“I’ll get her to go away somewhere. Maybe Mimi—”

“She won’t leave now. She’ll look for him.”

“She can’t look forever. It’ll pass,” I said weakly, not even convincing myself.

We stared at each other for a moment, not talking, just moving our feet in aimless circles to the music, then her eyes grew shiny and she turned her face away.

“Oh,” she said, a moan, cut off, turned suddenly into a kind of nervous giggle that caught in her throat. She pitched her head forward onto my shoulder to stifle it, steady an unexpected shaking.

“We have to get through this,” I said. “Then we’ll be all right.”

“Can’t we leave now? Everybody’s seen us.”

“If they find the body, they’ll try to fix a time of death. People have to think we were here all night.”

“How would they find it? You said he’d go to the bottom. In the lagoon.”

“If they find it.”

“Oh, god. And then what?”

“Then we were here all night. Having a good time.”

I pulled her hand to me, bending my head to kiss it, then saw my own fingers and froze. There were little rims of rust under the nails. No, blood. When I’d clenched my hands earlier, had I dug them in so deep? I opened my hand. No marks on the palms. His blood. Where anybody might see it if he looked closely enough. Cavallini hadn’t noticed, shaking hands, but what if we met again? I might be lighting a cigarette, bringing my fingers up, the rims suddenly visible, unavoidable. The smallest thing could give you away.

I turned Claudia’s hand over, spreading it. “Let me see. No, you’re all right.”

“What?” she said, startled, clutching her hand.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, letting my arms fall. “Have some champagne. Right back.” Turning away, not even waiting to see her expression, explain anything. Time enough later.

The nearest men’s room was on the other side of the stair landing, unmarked but guarded by a footman placed there to direct ladies down the hall. Inside, another servant was acting as washroom attendant, turning taps and handing out towels. Count Grillo stood in front of the toilet bowl, still supported on one arm, his pee a trickle that barely made a sound as it hit the water. I dug my fingernails in again, waiting.

When he finished, flushing and then slowly buttoning up, I stepped forward to take his place, but nothing came out. I was too anxious now even to pee. But I had to—otherwise why had I come? And then the attendant turned on the tap, the sound of gushing water like a cue, and it was all right. I slumped a little, my breath spilling out too.

Count Grillo took forever to dry but finally shuffled away. I rubbed my hands around the bar of soap, lathering them, keeping my back to the attendant. My knuckles were raw, not broken but scraped—what happened to hands in a fight. I ran one nail under the others and dug at the dried blood. More soap. When I rinsed, there was just enough blood to stain the water, a thin pale stream. I stood for a minute staring at it, light rust, like something that might have come out of an old water pipe. There all along. Shaking hands with Cavallini, with scraped knuckles and blood under my fingernails. But he hadn’t seen, hadn’t thought to look. And now it was too late, the red running into the soapy water, then out some ancient drain to the lagoon. Safe.

“Prego.” The attendant had leaned forward, holding out a hand towel, the word loud in my ear. Had he been close enough to see? It didn’t have to be Cavallini. Anybody. Just one glance at the basin, the eye drawn to the unexpected stain.

“Momento,” I said quickly, turning my shoulder to block his line of sight. What if any of it had stuck to the porcelain? But I couldn’t wash the bowl, not with him standing there. I lathered once more, then rinsed, holding my hands out for the towel but keeping the water running, a last chance to let it wash away. The attendant reached over and turned off the tap. Not looking at the water, busy now with the towel, taking it from me and putting it in the hamper. Involuntarily I looked down at my hands. Pink from all the soap and water, but no more rims, no evidence. When I looked up, I found the attendant staring at me, his eyes a question mark. I dropped my hands, folding the rough knuckles out of sight. He kept staring and for a minute, feeling chilled, I thought he had seen, was trying to decide what to do, but then he held up a clothes brush and I saw that he was just waiting for me to turn around so that he could dust me off, make the rest of me as clean as my hands.

An hour later we called Gianni’s house again, this time using Claudia to speak Italian.

“Non in casa,” my mother said, “that’s all I can get out of them. Well, I know he’s not at home.”

Claudia took the phone and spoke rapidly for a few minutes, but learned nothing more. He’d left the house on foot before eight. Dressed for the party. Did he say he was going anywhere first? No, he said he had to hurry, he was a little late.

The hospital knew even less. He’d left at the usual time. For home? Yes. And he hadn’t been back? No, he was going to a big party.

My mother now fidgeted, genuinely worried, as if Claudia’s Italian should have produced different answers.

“But it’s ridiculous,” she said.

“No one just vanishes.” “No,” Claudia said. “So he must have a reason.”

I looked at her, expecting to see her eyes dart away, but she met mine evenly, no longer skittish, her balance restored somehow by having to lie to my mother. Or maybe the lies were becoming real to us, what had really happened.

“Maybe he did fall into a canal,” my mother said. “You think I’m joking. Bertie says it happened all the time during the war, in the blackout. Several people died. Funny, isn’t it? The only war casualties. No bombs. Just people falling into canals.”

“Where is Bertie, anyway?”

“He always comes late. Always. He doesn’t dance, you know. He just turns up for supper and a good look around.”

“Maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s coming with Bertie.”

“Gianni? Why would he do that? They’re not chums, really. No, something’s wrong. I know it. Seriously, what should I do?”

“I don’t know. Where else would he be? With friends?”

“Darling, instead of me? Something’s happened.”

“Maybe you should talk to Inspector Cavallini,” Claudia said.

I looked at her, but she ignored me, concentrating on my mother.

“Yes, but what do I say? I don’t want to ruin Mimi’s party.”

“Ask him to call the Questura. If there has been an accident. Somebody in the canal. Anything like that.”

My mother hesitated, frowning. “They’d report that, wouldn’t they?” She nodded, thinking to herself, and turned away, touching my arm absentmindedly as she left.

“You’re sending her to the police?” I said, watching my mother head into the other room.

Claudia shrugged. “He won’t do anything. But maybe he’ll remember. That we went to him before anything was wrong.”

Inspector Cavallini, indulging my mother, made the call to the Questura. Nothing had been reported, no accident, no body stumbled over in a dark calle. He asked someone to check the hospitals for anyone brought in with a heart attack, a stroke, anything sudden, but Venice had been quiet, huddled in out of the rain.

“You know, she’ll make it worse,” he said, drawing me aside, his voice confiding, man-of-the-world. “A man stops somewhere, sometimes it’s difficult getting back. Maestre, perhaps, somewhere on the mainland—many go there. And then a delay, the train is late. So, the arguments. Often this happens. A part of life.”

“He wouldn’t go to Maestre in white tie.”

“He was in white tie?” Cavallini said, looking at me.

“I suppose so,” I said quickly. “They said at the house he was dressed for the party. I just assumed—anyway, too dressed for Maestre.”