A sailor came over to us with a tray full of glasses of champagne. We each took a glass and followed Mr. Andriotti out to the front deck where a very tall woman in a black bathing suit was lying in the sun. We all sat down under a pink awning in the shade and sipped champagne while the woman got a sailor to rub suntan oil on the back of her legs.

I tried not to look like I had never had champagne before. I looked to see if you were supposed to drink it fast or slow. I copied Gino and took a sip whenever he did. Pretty soon we finished the first glass. The sailor gave us more so we sipped that too.

Then a ship’s bell rang and we all went back to the dining room. I noticed that Gino and I had drunk a lot of champagne. I was having trouble walking but no one seemed to mind.

At lunch we had smoked salmon that the lunch-time sailor cut right off a whole fish that was on a silver fish-shaped platter. Another sailor stood behind our chairs and kept pouring white wine in our glasses and serving us capers and chopped hardboiled egg and onion to go with the fish.

Gino saw how I was fumbling with my fork and he put his hand over my glass when the sailor was about to pour more wine and shook his head. The sailor bowed and stepped back and didn’t give me any more after that.

Gino and Mr. Andriotti both were talking about painting and about a new gallery that Gino was thinking of having represent him. Mr. Andriotti was very polite. Every couple of minutes he’d stop speaking Italian and turn to me and repeat what they were saying in English so I could follow along, which I thought was very nice of him. I wanted to tell him how very, very nice I thought he was but I had trouble thinking about the words. When I tried to say, “I think you’re . . .” I started to laugh for some reason so I stopped and watched the horizon go up and down through the porthole instead of talking.

When lunch was over we went to the back part of the deck next to the dock. Mr. Andriotti smoked a cigar and Gino smoked his cigarettes. Mr. Andriotti offered me a cigar but I said, “No thank you.” As he put the silver cigar box back on the coffee table he said, “These are the besta—Monte Christo, Cuban. If youa change you mind, ‘elp yourself.”