But that was history. The fear and agony had faded, as they’d faded after Kip, and now Iris stared down at Jack, so small and yet such a little boy now, all traces of babyhood slipped right through her fingers, she felt the familiar stir in her belly—the clutch of longing.

She turned and slipped out the door and down the hall to the bedroom she shared with Sasha. The door was closed—she pushed it open and turned her head away from the empty bed.

The dressing room connected the bedroom to the bathroom. Iris laid her pocketbook on the dresser—wriggled out of her dress—hung it in the wardrobe. She sat on the stool and removed her stockings and slip, found a nightgown to slip over her underthings. Before heading into the bathroom, she emptied out her pocketbook, so she could put away her lipstick and compact.

But the lipstick and compact wouldn’t fall free. Something else lay on top of them at a particular angle, trapping the objects within. Iris stuck her fingers between the lips to dislodge this thing, which turned out to be a calling card. She pulled it out and held it to the light.

On the face of the card, the name C. SUMNER FOX appeared in raised black letters. Underneath, in smaller type, was an American telephone number with a Washington exchange. On the back, in sharp, masculine handwriting, someone had written In case of need, followed by a telephone number in Mayfair.

Ruth

JUNE 1952

Rome, Italy

I wake the next morning to a noise both obnoxious and distantly familiar. I take in the plaster walls and wooden beams of a small, white room, and for a moment I have no idea where I am, or even who I am. Then I remember I’m in Rome, in the attic of Orlovsky’s old atelier, and that noise is the particular noise of an Italian telephone ringing its head off.

The bedroom is tiny and hot, designed for servants, and the telephone’s on the floor below. I experience a moment of crisis when I stagger into the hall and lose my way to the staircase. The telephone keeps ringing. At last I stumble through the doorway of the studio and find it. “Hello?” I mumble.

“Good morning, bambina. Have I wake you?”

“What time is it?”

“Half past ten o’clock.”

“Half past ten?”

“Never mind,” Orlovsky says soothingly. “Is good to sleep. And I am working on your behalf this morning.”

“Oh? What have you done?”

“First put on your dress and have coffee. You remember café, end of street?”

“Yes, but—”

“Meet me for lunch. I explain everything there.”

“Why can’t you just come here?”

“Because I have loose ends, bambina. Lunch at half past noon, is okay?”

“I don’t have time for lunch!”

“You must eat, however. So we meet and have lunch and discuss things in rational manner. Good-bye.”