To his relief, the distraction worked—Maria’s attention span was now short. At once, and with an eager smile, she opened the leather satchel she had brought back from Morocco, which one of the aides, as instructed, had placed beside her in the car. One by one she began to examine the small, pretty items it contained. She knew what they were, for she had purchased them herself, but even so she held up each object with a gasp of surprise and delight, as if this satchel were a party grab bag and she were a child.

The visit to the Morocco house had been Maria’s sudden whim. It came to her at nine at night the previous Friday; they left two hours later by private jet. But Maria had been restless and tearful the entire way. They no sooner arrived in Fez than she wanted to return.

Lazare, anticipating this, had made arrangements. The Jeep was prepared and waiting. After a little food, which Maria would not touch, they were driven out into the desert. There they would watch as the mountains, invisible in the darkness when they set out, emerged in that exquisite light, rose and azure, that composed a desert dawn. This sight, which had delighted her in the past, diverted her only briefly. Lazare took her hand.

“Darling, look,” he said. “You see that peak there? You see the snow, Maria? Look how the light makes it gold.”

“It’s cold, Jean. I want to go home.”

“Darling, just a few minutes more. Stand close to me. Wrap your fur tighter. I’ll put my arm around you—there. Think, darling, don’t you remember the collection in ’eighty-five? We came here then, Maria. We stood in the very place we’re standing now. You were so worried about that collection—no inspiration, no ideas, you said—not one! Then we watched the light—and it came to you. Those colors. You remember? We drove straight home, and you began drawing, pages and pages of drawings, the most wonderful drawings. So light, so delicate—and the colors, Maria, you must remember the colors. That year you made clothes for goddesses. No one who saw them will ever forget them. People talk about them still.”

“That was then. This is now. I was happy then. I’m not happy now.”

“Darling, you are. We both are.” He embraced her, and she trembled.

“Jean, I need my present. Can I have my present now? You promised me. You said in the morning. It’s morning now.”

“Very well,” he had replied.

Then they drove back to the villa, very fast. He sent the servants away. He took her into her favorite place, a secluded inner courtyard. In its enclosure there was a formal Moorish garden with jasmine plants and orange trees. There was a small fountain, its water tumbling into a stone cistern lined with tiles of lapis and gold. The only sound was the murmur of the water. Lazare seated her on a stone bench by the fountain, and then, with his usual care and ceremony, he placed the small white box with its silver cord ties in her hand.