He stood close, eyeing me fiercely from under the sharp angle of his brow. I knew he was waiting for me to be properly appalled—for his sake, not just his daughter’s—at what he was contemplating. I couldn’t bring myself to oblige him though. There seemed to me something maudlin about the situation, melodramatic, that shouldn’t be indulged. And I couldn’t help feeling that slight pressure again: a not so subtle attempt to reinforce his image in my mind as a figure of tragic honor and pathos, and to lay claim to the role of victim in this story. I didn’t necessarily dispute either point, but I didn’t like the feeling of being coerced.

“I’m sure you’ll win this battle, Marco,” I said.

He slid the drawer shut and turned away with a look of such unmistakable hurt that I felt at once ashamed of my coldness, and spent the rest of the day trying to make up for it.

4

4

BUT I WAS RIGHT about him winning the battle, even though it came about for reasons so unexpected as to seem absurd—farcical almost.

I was already in London, at my mother’s hospital bedside, while this next set of events was occurring. As I say, I had more pressing things on my mind than Marco’s troubles, and Marco was tactful enough to keep his distance. I heard nothing from him, in fact, until this particular chapter was over. He sent me an email:

Just to let you know, Renata Shenker backed down. No need to write back, but I thought you’d want to be told. Hope you’re bearing up ok. M

I was curious, naturally, and despite the drama unfolding in my own life, I emailed back to arrange a call.

He kept his tone carefully restrained when we spoke, but I could tell he was jubilant, reveling again in the joy of victory. Even the roundabout way he told me the story had something transparently gleeful about it. He’d obviously enjoyed himself thinking of the juiciest way to recount it.

“Have you heard of Hanna Reitsch?” he began.

“I don’t think so.”