“Oh, I see. Some of my best friends are drunks, that it?”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said.

I apologized, said I’d tell her the whole sordid story when I got to know her better, then decided to tell her now, to get it over with and see if she’d run—just the highlights or lowlights—both my parents drinkers, how I’d started when I was twelve, the DWI at sixteen. “I’ve already scoped out an AA room, in a church, here in Florence. They’re always in a church or school or community center basement, very glamorous.”

“Have you gone?”

“No,” I said, explaining it was purely backup, that I wouldn’t go unless I had the urge to drink, and I hadn’t wanted to in years. I felt better now that I’d told her, and she seemed totally unperturbed, already talking about her Florence sublet and how much she loved the city. She was either a good actress or really didn’t care. I nibbled an olive and watched her speak, the natural curve of her lips, the way she swiped her hair behind her ears, ordinary things, but on her, nothing was ordinary. I tried to understand what it was about her that was special: her beauty, her poise, how easily we talked, how she hadn’t seemed to judge me. There was something else too, an elusive quality, like a butterfly that only temporarily alighted, then flew away. I didn’t say much, happy to listen to her, could feel myself becoming more and more entranced by this woman I hardly knew. Was it that she felt unattainable, a challenge, the way I’d too often felt about women in the past—as conquests? Or was it that she had already conquered me?

I ordered dinner for us, speaking to the waiter in my best Italian, and Alexandra seemed impressed. When the food came, I was starving, though Alexandra only picked at hers. She asked again about my research, and I said I didn’t know.

“You mean you won’t tell me.”

“No, I would. I just haven’t put it together yet.” And it was true. I wasn’t sure what mysteries the journal would reveal and what they might mean.

The conversation was interrupted by a commotion at a table across the room, one hidden in the shadows, the candle on the table creating an eerie underlight on the waiter’s face, and he was speaking loudly.

“He’s saying something about not smoking,” I said, “and something about a cigar. It’s odd.”

“What is?”

“The guy is wearing a hat. Indoors. Oh, he’s put it out.”

“The hat?”

“No, the cigar.” I could no longer see the red glow of its tip, and the waiter was clearing the table. Someone hurried past our table, a blur, then the front door opened and slammed shut with a blast of cold air.

Alexandra exaggerated a shiver and leaned across the table as if to warm herself on the candle. I got a whiff of her perfume, the scent familiar.