AMERICAN EXPRESS

It’s hard now to think of all the places and nights, Nicola’s like a railway car, deep and gleaming, the crowd at the Un, Deux, Trois, Billy’s. Unknown brilliant faces jammed at the bar. The dark, dramatic eye that blazes for a moment and disappears.

In those days they were living in apartments with funny furniture and on Sundays sleeping until noon. They were in the last rank of the armies of law. Clever junior partners were above them, partners, associates, men in fine suits who had lunch at the Four Seasons. Frank’s father went there three or four times a week, or else to the Century Club or the Union where there were men even older than he. Half of the members can’t urinate, he used to say, and the other half can’t stop.

Alan, on the other hand, was from Cleveland where his father was well known, if not detested. No defendant was too guilty, no case too clear-cut. Once in another part of the state he was defending a murderer, a black man. He knew what the jury was thinking, he knew what he looked like to them. He stood up slowly. It could be they had heard certain things, he began. They may have heard, for instance, that he was a big-time lawyer from the city. They may have heard that he wore three-hundred-dollar suits, that he drove a Cadillac and smoked expensive cigars. He was walking along as if looking for something on the floor. They may have heard that he was Jewish.

He stopped and looked up. Well, he was from the city, he said. He wore three-hundred-dollar suits, he drove a Cadillac, smoked big cigars, and he was Jewish. “Now that we have that settled, let’s talk about this case.”

Lawyers and sons of lawyers. Days of youth. In the morning in stale darkness the subways shrieked.

“Have you noticed the new girl at the reception desk?”

“What about her?” Frank asked.

They were surrounded by noise like the launch of a rocket.

“She’s hot,” Alan confided.

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

“What do you mean, you know?”

“Intuition.”

“Intuition?” Frank said.

“What’s wrong?”

“That doesn’t count.”

Which was what made them inseparable, the hours of work, the lyric, the dreams. As it happened, they never knew the girl at the reception desk with her nearsightedness and wild, full hair. They knew various others, they knew Julie, they knew Catherine, they knew Ames. The best, for nearly two years, was Brenda who had somehow managed to graduate from Marymount and had a walk-through apartment on West Fourth. In a smooth, thin, silver frame was the photograph of her father with his two daughters at the Plaza, Brenda, thirteen, with an odd little smile.

“I wish I’d known you then,” Frank told her.

Brenda said, “I bet you do.”

It was her voice he liked, the city voice, scornful and warm. They were two of a kind, she liked to say, and in a way it was true. They drank in her favorite places where the owner played the piano and everyone seemed to know her. Still, she counted on him. The city has its incomparable moments—rolling along the wall of the apartment, kissing, bumping like stones. Five in the afternoon, the vanishing light. “No,” she was commanding. “No, no, no.”

He was kissing her throat. “What are you going to do with that beautiful struma of yours?”

“You won’t take me to dinner,” she said.

“Sure I will.”

“Beautiful what?”

She was like a huge dog, leaping from his arms.

“Come here,” he coaxed.

She went into the bathroom and began combing her hair. “Which restaurant are we going to?” she called.

She would give herself but it was mostly unpredictable. She would do anything her mother hadn’t done and would live as her mother lived, in the same kind of apartment, in the same soft chairs. Christmas and the envelopes for the doormen, the snow sweeping past the awning, her children coming home from school. She adored her father. She went on a trip to Hawaii with him and sent back postcards, two or three scorching lines in a large, scrawled hand.

It was summer.

“Anybody here?” Frank called.

He rapped on the door which was ajar. He was carrying his jacket, it was hot.

“All right,” he said in a loud voice, “come out with your hands over your head. Alan, cover the back.”

The party, it seemed, was over. He pushed the door open. There was one lamp on, the room was dark.

“Hey, Bren, are we too late?” he called. She appeared mysteriously in the doorway, bare legged but in heels. “We’d have come earlier but we were working. We couldn’t get out of the office. Where is everybody? Where’s all the food? Hey, Alan, we’re late. There’s no food, nothing.”

