I don’t think Spinola would be very surprised to discover I had a secret past. He speaks Ivan almost as well as I do, and I’m more or less certain he was an officer with the Italian 8th Army in Russia and must have been one of the lucky ones who got out in 1943 following the rout at the Battle of Nikolajewka. He doesn’t talk about the war, of course. That’s the great thing about bridge. Nobody talks about anything very much. It’s the perfect game for people who have something to hide. I tried to teach it to Elisabeth but she didn’t have the patience for the drills I wanted to show her that would have made her a better player. Another reason she didn’t take to the game was that she doesn’t speak English—which is the language we play bridge in because that’s the only language the Roses can speak.

A day or two after the arrival of Hennig at the Grand Hôtel I went down to La Voile d’Or to play bridge with Spinola and the Roses. As usual they were late and I found Spinola sitting at the bar, staring blankly at the wallpaper. He was in a somber mood, chain-smoking Gauloises in his short ebony holder and drinking Americanos. With his dark curly hair, easy smile, and muscular good looks, he always reminded me a little of the film actor Cornel Wilde.

“What are you doing?” I asked, speaking Russian to him. Speaking Russian to each other was how we kept in practice, as there were few Russians who ever came to the hotel or to the casino.

“Enjoying the view.”

I turned and pointed at the terrace and beyond it, the view of the port.

“The view’s that way.”

“I’ve seen it before. Besides, I prefer this one. It doesn’t remind me of anything I’d rather not remember.”

“That kind of day, huh?”

“They’re all that kind of day down here. Don’t you find?”

“Sure. Life’s shit. But don’t tell anyone here in Cap Ferrat. The disappointment would kill them.”

He shook his head. “I know all about disappointment, believe me. I’ve been seeing this woman. And now I’m not. Which is a pity. But I had to end it. She was married and it was getting difficult. Anyway, she took it quite badly. Threatened to shoot herself.”

“That’s a very French thing to do. Shoot yourself. It’s the only kind of French marksmanship you can rely on in a fix.”

“You’re so very German, Walter.”

He bought me a drink and then looked at me squarely.

“Sometimes, I look in your eyes across the bridge table and I see a lot more than a hand of cards.”

“You’re telling me I’m a bad player.”