I moved in his direction, passing the TV, on which pundits were pantomiming the scandalized incredulity that had become the default facial expression among commentators during this campaign. The cause was more misogyny—on this occasion, leaked tapes of the Republican candidate bragging about assaulting women. Seeing me, Marco turned from the tight throng surrounding him and grabbed my shoulder, hugging me with unusual warmth.

“Really touched, really touched by the champagne.”

I smiled, glad he’d understood the gesture even though he clearly wasn’t in any imminent danger of blowing his brains out.

“It’s a new day, right?” he said, staring into my eyes.

I nodded, not sure what he meant. He gripped my arm.

“You heard the news, I assume?”

“You mean . . . about these tapes?” I gestured at the TV.

“What? Oh, well, yes, the guy’s obviously toast, but no . . . Oh, hold on . . .” He detached himself from me. “Chiara!”

A woman with vigorous features and hair piled in a dissheveled updo had appeared next to us. She and Marco embraced warmly and began speaking in Italian, Marco with his mother’s sinuous Milanese accent. I realized I’d never heard him speak Italian before—it was like having an entirely new side of his personality revealed—subtler and more cunning than the one I knew. He broke off to introduce the woman: a filmmaker who’d made a documentary about the trafficking of women refugees that had won great acclaim in Europe and was about to come out in the States. The Cinema Collective, of which Marco was a board member, was involved in its release.

“It’s getting serious attention,” Marco said. “Chiara’s going to be on Charlie Rose next week, and Leonard Lopate . . .”

They began speaking in Italian again. I moved away, wondering what Marco’s news could be. Some major development with his own documentary, I guessed, judging from the happy atmosphere of his household. Across the room I saw Hanan leaning against a door-jamb in a cluster of people, listening thoughtfully to their conversation. I caught her eye, and after a momentary blankness she smiled, flashing her even teeth.

“Oh, hello!”

We exchanged some pleasantries. I thought that would be that, but she stepped toward me, her coutured silk top catching the light in ripples like sculpted drapery.

“Actually I wanted to talk to you.”

She spoke in a quiet, intimate tone, as if we knew each other better than we really did, and evidently confident that I would acquiesce in the change of register. It crossed my mind that she might want to question me about that message of Julia’s on the answering machine last month, and I realized I still hadn’t asked Marco what he’d told her. But I was on the wrong track entirely.

“Marco says your wife gave up her career when you and she had children . . . is that really true?”