She was leaning against the doorway.

“We tried to get down here,” Alan said. “We couldn’t get a cab.”

Frank had fallen onto the couch. “Bren, don’t be mad,” he said. “We were working, that’s the truth. I should have called. Can you put some music on or something? Is there anything to drink?”

“There’s about that much vodka,” she finally said.

“Any ice?”

“About two cubes.” She pushed off the wall without much enthusiasm. He watched her walk into the kitchen and heard the refrigerator door open.

“So, what do you think, Alan?” he said. “What are you going to do?”

“Me?”

“Where’s Louise?” Frank called.

“Asleep,” Brenda said.

“Did she really go home?”

“She goes to work in the morning.”

“So does Alan.”

Brenda came out of the kitchen with the drinks.

“I’m sorry we’re late,” he said. He was looking in the glass. “Was it a good party?” He stirred the contents with one finger. “This is the ice?”

“Jane Harrah got fired,” Brenda said.

“That’s too bad. Who is she?”

“She does big campaigns. Ross wants me to take her place.”

“Great.”

“I’m not sure if I want to,” she said lazily.

“Why not?”

“She was sleeping with him.”

“And she got fired?”

“Doesn’t say much for him, does it?”

“It doesn’t say much for her.”

“That’s just like a man. God.”

“What does she look like? Does she look like Louise?”

The smile of the thirteen-year-old came across Brenda’s face. “No one looks like Louise,” she said. Her voice squeezed the name whose legs Alan dreamed of. “Jane has these thin lips.”

“Is that all?”

“Thin-lipped women are always cold.”

“Let me see yours,” he said.

“Burn up.”

“Yours aren’t thin. Alan, these aren’t thin, are they? Hey, Brenda, don’t cover them up.”

“Where were you? You weren’t really working.”

He’d pulled down her hand. “Come on, let them be natural,” he said. “They’re not thin, they’re nice. I just never noticed them before.” He leaned back. “Alan, how’re you doing? You getting sleepy?”

“I was thinking. How much the city has changed,” Alan said. “In five years?”

“I’ve been here almost six years.”

“Sure, it’s changing. They’re coming down, we’re going up.”

Alan was thinking of the vanished Louise who had left him only a jolting ride home through the endless streets. “I know.”

That year they sat in the steam room on limp towels, breathing the eucalyptus and talking about Hardmann Roe. They walked to the showers like champions. Their flesh still had firmness. Their haunches were solid and young.

Hardmann Roe was a small drug company in Connecticut that had strayed slightly outside of its field and found itself suing a large manufacturer for infringement of an obscure patent. The case was highly technical with little chance of success. The opposing lawyers had thrown up a barricade of motions and delays and the case had made its way downwards, to Frik and Frak whose offices were near the copying machines, who had time for such things, and who pondered it amid the hiss of steam. No one else wanted it and this also made it appealing.

So they worked. They were students again, sitting around in polo shirts with their feet on the desk, throwing off hopeless ideas, crumpling wads of paper, staying late in the library and having the words blur in books.

They stayed on through vacations and weekends sometimes sleeping in the office and making coffee long before anyone came to work. After a late dinner they were still talking about it, its complexities, where elements somehow fit in, the sequence of letters, articles in journals, meetings, the limits of meaning. Brenda met a handsome Dutchman who worked for a bank. Alan met Hopie. Still there was this infinite forest, the trunks and vines blocking out the light, the roots of distant things joined. With every month that passed they were deeper into it, less certain of where they had been or if it could end. They had become like the old partners whose existence had been slowly sealed off, fewer calls, fewer consultations, lives that had become lunch. It was known they were swallowed up by the case with knowledge of little else. The opposite was true—no one else understood its details. Three years had passed. The length of time alone made it important. The reputation of the firm, at least in irony, was riding on them.

Two months before the case was to come to trial they quit Weyland, Braun. Frank sat down at the polished table for Sunday lunch. His father was one of the best men in the city. There is a kind of lawyer you trust and who becomes your friend. “What happened?” he wanted to know.

