mouth dropping open in
shock. “Papa!”
    She threw herself on top of Marco, shaking him by
the shoulders. “What’s wrong with him? Why isn’t he
moving?”
    After a few moments, she burst into sobs and buried
her face in her father’s chest-her long brown hair spilling over both of them like a shield.
    Just then, I heard sirens-and the paramedics appeared
seconds later.
    “Stand back, please,” one man said in a deep, firm
voice, as he gently eased Beatrice away from her father.
I quickly moved out of the way.
    They tried everything to bring life back into MarcoCPR, injections, heart paddles-but nothing worked. He
just lay there, totally unresponsive.
    “I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s nothing we can do,”
the paramedic said to Beatrice, who then crumpled into
Guido’s arms. “He probably had anaphylaxis-an extreme allergic reaction to something.”
    “Papa!” she exclaimed, clinging to Guido. They cried
together, and I found my own eyes welling up. How
could Marco have expired in front of us so quickly from
an allergy? Was it possible?
    I sensed Madame Geri at my elbow, and I sort of sagged
into her briefly. For some reason, right now I found her
familiar patchouli perfume presence comforting.
    The paramedics wheeled Marco out, and Beatrice fol lowed with Guido practically carrying her, tears still
streaming down her cheeks. After they left, everyone
turned deadly quiet yet again. People