“Looking at art.”

“Art.”

“I’m not avoiding him. I’m just tired.”

“You’re always tired.” She bit her lip. “Do this for me, would you, sweetie? I don’t want to have to make apologies again. It’s rude, aside from anything else.”

“Well, I can’t go like this,” I said, patting my soaked jacket. Everything crumpled, like the sheets. It occurred to me that I might even smell of it, the whole sweaty afternoon. “I have to wash.”

My mother sighed. “All right. Meet us at Harry’s. I’ll send the taxi back and tell him to wait. You won’t even need the traghetto. But darling, quickly, please?”

“All right. Chop-chop. What do you want me to wear?” I said, looking at her, primped, even some of her good jewels.

“We’re going to the Monaco, so something decent. You know. Not the uniform, please. That wasn’t funny at all, at Mimi’s. How do you think it makes them feel?”

“It was the only thing I had at the time.”

“Well, not at the Monaco.”

“God forbid.”

She looked at me. “You’re not going to be in a mood, are you?”

“Promise. Actually, I’m in a good mood.”

“I can see. The art, no doubt.” She raised an eyebrow. “I can smell the wine from here. Go easy at Harry’s. As long as you’re doing this, you might as well make a good impression. He’s nervous about you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re the only family I have. You know what Italians are like about families.”

“What about Aunt Edna?”

She laughed. “Darling, she’s what I use when I want to get out of something.”

I looked at her. “What do you want to get into?”

She turned away, picking up her purse. “Nothing. I just want us to have a nice dinner.” She looked back. “I live here now, you know. Gianni is a good friend. It’s not too much to ask.”

“No.”

“You used to be so charming. I suppose it’s the war.”

It seemed such an extraordinary thing to say that for a minute I couldn’t think how to answer. But she had caught my look.

“You know what I mean. I know—well, I don’t know, that’s the problem. But you never say, either. And anyway, it’s over, that’s the main thing. Now look at the time. I’m going to be late.”

“He’ll wait.”

She smiled. “That doesn’t make it right.” She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Don’t be long. And no politics.”

“Why? What are his politics?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. I never ask. And I don’t want you to, either. It always ends in arguments, no matter what it is. Besides, it’s their country—things never make sense to outsiders.”

“All right. No politics. Art?”

“Art.” Her eyes were laughing, full of their old spirit.

“Maybe we’ll just talk about you,” I said, smiling. “What could be more interesting?”

“Mm. What could?” she said, throwing me a look, then heading for the stairs. Below us, I could hear the motorboat taxi churning water at the canal steps. “Good thing I’m going first. I can tell him you’re adopted.”

I was ready by the time the taxi returned. It was still raining, and after we rounded the tip of the Dogana and headed across to San Marco even the lights seemed blurry, as if the city were actually underwater. The campanile disappeared somewhere in an upper mist and the piazza itself was deserted, with nothing to fill the empty space but lonely rows of lamps.

Harry’s, however, was snug and busy, all polished wood and furs draped over chairs and eager American voices. The bar was hidden behind a line of uniforms, officers on leave. My mother and Gianni were both drinking Prosecco, their second by the look of the half-filled olive dish.

“Ah, at last,” he said, getting up. “I’m so happy you could come.” A polite smile, genial.

“Sorry to hold you up. Should we just go over?” I gestured to the door and the Monaco just across the calle.

“No, no, there’s time. Have a drink.”

A waiter appeared, summoned apparently by thought.

“Well, a martini then,” I said to the waiter, ignoring my mother’s glance.

“What is the expression?” Gianni said. “Out of wet clothes and into a dry martini.” He smiled, pleased with himself.

“Yes,” I said. “Look, there’s Bertie.”

He was at the far end of the room, drinking with a woman in an elaborate hat. Between us was the usual crowd, half of whom had probably been at his party.

“Yes, we saw him earlier,” my mother said. “Gianni, who’s he with?”

“Principessa Montardi.”

“Really a principessa?”

“Well, the prince was real. And she married him. Her father was in milk products. Milanese.”

“The things you know.”

“It’s a small city. We know each other maybe too well. Ah, here’s your drink.”

The martini was strong and I felt the heat of it right away, pleasant, like the warm light of the room. Bertie had waved, the others who vaguely knew us had noticed, and now we could retreat to ourselves. I felt lightheaded, wanting to grin, still thinking about the afternoon. And there’d be tomorrow, another room. Then another. Afternoons of pure pleasure. In Germany there had been an army nurse drunk at a party, and one German girl, who had asked for tinned meat afterward, both times sad, furtive, closed off, like the country itself now. Here everything was pleasure—sex and buildings glimmering on the water, even Harry’s green olives. I realized—was it only the martini?—that I was happy.

“You look like the cat who swallowed the canary,” my mother said. “What are you thinking about?”

“Just how nice this all is.”

“You’re enjoying Venice, then?” Gianni said.

“Yes, very much. Doesn’t everybody?”

“Most, yes, I think. Even we do sometimes,” he said.

“Does it bother you, all the visitors?”

“No, it’s important for us. How else could we live? Of course you cannot choose your visitors. The Wehrmacht loved us, for their holidays. In the spring all the tables in San Marco, nothing but uniforms. Their city. So that was difficult.”

“Awful,” my mother said automatically.

“You have been in Germany, Grace said?”

I nodded. “What’s left of it.”

“The bombs, you mean.”

“The cities are gone. Flat.”

“So that’s how it ended for them. You see how lucky we are. Imagine Venice—” He shuddered. “How long will you stay?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“He’s been looking at art,” my mother said wryly.

“Yes? Then you will never leave. There is always more art in Venice. Where have you been? The Accademia?”

I nodded. “No one’s there this time of year. You can look at The House of Levi for hours and not have to move.”

“Really,” my mother said, surprised.

Dr. Maglione smiled in agreement. “Veronese. Maybe the finest of them. Tintoretto, it’s too much sometimes. You must see San Sebastiano, Veronese’s church.”

“Yes, off the Zattere. Before the maritime station.”

My mother was now looking at me in real surprise, aware suddenly that my time here was unknown to her, something I did between meals.

“So you know it. I can see you don’t need me for a guide,” he said pleasantly. “Now Grace—” He smiled at her.

“He thinks I’m hopeless,” my mother said.

“Hopeless, no.”

“I follow those yellow signs with the arrows and I still have no idea where I am. They always say Per Rialto and I never want to go there.”

“No, especially not there,” Dr. Maglione said, laughing.

A look passed between them, so intimate that I went back to my martini, feeling in the way. Even with my skin still flushed with it, I couldn’t make the leap from the damp sheets of my own afternoon to whatever time they were remembering. I had not imagined anything beyond friendship, a way to pass the time. And yet there must have been sex, maybe even with sweat and gasps, open mouths. I looked at him, now lighting a cigarette. Thinning gray hair brushed back at the temples, intelligent eyes. But what did she see? He caught my glance, meeting my eyes through the smoke in a question.