“Except the Germans.”

“Well, yes. All right. The Germans,” he said, the phrase taking in more. “And now you want to bring it all back. God knows why.”

“Things happened here, Bertie. You can’t make them go away just because they spoil the view.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. They will go away. Nobody wants to live with them, over and over. Why do you? They did this and they did that—you don’t even know who they are, you just know who you want it to be. I don’t like this, Adam, any of it. I don’t like what you’re doing. Neither will you, in the end. Ach.” He stopped, out of steam, and closed the window, his eyes glancing over to see how I was reacting.

“Will you talk to her?” I said calmly.

“Oh, and say what? ‘You might reconsider, darling. Your son thinks he’s Himmler.’ ”

“She’ll listen to you.”

“You keep saying. I don’t want to be listened to. I want to be left alone.”

“With your view.”

“Yes, with my view.” He came over to the coffee table and lit a cigarette. “All right. All right. Getting married. You’d think once would be enough for anybody.”

“They’ll find it, Bertie. Evidence. It’s there somewhere.”

He looked at me. “Let’s hope not.”

The next day Claudia’s landlady asked her to leave. An official from the housing authority had come to inspect. There had been reports of immoral behavior.

“That’s you,” Claudia said with a wry, fatalistic smile. “You’re the immoral behavior.”

“He can’t do this.”

She shrugged. “Venice is famous for denunciations. You can still see some of the boxes where they put the notes. For the doges.”

“Five hundred years ago.”

“Well, for me, this week.”

“She can’t just put you out.”

“She was frightened—an official coming here. So I have till the end of the week. At least it’s better than the Accademia, not the same day. He asked if she’d seen my residency permit. So they’re going to make trouble about that.”

“Don’t you have one?”

“Everything was taken at Fossoli.”

“So get another. You were born here. They’ll have records.”

“Yes. In the end, I’ll get it. But meanwhile—” She opened her hand to show the weeks drifting by.

“He’s not going to get away with this. Stay here. I’ll be back.”

She touched my arm. “I’ll go with you.”

“Not this time. My mother wants us to talk, so we’ll talk.”

I zigzagged my way past the Arsenale and through the back-streets of Castello toward the hospital. Over the bridge at San Lorenzo to the Questura side, where a few policemen were loitering in the sun with cigarettes, not yet ready for their desks inside. Did it only take one call here too? Maybe the policeman we’d met at Harry’s, ready to do a favor. San Zanipolo and its dull red brick, then the vaulted reception room of the hospital, following the guard’s directions down the stone corridor to the doctors’ offices. Not running, but walking so fast that people noticed, thought maybe I was hurrying to a deathbed. I brushed past the nurse in the outer office and opened the door without knocking. Gianni was sitting behind the desk in a white coat, his pen stopping halfway across a form when he saw me.

“I want you to leave her alone,” I said.

The nurse rushed up behind, flustered. “Dottore—” she started, but Gianni waved her away, gesturing for me to sit.

“What have I done now?” he said.

“Scaring the landlady. Is that your idea of a joke? Charging Claudia with immoral behavior.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said. “A woman like that doesn’t change. I made inquiries about her, after the party. When she made such a spectacle of herself. I thought maybe she was deranged.”

“She’s not deranged.”

“No, a whore. Do you know what she was at Fossoli?”

“Where you sent her.”

“Do you know what she was? Did she tell you?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, the camp mistress. This is the woman you bring to your mother’s house.”

“She was forced.”

“No one forces a woman to be a whore. A man like that, at the camp, do you think he would have kept her if she didn’t please him? No one had to force her.”

“You really are a sonofabitch, aren’t you?” I said quietly.

“Oh, now names. I try to help you, show you what she is, and you call me names.”

“Just call off the dogs, Gianni. The police or the housing authority or whoever the hell you called this time.”

“For your information, I didn’t call anyone. Another of her fantasies.”

“Who else would have done it, Gianni? Who else?”

“A landlord finds a new tenant, he gets rid of the old one. It happens all the time.”

“Leave her alone.”

“I see. She scratches my face in public. Waits outside the hospital, like a beggar. Makes scenes in restaurants. But I am bothering her.”

“Just call them off. She’s not leaving Venice.”

“She has no permit.”

I smiled grimly at the slip. “Something you just happened to know?”

He glanced away. “I told you, I made inquiries. It’s not for me to decide. It’s a legal matter.”

“Not if I marry her,” I said, not even thinking, just returning the ball.

He looked up at me, genuinely shocked. “You can’t marry her.”

“Why not? My mother’s marrying you.”

“A woman like that? It would be a disgrace. Think of your mother. It’s impossible.”

“What a piece of work you are,” I said slowly. “You send her father to die. She ends up in the camp, raped, and now she’s a disgrace, not fit to enter your house. You did it and she pays? Not anymore. I don’t know how you live with yourself.”

He stared down at the papers, not saying anything.

“Always her father with you. Over and over. You think you know,” he finally said.

“What don’t I know?”

He pursed his lips, then turned and stopped, turning back, a kind of physical indecision.

“You still see his room on your rounds?”

“Lower your voice,” he said, darting his eyes toward the anteroom.

“I don’t care who hears. You got away with it, you can live with it.”

He put his hands on the desk, as if he were stopping his body from moving, coming to an end.

“Yes, I live with it. You want to know? That day?”

“I thought it never happened.”

“Come.”

He took his coat from the rack and started out, not bothering to see whether I was following. There was some quick Italian to the nurse, who nodded uneasily at me, and we were in the hall.

“Where are we going?” I said.

“Out of here. I will tell you something that never happened.”

Outside, he turned right on the Fondamenta dei Mendicanti and began walking along the canal, then stopped, as if he had changed his mind.

“An ambulance. Wait.”

Orderlies were carrying a stretcher off the boat, stepping carefully from the deck to the receiving room door. Gianni went over and asked them something, presumably whether he was needed. I stood looking at the boat, waiting. Everything by water, even the sick. Claudia’s father must have come this way, on a boat from the Lido. She would have stood here, watching as they carried him in.

“Another one for San Michele,” Gianni said.

“Dead?”

“Almost. Some morphine, that’s all you can do now. Pray, if you believe that. Then San Michele.” He started walking again, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Do you know how many dead I’ve seen? When I was young, I thought I would be helping people, making them better. You know, the nice doctor with the cough medicine, the way a child sees it. That’s what I thought it would be, medicine, but no. Death. Seeing it happen, waiting for it. I’ve spent my whole life in this building,” he said, motioning with his head toward the long brick wall. “I know when someone is going to die. What are we supposed to do? We help even when we know it won’t help. We don’t kill them. We don’t make that decision. God does, if you believe that. Maybe it’s just the cells, giving up. But not you, not if you’re a doctor. I never wanted to kill people, I wanted to save them. And then sometimes you have to make a choice.”