In the Campo Ghetto Nuovo the five of them sat drinking Campari in the last warmth of a May evening – the spring’s heat was still tentative, hadn’t consolidated yet into summer. The women pulled light scarves around their shoulders. The rosy, dusky air was filled with the effervescent spritzing of darting swifts; yeshiva scholars with side locks came in and out of lit rooms belonging to some American foundation. Too many tourists drifted through the square, breaking up the picture, disproportionate to the substratum of local life, which nonetheless maintained its steady purposefulness, pretending to be oblivious of them – men heading home swinging briefcases, old ladies gossiping indignantly on the bridges, children’s high musical voices glancing in rapid flight, like the swallows, against the water and along the walls of pinkish brick and stucco. A cake shop was open, selling dolci ebraici, thin rolls of pastry stuffed with almond paste. They felt the guilt of being tourists, of Venice unravelling at its edges – and for so many decades and centuries now – into something frayed and spoiled. But it was also all exquisite and exalting: they had come from the Madonna dell’Orto full of Tintorettos, and this was the second Campari. Where could one go in the whole world, seriously, and not feel guilty?

— Stay at home, Alex said severely.

The others protested, he was such a puritan. — How can you, Alex? We wouldn’t have seen what we’ve seen, we wouldn’t have had today!

Alex said that from the perspective of another age, we would one day understand that tourism had been as despoiling as the oil industry, or cutting down rainforests.

— Don’t preach, Christine complained. — This isn’t an assembly.

Nathan argued in favour of mass tourism, small blue eyes animated in his craggy face. — Don’t you think it’s pious, all this cult of the unspoiled? When was anywhere ever not spoiled, when was anything authentic? In a century’s time they’ll be writing PhD theses about the sad decline of the traditional British stag party trip to Prague.

— What nonsense you talk, Lydia said to him indulgently. — You just say the opposite to what everyone else thinks. Is that why people think you’re so clever?

— I’ve no interest myself, incidentally, he said, — in travel. Don’t see the point of moving from one place to another, seeing things. I’m only here for the drink and because of you nice folk.