“We’re starting our own firm,” Frank said.

“What about the case you’ve been working on? You can’t leave them with a litigation you’ve spent years preparing.”

“We’re not. We’re taking it with us,” Frank said.

There was a moment of dreadful silence.

“Taking it with you? You can’t. You went to one of the best schools, Frank. They’ll sue you. You’ll ruin yourself.”

“We thought of that.”

“Listen to me,” his father said.

Everyone said that, his mother, his Uncle Cook, friends. It was worse than ruin, it was dishonor. His father said that.

Hardmann Roe never went to trial, as it turned out. Six weeks later there was a settlement. It was for thirty-eight million, a third of it their fee.

His father had been wrong, which was something you could not hope for. They weren’t sued either. That was settled, too. In place of ruin there were new offices overlooking Bryant Park which from above seemed like a garden behind a dark château, young clients, opera tickets, dinners in apartments with divorced hostesses, surrendered apartments with books and big, tiled kitchens.

The city was divided, as he had said, into those going up and those coming down, those in crowded restaurants and those on the street, those who waited and those who did not, those with three locks on the door and those rising in an elevator from a lobby with silver mirrors and walnut paneling.

And those like Mrs. Christie who was in the intermediate state though looking assured. She wanted to renegotiate the settlement with her ex-husband. Frank had leafed through the papers. “What do you think?” she asked candidly.

“I think it would be easier for you to get married again.”

She was in her fur coat, the dark lining displayed. She gave a little puff of disbelief. “It’s not that easy,” she said.

He didn’t know what it was like, she told him. Not long ago she’d been introduced to someone by a couple she knew very well. “We’ll go to dinner,” they said, “you’ll love him, you’re perfect for him, he likes to talk about books.”

They arrived at the apartment and the two women immediately went into the kitchen and began cooking. What did she think of him? She’d only had a glimpse, she said, but she liked him very much, his beautiful bald head, his dressing gown. She had begun to plan what she would do with the apartment which had too much blue in it. The man—Warren was his name—was silent all evening. He’d lost his job, her friend explained in the kitchen. Money was no problem, but he was depressed. “He’s had a shock,” she said. “He likes you.” And in fact he’d asked if he could see her again.

“Why don’t you come for tea, tomorrow?” he said.

“I could do that,” she said. “Of course. I’ll be in the neighborhood,” she added.

The next day she arrived at four with a bag filled with books, at least a hundred dollars worth which she’d bought as a present. He was in pajamas. There was no tea. He hardly seemed to know who she was or why she was there. She said she remembered she had to meet someone and left the books. Going down in the elevator she felt suddenly sick to her stomach.

“Well,” said Frank, “there might be a chance of getting the settlement overturned, Mrs. Christie, but it would mean a lot of expense.”

“I see.” Her voice was smaller. “Couldn’t you do it as one of those things where you got a percentage?”

“Not on this kind of case,” he said.

It was dusk. He offered her a drink. She worked her lips, in contemplation, one against the other. “Well, then, what can I do?”

Her life had been made up of disappointments, she told him, looking into her glass, most of them the result of foolishly falling in love. Going out with an older man just because he was wearing a white suit in Nashville which was where she was from. Agreeing to marry George Christie while they were sailing off the coast of Maine. “I don’t know where to get the money,” she said, “or how.”

She glanced up. She found him looking at her, without haste. The lights were coming on in buildings surrounding the park, in the streets, on homeward bound cars. They talked as evening fell. They went out to dinner.

At Christmas that year Alan and his wife broke up. “You’re kidding,” Frank said. He’d moved into a new place with thick towels and fine carpets. In the foyer was a Biedermeier desk, black, tan, and gold. Across the street was a private school.

Alan was staring out the window which was as cold as the side of a ship. “I don’t know what to do,” he said in despair. “I don’t want to get divorced. I don’t want to lose my daughter.” Her name was Camille. She was two.

“I know how you feel,” Frank said.

