“Sure. We’re going to the house of Berardo Turrini.”

“That surname isn’t new to me. Any relation to Laura Turrini, director of the Vallée Savings Bank?”

“He’s her husband. The head physician.”

TO CALL THE RESIDENCE OF BERARDO TURRINI A HOUSE WAS certainly reductive and clearly inadequate. You entered the property through a double gate surmounted by six antique wrought-iron lamps. Rocco and Anna drove along a narrow lane lined by a double row of poplar trees, their white trunks standing out like skeletons in the dark of night. The villa was gigantic, illuminated brightly for the party. Rocco stopped to observe it after parking the car on the lawn amidst other vehicles, each of which was worth more than the GDP of an African nation. Three stories of modern architecture, a spectacular triumph of glass, wood, and stone. “Not bad, eh?” said Anna, taking care where she stepped, lest she sprain an ankle in her high heels. But the lawn was solid, an expanse of green velvet.

They walked along a gravel driveway and finally arrived at the front door of the home, which was an enormous glass arch leading into the rooms on the ground floor. A lively crowd of people were milling around with glasses in their hands; uniformed waiters fluttered here and there carrying precariously balanced trays. As soon as the couple entered, an elderly, completely bald waiter extended his arms to take their overcoats and then turned to go. “Are we going to see them again, those overcoats? I left my wallet in mine,” Rocco said. Anna didn’t even dignify it with a response.

Soft diffuse lights gently illuminated the artworks hanging on the walls. Rocco jerked in surprise as he approached a canvas with a slash at the center. The rest of the paintings were every bit up to the same level. A Burri, a Boetti tapestry, a considerable number of pencil drawings by artists ranging from Miró to Léger.

“Does a head physician really make this much money?”

“It’s family money, Rocco. Now stop drooling over these things and let’s go introduce ourselves.”

“Anna!” A man in his late fifties approached with both arms thrown wide-open. He was bronzed, with gleaming white hair and a black suit worn casually over a simple T-shirt the same color. “At last!”

“Berardo!” They embraced. The usual double kiss, one on each cheek. “May I introduce Dottor Schiavone?”

“I know him by reputation,” the man said, with a faint smile. They shook hands. Rocco took in the house at a glance. “So does a person have to buy a ticket to come see you?”

Berardo broke into a deafening laugh. “I see that you appreciate contemporary art. Come along, let me introduce you to my wife.”