When the uncles and grands-pères had taken their turns, and the wine had been blessed again, Ben Yakov broke the wedding cup beneath his heel. The bride lifted her veil at last as if she’d been startled by the sound, and the small party of guests sang siman tov u’mazal tov. And then everyone went to the rue de Sévigné for the bridal luncheon.

In the dining room there was a filet of roasted salmon, a wedding challah, steaming dishes of red potatoes and sweet golden noodles; there was costly white asparagus from Morocco, a bowl of oranges from Spain, and, on its own side table, the astonishing cake Elisabet had baked: a splendid three-tiered confection decorated with sugar beads and silver candy leaves. In the bedroom just on the other side of the dining-room wall, Madame and Monsieur Ben Yakov were spending their half hour of ritual seclusion. A violinist and a clarinet player entertained some of the guests in the sitting room, and others stood drinking white wine and admiring the luncheon dishes.

In the kitchen, Tibor had concerned himself with the care of a child who had slipped on a patch of ice outside. Andras helped him bandage the girl’s cut knee and clean the abrasions on her palms. She was a small cousin of Ben Yakov’s, dark-eyed and somber in a blue velvet dress; she seemed to relish the close attention of two such finely dressed young men, and when they had finished applying the bandages she instructed them to stay with her until she was better. She began a game with Tibor in which she would point to an object in the kitchen and call out the French word, to which Tibor would respond with the corresponding word in Hungarian; she seemed to find every Hungarian word hilarious. Andras was grateful for the distraction. He had begun to suspect that something momentous and unspeakable had passed between Tibor and Signorina di Sabato on the train from Florence. Andras and Tibor had spent the past week in what should have been enjoyable pursuits-they’d gone to the cinema and to a jazz show in Montmartre; they’d had a night of drinking with Rosen and Polaner and Ben Yakov to mark the end of the groom’s bachelorhood; they had accompanied Ben Yakov to the tailor to pick up his wedding suit, and had helped to lay in supplies at the couple’s apartment-but Tibor had been distant and abstracted through all of it, often receding into silence when Ilana’s name arose in conversation. Today he had been in a black mood, cursing his shoelace when it broke, railing at the chill of the water in the basin, nearly shouting at Andras when Andras had hurried him along toward Klara’s after the ceremony. But his attendence upon the little girl had calmed him; he seemed more like himself now, playing the game she’d invented.

“Passoire,” said the girl, pointing to a colander.

“Szűrő edény,” Tibor said in Hungarian.

“Ha! And what about spatule?”

“Spachtli.”

“Spachtli! And what about couteau?” The little girl grabbed a fierce-looking carving knife from the table and held it out for Tibor’s pronouncement.

“Kés,” he said. “But you’d better give that to me.” He took it from her and turned to put it away; just at that moment the new Madame Ben Yakov appeared in the doorway, her cheeks wildly flushed, a haze of black curls escaping from her coiled braids. The knife hovered in Tibor’s hand just centimeters from the ivory buttons of her dress. If she had come rushing into the room, he would have run her through.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, and took a small step back.

Their eyes met, and they both laughed.

“Don’t kill the bride, brother,” Andras said.

Tibor set the knife on the counter, slowly, as if it couldn’t be trusted.

The little girl, feeling the strangeness of the moment, looked up at all of them with frank curiosity. When no one spoke, she took it upon herself to begin a conversation.

“I hurt my knee,” she explained to the bride, showing her the bandage. “This man fixed it.”

Madame Ben Yakov nodded her understanding and bent to inspect the bandage. The little girl turned her knee this way and that. When the inspection was complete she got down from her chair and arranged her velvet skirts. She made a show of limping delicately out of the room.

Madame Ben Yakov gave Tibor a fleeting smile. “Ché buon medico siete,” she said. She edged past him and turned on the faucet at the porcelain sink, where she performed the ritual of hand-washing. Tibor watched every movement: the filling of the cup, the removal of her new wedding ring, the passing of water three times over the right hand, three times over the left.

…

After the luncheon there was dancing downstairs in the studio. In observance of Orthodox tradition, the men danced on one side of the room and the women on the other, shielded from each other’s view by a folding screen. Every now and then the men glimpsed the flying hem of a dress or the flash of a hair ribbon; every now and then a woman’s satin shoe came sliding out toward the wall, where the men could witness its suggestion of a woman’s bare foot. The women laughed behind their screen, their feet beating quick rhythmic couplets on the studio floor. But the men were awkward with each other on their side of the screen. No one wanted to dance. It wasn’t until Rosen produced a flask of whiskey from his pocket, and passed its fire around the circle twice, that they began to shuffle in time with the music. Ben Yakov and Rosen linked arms and jostled each other to the right and left. They took each other’s hands and began to spin until they both stumbled. Rosen grabbed Andras’s shoulder, Andras grabbed Polaner’s, Polaner grabbed Ben Yakov’s, Ben Yakov grabbed his father’s, and soon all the men were following each other in a clumsy circle. Ben Yakov and his father broke off into the center of the ring, taking each other by the shoulders; they kicked their heels skyward until their shirttails flew free and their pomaded hair swung loose in waves. Only Tibor stood with his back against the practice barre, watching.

Finally the moment arrived when Madame and Monsieur Ben Yakov would be lifted in chairs and carried around the room. The women emerged from behind their screen to watch; the sight of Klara with her hair fallen from its knot, her dress faintly damp against her breastbone, made Andras lose his breath. For a moment it seemed unfair that this was anyone else’s wedding but their own. Then she caught his eye and smiled, seeming to understand what he was thinking, and there was so much certainty and promise in her look that he couldn’t begrudge Ben Yakov his happiness.

After the wedding, only three days remained of Tibor’s visit. His mood seemed to lighten somewhat; he followed Andras to school and work and earned everyone’s admiration wherever he went. Monsieur Forestier gave him tickets to the shows whose sets he had designed, including Madame Gérard’s Antigone, which Tibor found admirable in every regard with the exception of the lead actress’s performance. Georges Lemain, at the architecture firm, was enthralled by Tibor’s ability to identify any opera by nothing more than a few hummed bars; he treated them to a matinee of La Traviata, and afterward they toured a maison particulier under construction in the Seventeenth, a house Lemain had designed for a Nobel laureate chemist and his family. He showed Tibor the northern-lit laboratory, the library with its ebony bookshelves, the high-ceilinged bedrooms that overlooked a landscaped courtyard. Tibor praised everything in his earnest French, and Lemain promised to design a similar house for him when he was a famous doctor. All through those three days, as Tibor and Andras went from one place to another, one commitment to another, Andras looked for a chance to ask Tibor about Signorina di Sabato, but never found the right moment to introduce the subject. At night, when they might have stayed up late to drink and talk, Tibor claimed exhaustion. Andras lay awake on the mattress on the floor, wondering how to break the fragile cell wall that seemed to separate him from his brother; he had a sense of Tibor hiding behind that translucent membrane as if he were afraid to be seen in sharp focus.