“If you had a kid, you’d know.”

“Have you seen this?” Frank asked. He held up the alumni magazine. It was the fifteenth anniversary of their graduation. “Know any of these guys?”

Five members of the class had been cited for achievement. Alan recognized two or three of them. “Cummings,” he said, “he was a zero—elected to Congress. Oh, God, I don’t know what to do.”

“Just don’t let her take the apartment,” Frank said.

Of course, it wasn’t that easy. It was easy when it was someone else. Nan Christie had decided to get married. She brought it up one evening.

“I just don’t think so,” he finally said.

“You love me, don’t you?”

“This isn’t a good time to ask.”

They lay silently. She was staring at something across the room. She was making him feel uncomfortable. “It wouldn’t work. It’s the attraction of opposites,” he said.

“We’re not opposites.”

“I don’t mean just you and me. Women fall in love when they get to know you. Men are just the opposite. When they finally know you they’re ready to leave.”

She got up without saying anything and began gathering her clothes. He watched her dress in silence. There was nothing interesting about it. The funny thing was that he had meant to go on with her.

“I’ll get you a cab,” he said.

“I used to think that you were intelligent,” she said, half to herself. Exhausted, he was searching for a number. “I don’t want a cab. I’m going to walk.”

“Across the park?”

“Yes.” She had an instant glimpse of herself in the next day’s paper. She paused at the door for a moment. “Good-bye,” she said coolly.

She wrote him a letter which he read several times. Of all the loves I have known, none has touched me so. Of all the men, no one has given me more. He showed it to Alan who did not comment.

“Let’s go out and have a drink,” Frank said.

They walked up Lexington. Frank looked carefree, the scarf around his neck, the open topcoat, the thinning hair. “Well, you know …” he managed to say.

They went into a place called Jack’s. Light was gleaming from the dark wood and the lines of glasses on narrow shelves. The young bartender stood with his hands on the edge of the bar. “How are you this evening?” he said with a smile. “Nice to see you again.”

“Do you know me?” Frank asked.

“You look familiar,” the bartender smiled.

“Do I? What’s the name of this place, anyway? Remind me not to come in here again.”

There were several other people at the bar. The nearest of them carefully looked away. After a while the manager came over. He had emerged from the brown-curtained back. “Anything wrong, sir?” he asked politely.

Frank looked at him. “No,” he said, “everything’s fine.”

“We’ve had a big day,” Alan explained. “We’re just unwinding.”

“We have a dining room upstairs,” the manager said. Behind him was an iron staircase winding past framed drawings of dogs—borzois they looked like. “We serve from six to eleven every night.”

“I bet you do,” Frank said. “Look, your bartender doesn’t know me.”

“He made a mistake,” the manager said.

“He doesn’t know me and he never will.”

“It’s nothing, it’s nothing,” Alan said, waving his hands.

They sat at a table by the window. “I can’t stand these out-of-work actors who think they’re everybody’s friend,” Frank commented.

At dinner they talked about Nan Christie. Alan thought of her silk dresses, her devotion. The trouble, he said after a while, was that he never seemed to meet that kind of woman, the ones who sometimes walked by outside Jack’s. The women he met were too human, he complained. Ever since his separation he’d been trying to find the right one.

“You shouldn’t have any trouble,” Frank said. “They’re all looking for someone like you.”

“They’re looking for you.”

“They think they are.”

Frank paid the check without looking at it. “Once you’ve been married,” Alan was explaining, “you want to be married again.”

“I don’t trust anyone enough to marry them,” Frank said.

“What do you want then?”

“This is all right,” Frank said.

Something was missing in him and women had always done anything to find out what it was. They always would. Perhaps it was simpler, Alan thought. Perhaps nothing was missing.

The car, which was a big Renault, a tourer, slowed down and pulled off the autostrada with Brenda asleep in back, her mouth a bit open and the daylight gleaming off her cheekbones. It was near Como, they had just crossed, the border police had glanced in at her.

