I turned and went back into the house, upset and confused. Guilty, too, though I had no sense of having forced or even subtly pressured her into sleeping with me. Should I have actively discouraged her, though? Was it my responsibility to think through the situation from her point of view as well as my own? I couldn’t help remembering that comment of hers about people having sex reluctantly, herself included, and of course I couldn’t help thinking about Julia’s accusation against Marco, and wondering if I’d just been accused—albeit within the entirely private precinct of our home—of the same thing, and if so, how I should react.

The episode faded fairly quickly and we moved on, but I imagine it affected the way I viewed Marco’s plight, his “ordeal,” as it continued evolving over the next several months. I don’t know whether it made me more sympathetic or less. But it certainly made me more interested.

6

6

HE CALLED ME after his return from London.

“Victory!” he shouted into the phone.

Was I momentarily dismayed? I can’t think why I would have been, but memory persists in noting a split second’s shadow falling before the appropriate response rose to my lips.

“That’s wonderful, Marco!”

He told me the full story a couple of weeks later when I had a meeting in the city and decided to make a night of it.

I dropped off my things at his house, and we walked to our usual restaurant under the sycamores, the darkness and quiet of the neighborhood with its ornate old brownstones and occasional modern apartment buildings reminding us both of the London we’d grown up in, though with that wilder atmosphere of even the most genteel New York neighborhoods—the pervasive sense of more reckless lives being lived under more unpredictable conditions. We’d agreed early on in our friendship that this quality was what gave this city its edge over London, and was one of the reasons why we preferred to live here.

“My treat this time,” Marco said as we entered. “I’m in the mood for a celebration.”

The place was packed, with a good roar of happy voices ­blasting out through the door. The maitre d’ greeted us warmly and led us to a corner table. Busboys hurried over, eagerly plying us with ice water and crostini as if we’d crossed deserts to get there and were in urgent need of resuscitation. A waitress, new since we’d last visited, asked if we’d like to hear about the evening’s special cocktails.