Miles saw one of his own shirts go into a bag. “Why are you going?” he asked.

“Why do you think?”

Miles wondered why he had never tried to find Christopher a job here, to keep him occupied. He could have helped the oil wives decorate their houses.

“You’re cold,” Christopher said. “You can maim a man and live with these monsters. I can’t. I have to go home.”

“Please,” Miles said. It couldn’t be said he hadn’t suffered for the lost hand. That, anyway, was what Eugénie said.

“Don’t please me.” Christopher pushed past him to the bureau.

It came as a surprise to Miles that Christopher could go, but he did. He got on a plane without Miles’s permission and went back to England, leaving Miles stunned and amazed. Christopher had been twenty-five when they met in Biarritz: an arrogant, pretty boy who liked to lie back, be adored, have things done to him, then order banana daiquiris from room service. Miles had gone along for a time, but Christopher had grown up since then, risen to Miles’s challenges, become more interesting at dinner and in bed. The thought struck Miles that he had cultivated Christopher to the point where he could imagine living out his life with him, only to lose him to someone, to others, who wouldn’t appreciate how far Christopher had come, and who might see the persistent boyishness as a reason for disdain, and not for love.

Angelo stayed on, a constant reproach. He fumbled at first, but soon became deft with the plates, holding a clean one tucked under his right elbow while he whisked another away with his good left hand. His skill was as excruciating to Miles as his fumbling, and Miles began to stay at the embassy late, so he could have his dinner left out for him and avoid being waited on by a man with such reason to hate him.