“Come on, Bren, wake up,” they said, “we’re stopping for coffee.”

She came back from the ladies’ room with her hair combed and fresh lipstick on. The boy in the white jacket behind the counter was rinsing spoons.

“Hey, Brenda, I forget. Is it espresso or expresso?” Frank asked her.

“Espresso,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“I’m from New York,” she said.

“That’s right,” he remembered. “The Italians don’t have an x, do they?”

“They don’t have a j either,” Alan said.

“Why is that?”

“They’re such careless people,” Brenda said. “They just lost them.”

It was like old times. She was divorced from Doop or Boos or whoever. Her two little girls were with her mother. She had that quirky smile.

In Paris Frank had taken them to the Crazy Horse. In blackness like velvet the music struck up and six girls in unison kicked their legs in the brilliant light. They wore high heels and a little strapping. The nudity that is immortal. He was leaning on one elbow in the darkness. He glanced at Brenda. “Still studying, eh?” she said.

They were over for three weeks. Frank wasn’t sure, maybe they would stay longer, take a house in the south of France or something. Their clients would have to struggle along without them. There comes a time, he said, when you have to get away for a while.

They had breakfast together in hotels with the sound of workmen chipping at the stone of the fountain outside. They listened to the angry woman shouting in the kitchen, drove to little towns, and drank every night. They had separate rooms, like staterooms, like passengers on a fading boat.

At noon the light shifted along the curve of buildings and people were walking far off. A wave of pigeons rose before a trotting dog. The man at the table in front of them had a pair of binoculars and was looking here and there. Two Swedish girls strolled past.

“Now they’re turning dark,” the man said.

“What is?” said his wife.

“The pigeons.”

“Alan,” Frank confided.

“What?”

“The pigeons are turning dark.”

“That’s too bad.”

There was silence for a moment.

“Why don’t you just take a photograph?” the woman said.

“A photograph?”

“Of those women. You’re looking at them so much.”

He put down the binoculars.

“You know, the curve is so graceful,” she said. “It’s what makes this square so perfect.”

“Isn’t the weather glorious?” Frank said in the same tone of voice.

“And the pigeons,” Alan said.

“The pigeons, too.”

After a while the couple got up and left. The pigeons leapt up for a running child and hissed overhead. “I see you’re still playing games,” Brenda said. Frank smiled.

“We ought to get together in New York,” she said that evening. They were waiting for Alan to come down. She reached across the table to pick up a magazine. “You’ve never met my kids, have you?” she said.

“No.”

“They’re terrific kids.” She leafed through the pages not paying attention to them. Her forearms were tanned. She was not wearing a wedding band. The first act was over or rather the first five minutes. Now came the plot. “Do you remember those nights at Goldie’s?” she said.

“Things were different then, weren’t they?”

“Not so different.”

“What do you mean?”

She wiggled her bare third finger and glanced at him. Just then Alan appeared. He sat down and looked from one of them to the other. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Did I interrupt something?”

When the time came for her to leave she wanted them to drive to Rome. They could spend a couple of days and she would catch the plane. They weren’t going that way, Frank said.

“It’s only a three-hour drive.”

“I know, but we’re going the other way,” he said.

“For God’s sake. Why won’t you drive me?”

“Let’s do it,” Alan said.

“Go ahead. I’ll stay here.”

“You should have gone into politics,” Brenda said. “You have a real gift.”

After she was gone the mood of things changed. They were by themselves. They drove through the sleepy country to the north. The green water slapped as darkness fell on Venice. The lights in some palazzos were on. On the curtained upper floors the legs of countesses uncoiled, slithering on the sheets like a serpent.

In Harry’s, Frank held up a dense, icy glass and murmured his father’s line, “Good night, nurse.” He talked to some people at the next table, a German who was manager of a hotel in Düsseldorf and his girlfriend. She’d been looking at him. “Want a taste?” he asked her. It was his second. She drank looking directly at him. “Looks like you finished it,” he said.

“Yes, I like to do that.”

