And the lake itself? Well, there are the fishermen, plying the waters. There are the patrol boats, mostly German. In times of peace, there were countless pleasure craft, but nobody sails Lake Constance for pleasure at the moment. Margaret explained to me that there is a peculiarity of borders on this lake, which is really just a wide spot on the Rhine; that no official treaty governs exactly what belongs to Germany and to Switzerland and to Austria. The Swiss believe the border runs right down the middle of the lake. The Austrians believe everybody holds it in common. And the Germans, well, they’ve got no official position at all, so that everybody sort of dances about on this water, patrols circling each other edgily, a choreography of suspicion. About a quarter mile out, a fishing boat hauls in its net; I can just see the little ant-men and their miniature spiderweb.

“Excuse me, madame. Is there room on this bench?”

For an instant, I think it’s another one of the Swiss guards, patrolling up and down the esplanade with his rifle. But it’s only a civilian, a man in a gray overcoat and felt hat, medium build, handsome as the devil. He’s addressed me in French, too, whereas most of the Swiss in this part of the country speak German.

I slide a foot or two to the right. “Naturally, monsieur.”

He sits with a flourish. “A beautiful afternoon, isn’t it? But I think the weather may turn.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes. The lake is notorious for storms. The winds, you see, come down from the mountains in astonishing gusts. Sometimes the waves reach two or three meters in height.”

“Dear me. How dangerous.”

“Yes. The fishermen stay in port, even the patrol boats stay in port. Only the foolhardy venture out.”

He’s got a beautiful, rich voice, this fellow, and he doesn’t seem to notice that my accent—while excellent, I do admit, having a certain ear for music that helps in such matters—isn’t exactly authentic to a native speaker. (Neither is his, if we’re keeping score.) Like me, he seems to be staring ahead, watching this fishing boat haul in its catch. A small, jagged line of white forms and disappears on the surface of the water, as if to confirm his words.

“The foolhardy,” I say, “and also the brave.”

“Brave? I wouldn’t say that. Desperate, perhaps. Like a bear in winter.”

I repeat the words slowly. “A bear in winter.”

“Yes, madame. A bear. Ursus, if you prefer the Latin name.”

“Ursus. Yes.”

“A bear and her cub. I’ve heard—on the radio, just this afternoon—they wait for just such a night as this one, when the weather is too terrible for anyone else to risk their lives.”

“It sounds dangerous.”