“Somewhere in Venice, then. A visit. It’s usually the case.”

“Or someone sick. A medical emergency.”

“Perhaps,” he said, dubious. “But then he would call, yes?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s sick himself.”

“Then someone will find him. Meanwhile, make your mother easy. Maybe sick, yes, but maybe delayed, a simple matter. Ah, Signora Miller,” he said as my mother came up. “Nothing has been reported. So I think it’s a matter for the patience.”

“But they’ll call you here if anything—”

“Yes, I asked them to do that. Don’t upset yourself. I think next you’ll hear the apologies.”

“Thank you,” my mother said, still frowning, concerned.

Then Mimi was with us.

“Grace, I’ve been looking—is anything wrong?”

“No, no,” my mother said, brightening.

“Don’t tell me he still hasn’t shown. It’s Maggie and Jiggs. You need a rolling pin. They’re all stinkers, aren’t they? Have you had supper?” she said to the rest of us. “There’s lovely food. I’m going to borrow Grace for a minute.” She took my mother’s arm. “Come on. Ernesto’s in a pout, and you always know what to say to him.”

She was moved off, a boat in tow, and we were alone with Cavallini again.

“Thank you for doing all this. I’m sorry—at a party.”

He shrugged. “These things happen. She’ll be angry, yes? When he comes.”

“Yes.”

He gave a sly smile. “Yes. Another night would have been better.” An old hand at slipping out. I wondered if he kept a girl in Maestre, in a small flat near the factories, for visits.

“Dance?” I said to Claudia, eager to get away.

The orchestra, looser and more confident, finally upbeat, was playing Cole Porter. It was the music everybody had wanted, what they’d flirted to on the Lido, and the floor was crowded. Soon the older guests would begin to drift away or settle themselves with plates of food, but just now the whole room seemed to be dancing, moving back and forth in flickers, like the candles. The stairs were empty. Everyone who was coming had already arrived. How long before even Cavallini became alarmed? He was watching from the edge of the floor, a knowing smile still on his face. Knowing nothing. And I realized then that no one knew, not anyone in the bright, crowded room, and the secret carried with it a kind of perverse pleasure. No one knew. We were a couple dancing to “Night and Day,” that was all—something for Cavallini to gossip about later with his wellborn wife.

“Not too much longer,” I said.

“All right,” Claudia said, preoccupied. She moved with the music for a few more minutes, then said, “What will she do?”

“She’ll go back to Ca’ Venti. She won’t stay here. Not with Mimi. But we don’t have to wait. We should do what we would normally do.”

“Can we eat something first? It’s terrible, I know, but I’m so hungry.”

Food had been available all night, passed on trays and anchoring long tables in the next room, but now a new buffet had been set up, a lavish late supper, hot in silver chafing dishes, with waiters to carry your plates to a table. There were glass bowls of caviar and carving trolleys of roast veal, fruit arranged in pyramids. It was, in its way, more opulent than the ball itself, as if rationing had never existed, imaginary. Even in Venice, which had had an easy war, it was disturbing to see so much food.

“You go,” I said to Claudia. “I want a smoke first.”

I went over to the balcony windows facing the canal, lit a cigarette, and almost at once became nauseated, the queasiness I’d felt all evening suddenly lurching in my stomach. It might have been the close room, the sight of the rich food, the smoke on an empty stomach, but I knew it wasn’t, just what was left of the nervous energy that had started when I’d pushed him against the wall. Everything up and down, the freezing rain in the lagoon, then a ballroom hot enough for bare-shouldered gowns; pushing his head down in the water, my fingers still streaked with blood, everything in me pumping, willing me to do it, then polite evasions, the puzzled, hurt look on my mother’s face. I opened one of the windows and gulped in some air. It was surprisingly cold, like the air in the lagoon, stinging on my warm face. Below, a vaporetto heading to Salute was passing Mimi’s water entrance, still busy with lights and boats tied to the striped poles, gondoliers waiting on the dock with cigarettes cupped in their hands. A murder had been committed, and no one knew. I took another breath, then drew on the cigarette again, steadying myself. He was gone. This is what it felt like—not remorse but a grim satisfaction, and this tension in the stomach. No going back. A constant tremor on the surface of your skin, alert, because all that mattered now was not getting caught.

Getting caught. My stomach lurched again and I found my shoulders shaking, my body heaving, not bringing anything up, just gasping for air. He wasn’t going to come late. I’d choked the life out of him, the last breath. How could it not be in my face, a red stain? My shoulders moved again. Somebody would see. I’d give everything away, out of control.

“Adam, whatever is the matter?” Bertie said to my back. “Are you all right?”

I tossed the cigarette and gripped the window frame, willing my shoulders to be still. Nothing escaped Bertie. I nodded, keeping my back to him.

“I just felt funny for a minute. Some air.” I drew some in, making a point.

“Funny?”

I looked down again at the men on the dock. The rain had let up. You could hear the music coming from the ballroom. It might be hours before anyone asked for his boat. One of the gondoliers passed a bottle, something to hold off the damp. No one knew.

I took another breath and forced my mouth into a smile so that it was in place when I turned. “Too much wine, probably.” Taking out a handkerchief to wipe my forehead, avoiding his eyes.

“Hm,” Bertie said, still staring. “You sure?” But when I nodded, he let it go. “Is that where you’ve been hiding, at the bar?”

“No, in plain sight,” I said, then stopped, disconcerted by his white shirtfront, almost a duplicate of Gianni’s. I smiled again. “Dancing.”

“By yourself.”

“No, Claudia’s here.”

“Ah,” he said flatly. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“And miss this?”

“I’ll have one of those,” he said, glancing back at the room while I got out another cigarette. “No, you wouldn’t want to miss this. Mimi’s had her ball, hasn’t she? I don’t suppose people will talk about anything else for months. Extravagant, my god. Even for Mimi. Celia de Betancourt’s here, did you see? She can’t get over it. And you know there’s no one richer than a South American. Forty of them own everything or something.”

“They’re lining up at the trough,” I said, gesturing to the food tables. Claudia seemed to have been swallowed up in a swarm of gowns. An old man with medals on his chest, an operetta figure, was pointing to chafing dishes as a waiter filled his plate.

“Well, the food,” Bertie said. “I don’t want to think where she got it all. Flown in, someone said. But it can’t be legal, not all this. Rosaries for days, that’s what it would cost me.”

“The Church doesn’t seem to mind,” I said, pointing with my cigarette to a heavyset priest filling his plate.

“Ah, Luca,” he said. “Well, the Church takes the world as it finds it.”

“I’ll say,” I said, watching him spoon cream sauce over his plate, then looked away, still not sure of my stomach.

“It’s only the next, you know, that concerns them. Poor Luca. It’s a weakness, all that hunger.”

“Maybe he should see real hunger. The kind in this world.”

“Adam, if you’re going to start, I’m leaving. Here, of all places? You can’t be serious. In your nice formal clothes. Eating Mimi’s caviar. Oh dear,” he said, catching a glimpse of the priest wolfing down a bulging mouthful, a comically greedy moment.