“I remember the Villa Raspelli,” he said, staring at me, then shifted again and bowed, an elaborate courtesy. “I’m sorry you can’t join us. Perhaps another time.” He sat down, turning his back to us. The effect was to make people look at us, wondering why we were still standing there.

“Oh, Adam,” my mother said quietly, dismayed.

“Ask him about it over coffee,” I said to her. “Since he remembers.”

“Sit down,” she said, almost hissing.

“No, we’re leaving,” I said, turning to the puzzled maître d’ for our coats.

“You don’t want a table?” the maître d’ said, flustered, sensing a moment gone wrong.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry,” I said, taking the coats. “Tomorrow.”

Since this made no sense to him, he just stood there watching us go. Everyone watched, in fact, except Gianni.

In the street I gulped some air, then helped Claudia into her coat and pulled up the collar. Guido’s had an antique lantern over the door, and we stood in its light for a minute, breathing streams of vapor in the cold air.

“Never mind,” I said. “There’s another place near La Fenice.”

“He thinks I’m following him,” Claudia said.

But it was Gianni who followed us, suddenly opening the door, coatless, and stepping into the lantern light.

“Who told you about Villa Raspelli?” he said.

“What does it matter who? Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“You think you know something. You don’t know anything.”

“But I’ll find out.”

“More fairy tales,” he said, looking at Claudia. “Why do you stay in Venice? With your bad memories. Or you,” he said to me. “Go home. You are making trouble here for no reason. Go live your own life. Leave us in peace.”

“You sent me away once,” Claudia said. “Do you think you can do that again?”

“Me? I don’t send anyone.”

“But you could arrange it. Like that,” Claudia said, snapping her fingers.

“Yes, like that,” Gianni said, nodding, a kind of threat. “Easy.”

“Not so easy this time. This time we don’t go like sheep. We know.”

“More melodrama. Why do you listen to her? Such a scene.”

“Is that what you came out here for? To tell us to leave town?”

He looked at me steadily, then sighed. “No, for your mother. To make peace.”

“Peace.”

“I’m a patient man, but not a saint. She wants that, but you—what do you want? I wish I knew. Not peace. To make trouble maybe between us. So I will tell you something. You will not stop this marriage. You will make your mother unhappy, but you will not stop it. Do you think I would let these stories get in the way of that? She will leave Venice,” he said, indicating Claudia. “So will you. And your mother and I will live here. If you have sense, you will go back and sit and talk to her. Apologize for making a scene.” He looked at Claudia. “You, I don’t care what happens to you. I’m sorry for your trouble, but now it’s enough craziness. Leave me alone. Go away.”

“Where would I go? To Fossoli again? You didn’t think anyone would come back. But one did.”

He looked at her, cool, absolutely calm, then turned to me. “Don’t do this again. It upsets your mother.”

“Tell her about Villa Raspelli. Then see how she feels.”

“And what would I tell her? I was a doctor doing his duty.” He narrowed his eyes in the same menacing stare I’d seen in the restaurant. “You think you know. You don’t. But you will not stop this marriage.”

He brought his hands up to straighten his tie, and I watched, fixated, as he tightened the silk. Large, square hands, a sharp pull on the fabric. For an instant, oddly, I saw my mother’s soft throat in the Monaco lounge, imagined him putting his hands around it. Not in violence, not some improbable tabloid crime, but strangling the life out of her, choking her spirit bit by bit until only a gasp was left. He looked at me, with his hard eyes, and I realized he was capable of this too, a different killing. With no one around to interfere.

He glanced back through the glass of the door. “Your mother is waiting.”

“What will you tell her?”

“That you are embarrassed and she is mad,” he said, glancing toward Claudia. “The truth.”

“The truth,” Claudia said. “The truth is that you sent me to die. Sent me to be a whore.”

He patted his tie, then looked at her, weary. “No. That’s something you did yourself.”

CHAPTER SIX

Bertie refused to help at the Accademia.

“You overestimate my influence. I couldn’t. Not now. Anyway, I wouldn’t. She may be the most wonderful thing since sliced bread, but she’s been terrible for you. Just look at this mess, Grace all weepy and Gianni snorting around like a wounded bull. And for what? Some whim of yours.”

“She’s telling the truth.”

“I don’t know that. And neither do you. You’re just thinking with your pants. It’s one thing in the army, that’s all anyone thinks about, but you’re not in barracks anymore. So much for a civilizing influence.” He waved his hand toward the city outside his long windows. “And if you ask me, the sooner you get yourself out of her clutches, the better.”

“Her clutches.”

“Her charm, then. I must say, she’s the most unlikely siren,” he said, pronouncing it “sireen” for effect. “Still.”

“He put her in a camp, Bertie. Her father died.”

“He did. Himself.”

“Don’t split hairs.”

“Rather important hairs, don’t you think?”

“Not if he’d done it to you.”

“Oh, Adam, first he’s after Grace’s money, now he’s working with the SS. Does he look like SS to you? This is all mischief.”

“Why does everyone want to protect him?”

Bertie peered at me over his glasses. “Nobody’s protecting anybody. Nobody’s proven anything, either.”

“I will.”

“How, may I ask?”

“I still have friends in the army.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning they like to know who kept company with the Germans. They keep lists. Testimony.”

Bertie looked at me for another minute, his face slack with surprise. He got up and walked over to the window. “Well, isn’t that lovely? What do you intend to do, put him on trial?”

“He didn’t do anything, according to you.”

“Never mind according to me. Keep me out of it. I can tell you now that nothing’s going to come of it but tears and more tears. Adam, for heaven’s sake, let them be. They’re going to marry, whether you like it or not, so let them get on with it.”

“You don’t think I’d let him marry her.”

“Well, as you keep failing to grasp, he didn’t ask you and you haven’t accepted. The invitations are out, you know.”

“Help me, Bertie. She’s your friend.”

He sighed and opened the window to his balcony. Outside, the winter sun was bright on the Grand Canal, noisy with boats.

“What does she say about all this?”

“Nothing. She refuses to talk about it. She spends all day getting her dress fitted.”

“So I heard.”

“What?”

“Mimi. She’s in a perfect snit about it. The dressmaker. None of her friends can get a look-in, and there’s the ball coming up.” He turned and smiled at me. “I know, all very silly. And here you are, still fighting the good fight.” He opened the window wider. “Oh, how I wish you’d go.”

“That’s what Gianni said. He can’t wait to get me out either.”

“Not just you. All of you. Even Grace. She’s a darling, but look at her now. Everything all fraught. You make everything so messy, all of you. I hate it.”

“No, you don’t. You love it.”

“Oh, for five minutes’ gossip? You think so? I don’t, really. I’m selfish. I suppose it’s wrong, but I can’t help it now. Look at that,” he said, waving at the view down the canal. “Did you ever see anything so beautiful? The first time I came here, I knew it was all I wanted in my life. To see this every day, just be part of it. And then you all come charging in, making messes right and left. In a way I think I preferred it during the war. Nobody came.”