“We can still be happy.”

But in her eyes, shiny and fluttering, wounded, I saw that it wasn’t true and that I had become a kind of cage. I dropped my arms.

“Signore.” The conductor, asking me off. The train lurched. I nodded and stepped down to the platform, and stood there watching until the train began to move, only then taking in the gray suit, the same one she’d worn when I first noticed her standing alone at Bertie’s.

“The suit!” I shouted, but the train was loud now and she just smiled and then raised her hand, not quite a wave, a letting-go. Finally free.

Both of us. I watched the train rush out into the yards. Two people and a secret, the impossible equation. I could close up the house now and go. Anywhere. I walked down the platform. At the end Cavallini was leaning against a pillar and reading a newspaper.

“An old picture,” he said, showing it to me. “From those days.”

Rosa, looking young and pretty in an off-the-shoulder blouse, before she was always cold. I read some of the Italian—driven by political vengeance—and handed it back. On and on.

“You see, they believe it already,” he said. “There won’t be any trouble at the inquest.”

He put his hand at the small of my back and guided me into the main hall. “I had the boat wait,” he said.

“Not back to the hospital,” I said. Where Gianni had nodded in the ward. “Would you drop me at Ca’ Venti?” The canal entrance, with its mossy steps, no sign of blood.

“I thought we would visit Giulia.”

“Giulia?”

“Yes, if you’re not tired? She has been so worried about you. I’ve been keeping her informed. You know she has a very high regard for you.”

But both of us would be there, one of us working his way from the family pew to the lunch table, protecting all things Maglione.

“Signora Miller was happy to go?” he said.

“Yes.”

“It’s not a long trip. Very beautiful, in the mountains.” We were passing out of the hall to Mussolini’s broad steps. “It’s all arranged? She’s easy in her mind?”

I stopped for a second, squinting in the bright light at the boats on the Grand Canal, watercolor Venice. Then I shivered, suddenly chilled even in the sun, maybe the way Rosa had felt.

“You’re ill?” Cavallini said, solicitous.

I shook my head. “All arranged. She understands.”

“Good. Va bene.”

“I suppose I should thank you.”

He shrugged. “She’s your wife.”

“Yes,” I said to myself, mocking, my voice bitter. “How can I ever repay you?”

But evidently he had heard me. He helped me into the boat with my good arm. “Ca’ Maglione,” he said to the driver, then turned to me, an odd smile on his face. “Don’t worry,” he said, his hand still holding my arm. “These things arrange themselves. We’ll think of something.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JOSEPH KANON is the author of three previous novels, The Good German, Los Alamos, and The Prodigal Spy. Before becoming a full-time writer, he was a book publishing executive. He lives in New York City.