He smiled. When he was drinking he was strangely calm. In Lugano in the park that time a bird had sat on his shoe.

In the morning across the canal, wide as a river, the buildings of the Giudecca lay in their soft colors, a great sunken barge with roofs and the crowns of hidden trees. The first winds of autumn were blowing, ruffling the water.

Leaving Venice, Frank drove. He couldn’t ride in a car unless he was driving. Alan sat back, looking out the window, sunlight falling on the hillsides of antiquity. European days, the silence, the needle floating at a hundred.

In Padua, Alan woke early. The stands were being set up in the market. It was before daylight and cool. A man was laying out boards on the pavement, eight of them like doors to set bags of grain on. He was wearing the jacket from a suit. Searching in the truck he found some small pieces of wood and used them to shim the boards, testing with his foot.

The sky became violet. Under the colonnade the butchers had hung out chickens and roosters, spurred legs bound together. Two men sat trimming artichokes. The blue car of the carabiniere lazed past. The bags of rice and dry beans were set out now, the tops folded back like cuffs. A girl in a tailored coat with a scarf around her head called, “Signore,” then arrogantly, “dica!”

He saw the world afresh, its pavements and architecture, the names that had lasted for a thousand years. It seemed that his life was being clarified, the sediment was drifting down. Across the street in a jeweler’s shop a girl was laying things out in the window. She was wearing white gloves and arranging the pieces with great care. She glanced up as he stood watching. For a moment their eyes met, separated by the lighted glass. She was holding a lapis lazuli bracelet, the blue of the police car. Emboldened, he formed the silent words, Quanto costa? Tre cento settante mille, her lips said. It was eight in the morning when he got back to the hotel. A taxi pulled up and rattled the narrow street. A woman dressed for dinner got out and went inside.

The days passed. In Verona the points of the steeples and then its domes rose from the mist. The white-coated waiters appeared from the kitchen. Primi, secondi, dolce. They stopped in Arezzo. Frank came back to the table. He had some postcards. Alan was trying to write to his daughter once a week. He never knew what to say: where they were and what they’d seen. Giotto—what would that mean to her?

They sat in the car. Frank was wearing a soft tweed jacket. It was like cashmere—he’d been shopping in Missoni and everywhere, windbreakers, shoes. Schoolgirls in dark skirts were coming through an arch across the street. After a while one came through alone. She stood as if waiting for someone. Alan was studying the map. He felt the engine start. Very slowly they moved forward. The window glided down.

“Scusi, signorina,” he heard Frank say.

She turned. She had pure features and her face was without expression, as if a bird had turned to look, a bird which might suddenly fly away.

Which way, Frank asked her, was the centro, the center of town? She looked one way and then the other. “There,” she said.

“Are you sure?” he said. He turned his head unhurriedly to look more or less in the direction she was pointing.

“Si,” she said.

They were going to Siena, Frank said. There was silence. Did she know which road went to Siena?

She pointed the other way.

“Alan, you want to give her a ride?” he asked.

“What are you talking about?”

Two men in white smocks like doctors were working on the wooden doors of the church. They were up on top of some scaffolding. Frank reached back and opened the rear door.

“Do you want to go for a ride?” he asked. He made a little circular motion with his finger.

They drove through the streets in silence. The radio was playing. Nothing was said. Frank glanced at her in the rearview mirror once or twice. It was at the time of a famous murder in Poland, the killing of a priest. Dusk was falling. The lights were coming on in shop windows and evening papers were in the kiosks. The body of the murdered man lay in a long coffin in the upper right corner of the Corriere Della Sera. It was in clean clothes like a worker after a terrible accident.

“Would you like an aperitivo?” Frank asked over his shoulder.

“No,” she said.

They drove back to the church. He got out for a few minutes with her. His hair was very thin, Alan noticed. Strangely, it made him look younger. They stood talking, then she turned and walked down the street.

“What did you say to her?” Alan asked. He was nervous.

“I asked if she wanted a taxi.”

“We’re headed for trouble.”

