We arrived at their building. Caitlin started to open the door.

“What’s McGann’s condition?”

She stopped turning the key and looked at me, poised to say something, but she stopped. “Jesse should tell you. I don’t want to get anything wrong.”

The door was one of those enormous wooden things you often see in Europe that date back to a time when the purpose of a door was not only to close off the outside world, but also to keep out the demons and hounds of hell. Caitlin needed both hands to struggle it open.

A lovely thing appeared—a shady silent courtyard with a marble water fountain in the center and well-kept flower beds. The centerpiece of the fountain was a child angel looking up to heaven with an impish smile on its face. Although we were in a hurry, I had to stop to have a look. The figure was startling in its mix of the sacred and the naughty, with even a bit of the sexy thrown in. A devout, naughty, erotic angel.

“Isn’t she a joy? It’s one of the reasons we took the apartment. We get to look at her every day. The first time we came here, both of us stopped as you did and just gaped at her. Now look up for the full effect. See how the walls of the building are brown and narrow? It’s as if the angel’s sitting out there in the middle of the Hof taking a sunbath and smiling like that because she’s able to get a little light on her face.”

“You think it’s a girl?”

Caitlin smiled, then checked to see if I was kidding. “You don’t? That’s funny, because both of us immediately assumed it was a girl.”

“I don’t agree. I’d have to study it a while. But no, I wouldn’t jump right in and say that.”

“Oh, look, there’s Jesse! Do you see? He’s waving.” She pointed up in a vague direction, but I saw only windows, most of them sealed to the eye by the afternoon’s white sunlight. “Come on.”

Walking around the fountain, I watched the smiling angel as long as I could, and then we entered a cool dark entrance-way with, far at the end, a winding staircase and a massive wooden banister. When we’d walked to it, I looked around worriedly for an elevator. There was none.

“Where’s the elevator?”

Caitlin shook her head.

“How many flights up?”

“Three.”

I took a deep breath and created a smile for her. “Let’s go.”

The steps were deeply worn stone and very wide. I watched Caitlin’s feet climb and tried to match her pace because, living here, she obviously was an expert on climbing stairs. When going up Mount Everest, aren’t you supposed to do what the sherpas do? Nevertheless, I was quickly winded and had to stop twice to catch my breath on the way up, while she danced her way farther and farther ahead. “Didn’t I read somewhere that for every stair you climb, you live three seconds longer?”

“Something like that. If it doesn’t kill you first.” She smiled happily over her shoulder and kept on climbing.

The door to the apartment was high and wide and made of some impressive wood. Old wood doors and stone steps. How many people had lived in this place, come to answer this doorbell when it rang? Lived on the stone and behind the wood, planning and plotting, hopeful or weeping over things no one on earth would remember today?

Caitlin rang the bell. Short seconds later Jesse opened the door as if he had been waiting right on the other side.

“I’ll go back down to Sophie now, honey.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek and turned. When she got to the top of the stairs, she looked back once over her shoulder and smiled, shrugged, and walked quickly down.

He was wearing gray: pullover, trousers, socks. No shoes. He saw me looking at his feet and grinned. “Hello, Wyatt. I changed, but didn’t get around to my feet yet. Come in.”

Their apartment began with a long gloomy hall that led into an equally dark living room crammed, to my great surprise, with gigantic pieces of furniture. Hanging on every wall were corny oil paintings that hurt your eyes just to look: mountain scenes or portraits of fat men with thick beards and an air of dumb self-satisfaction. I knew Jesse Chapman was square, but this square?

He saw me checking out the room. “Wonderful pictures, aren’t they? They’re not ours, thank God. We discovered a strange Viennese rule when we moved to this town. If you rent a place that’s ‘furnished,’ that means whatever furnishings are there stay – forever – whether you like them or not. We hate this trash. It looks as if someone a hundred and fifty years old lives here. But when we asked the landlord if we could move it out and bring our own things in, he was really, seriously offended. So it’s your home and you certainly pay enough for it, but at the same time it’s not.”

“Like living out your life in someone else’s skin.”

“Right.”

“Well, what’s up, Jesse? Sounds as if you’ve been having an adventure.”

“That’s a good word for it. Have a seat on Frau Spusta’s couch.” He pointed me to a plump zeppelin of a thing, where we sat on either end and faced each other.

“What do you know about birds, Wyatt?”

“Some of them sound nice and others taste good.”

“That’s true. But listen to this.” Reaching to the coffee table in front of the couch, he picked up a small blue book filled with white paper markers sticking out the top. He counted a few and then opened the book to one. “Have you ever heard of the ortolan? It’s called Emberiza hortulana.”

“No.”

“I guess it’s delicious. Listen to this: ‘When eating particularly succulent ortolans, European gourmands cover their heads with large napkins so that oily juices do not squirt their dining partners.’ What do you think?”

“I think I don’t care about ortolans, Jesse. I’m exhausted and sick and not in the mood for gourmet fare. I think we’d better talk about other things, because you’ve got two women downstairs who are pretty damned worried about you.”

“But you’re not?”

“You’re not my friend. Your sister is, and I worry about her.”

“Fair enough. But listen carefully.” Annoyingly, he read the passage about ortolans again. “Ian McGann gave me this book. He marked specific passages for me to read. That was the first one. I didn’t understand what it meant either. He sat and watched me but I didn’t know what to say. I’d found him to ask about these dreams and what was happening to my life. He was the only one who would know. Instead of answering, he gave me a book about birds.

“He and his girlfriend—her name is Miep—are in this small hotel in Venice next to the Danieli. It has the same view of the water as the Danieli at a third the price. Nice place. Cozy, and perfect for them. He knows about it because his agency sends customers there on package tours. Ian can’t move well now, so he spends a lot of time sitting at the window watching the boats and the water. Or, if he really feels up to it, they go to Gaffe Florian nearby for a few hours. It’s amusing, because Miep told one of the waiters there Ian is a very famous English writer who’s recuperating from a serious illness. They treat him as if he’s royalty. Whenever he comes in, they clear a table for him and make sure he’s given the very best service. Miep’s wonderful; he’s lucky to have her. Funny how some people have the best things in their whole lives happen when they’re about to die.”

He spoke quietly but warmly, as if recounting a particularly happy anecdote that had happened long ago but was so gratifying that it was still flower-fresh in his memory. I wanted to interrupt and ask my questions, the ones that were burning up my mind, but I knew that wasn’t correct. Jesse had to tell it his way. Besides, I was sure everything would come out in time. Everything I needed to hear.

“Actually, we were in Florian’s when this happened—when he showed me the book and told me to read the passage about ortolans. After I finished he asked what I thought. What could I say? It sounds funny. That’s what I said. The picture of people sitting at a table with napkins over their heads so they don’t squirt their neighbors with bird juice? Come on, it’s a giggle.” He rubbed his hands together, then held them out at arm’s length and turned them up and down. “Don’t you think? Anyway, I looked at Miep but she wasn’t smiling and neither was Ian. He reached over and put a hand on my knee. ‘It’s me, Jesse. I did that to you; squirted my dreams all over you the moment I told you in Sardinia. And see what’s happened to you now because of it. I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry for what I did.’ At that moment, even with all the terror that was inside me, the only thing I felt was profound pity for the man.”