“There’s not going to be any trouble,” Frank said.

His room was on the corner. It was large, with a sitting area near the windows. On the wooden floor there were two worn oriental carpets. On a glass cabinet in the bathroom were his hairbrush, lotions, cologne. The towels were a pale green with the name of the hotel in white. She didn’t look at any of that. He had given the portiere forty thousand lire. In Italy the laws were very strict. It was nearly the same hour of the afternoon. He kneeled to take off her shoes.

He had drawn the curtains but light came in around them. At one point she seemed to tremble, her body shuddered. “Are you all right?” he said.

She had closed her eyes.

Later, standing, he saw himself in the mirror. He seemed to have thickened around the waist. He turned so that it was less noticeable. He got into bed again but was too hasty. “Basta,” she finally said.

They went down later and met Alan in a café. It was hard for him to look at them. He began to talk in a foolish way. What was she studying at school, he asked. For God’s sake, Frank said. Well, what did her father do? She didn’t understand.

“What work does he do?”

“Furniture,” she said.

“He sells it?”

“Restauro.”

“In our country, no restauro,” Alan explained. He made a gesture. “Throw it away.”

“I’ve got to start running again,” Frank decided.

The next day was Saturday. He had the portiere call her number and hand him the phone.

“Hello, Eda? It’s Frank.”

“I know.”

“What are you doing?”

He didn’t understand her reply.

“We’re going to Florence. You want to come to Florence?” he said. There was a silence. “Why don’t you come and spend a few days?”

“No,” she said.

“Why not?”

In a quieter voice she said, “How do I explain?”

“You can think of something.”

At a table across the room children were playing cards while three well-dressed women, their mothers, sat and talked. There were cries of excitement as the cards were thrown down.

“Eda?”

She was still there. “Si,” she said.

In the hills they were burning leaves. The smoke was invisible but they could smell it as they passed through, like the smell from a restaurant or paper mill. It made Frank suddenly remember childhood and country houses, raking the lawn with his father long ago. The green signs began to say Firenze. It started to rain. The wipers swept silently across the glass. Everything was beautiful and dim.

They had dinner in a restaurant of plain rooms, whitewashed, like vaults in a cellar. She looked very young. She looked like a young dog, the white of her eyes was that pure. She said very little and played with a strip of pink paper that had come off the menu.

In the morning they walked aimlessly. The windows displayed things for women who were older, in their thirties at least, silk dresses, bracelets, scarves. In Fendi’s was a beautiful coat, the price beneath in small metal numbers.

“Do you like it?” he asked. “Come on, I’ll buy it for you.”

He wanted to see the coat in the window, he told them inside.

“For the signorina?”

“Yes.”

She seemed uncomprehending. Her face was lost in the fur. He touched her cheek through it.

“You know how much that is?” Alan said. “Four million five hundred thousand.”

“Do you like it?” Frank asked her.

She wore it continually. She watched the football matches on television in it, her legs curled beneath her. The room was in disorder, they hadn’t been out all day.

“What do you say to leaving here?” Alan asked unexpectedly. The announcers were shouting in Italian. “I thought I’d like to see Spoleto.”

“Sure. Where is it?” Frank said. He had his hand on her knee and was rubbing it with the barest movement, as one might a dozing cat.

The countryside was flat and misty. They were leaving the past behind them, unwashed glasses, towels on the bathroom floor. There was a stain on his lapel, Frank noticed in the dining room. He tried to get it off as the headwaiter grated fresh Parmesan over each plate. He dipped the corner of his napkin in water and rubbed the spot. The table was near the doorway, visible from the desk. Eda was fixing an earring.

“Cover it with your napkin,” Alan told him.

“Here, get this off, will you?” he asked Eda.

She scratched at it quickly with her fingernail.

“What am I going to do without her?” Frank said.

“What do you mean, without her?”

“So this is Spoleto,” he said. The spot was gone. “Let’s have some more wine.” He called the waiter. “Senta. Tell him,” he said to Eda.

They laughed and talked about old times, the days when they were getting eight hundred dollars a week and working ten, twelve hours a day. They remembered Weyland and the veins in his nose. The word he always used was “vivid,” testimony a bit too vivid, far too vivid, a rather vivid decor.

They left talking loudly. Eda was close between them in her huge coat. “Alla rovina,” the clerk at the front desk muttered as they reached the street, “alle macerie,” he said, the girl at the switchboard looked over at him, “alla polvere.” It was something about rubbish and dust.

The mornings grew cold. In the garden there were leaves piled against the table legs. Alan sat alone in the bar. A waitress, the one with the mole on her lip, came in and began to work the coffee machine. Frank came down. He had an overcoat across his shoulders. In his shirt without a tie he looked like a rich patient in some hospital. He looked like a man who owned a produce business and had been playing cards all night.

“So, what do you think?” Alan said.

Frank sat down. “Beautiful day,” he commented. “Maybe we ought to go somewhere.”

In the room, perhaps in the entire hotel, their voices were the only sound, irregular and low, like the soft strokes of someone sweeping. One muted sound, then another.

“Where’s Eda?”

“She’s taking a bath.”

“I thought I’d say good-bye to her.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m going home.”

“What happened?” Frank said.

Alan could see himself in the mirror behind the bar, his sandy hair. He looked pale somehow, nonexistent. “Nothing happened,” he said. She had come into the bar and was sitting at the other end of the room. He felt a tightness in his chest. “Europe depresses me.”

Frank was looking at him. “Is it Eda?”

“No. I don’t know.” It seemed terribly quiet. Alan put his hands in his lap. They were trembling.

“Is that all it is? We can share her,” Frank said.

“What do you mean?” He was too nervous to say it right. He stole a glance at Eda. She was looking at something outside in the garden.

“Eda,” Frank called, “do you want something to drink? Cosa vuoi?” He made a motion of glass raised to the mouth. In college he had been a great favorite. Shuford had been shortened to Shuf and then Shoes. He had run in the Penn Relays. His mother could trace her family back for six generations.

“Orange juice,” she said.

They sat there talking quietly. That was often the case, Eda had noticed. They talked about business or things in New York.

When they came back to the hotel that night, Frank explained it. She understood in an instant. No. She shook her head. Alan was sitting alone in the bar. He was drinking some kind of sweet liqueur. It wouldn’t happen, he knew. It didn’t matter anyway. Still, he felt shamed. The hotel above his head, its corridors and quiet rooms, what else were they for?

Frank and Eda came in. He managed to turn to them. She seemed impassive—he could not tell. What was this he was drinking, he finally asked? She didn’t understand the question. He saw Frank nod once slightly, as if in agreement. They were like thieves.

In the morning the first light was blue on the window glass. There was the sound of rain. It was leaves blowing in the garden, shifting across the gravel. Alan slipped from the bed to fasten the loose shutter. Below, half hidden in the hedges, a statue gleamed white. The few parked cars shone faintly. She was asleep, the soft, heavy pillow beneath her head. He was afraid to wake her. “Eda,” he whispered, “Eda.”

Her eyes opened a bit and closed. She was young and could stay asleep. He was afraid to touch her. She was unhappy, he knew, her bare neck, her hair, things he could not see. It would be a while before they were used to it. He didn’t know what to do. Apart from that, it was perfect. It was the most natural thing in the world. He would buy her something himself, something beautiful.

In the bathroom he lingered at the window. He was thinking of the first day they had come to work at Weyland, Braun—he and Frank. They would become inseparable. Autumn in the gardens of the Veneto. It was barely dawn. He would always remember meeting Frank. He couldn’t have done these things himself. A young man in a cap suddenly came out of a doorway below. He crossed the driveway and jumped onto a motorbike. The engine started, a faint blur. The headlight appeared and off he went, delivery basket in back. He was going to get the rolls for breakfast. His life was simple. The air was pure and cool. He was part of that great, unchanging order of those who live by wages, whose world is unlit and who do not realize what is above.