“May I help you?” I asked the professor’s wife, who had appeared with a tray of small plates.

“Oh no, thank you. You are our guests tonight,” she said, placing a plate in front of me. It contained a single octopus tentacle set amid some salad greens. Having had one at the Danieli last year, I was not put off by the look of it, but I could tell that Henry and Franz were eyeing it with alarm.

“Our local delicacy,” the professor said. “Shall we say grace, Father?”

The priest crossed himself, then muttered something in Latin. The others, except for Henry and myself, all crossed themselves. I would have to learn things like this if I wanted to fit in. I took a tentative mouthful of octopus, and it was as soft as butter, with a slight spiciness to it. Delicious, in fact. But I saw Henry trying to hide his under a lettuce leaf. I gave him an understanding grin.

Next came a pasta dish with tiny shrimp and then veal with a rich and herby tomato sauce. Last of all was tiramisu, my favourite Italian dessert to date. I think everyone cleared their plates. I know I did. The professor’s wife beamed with pleasure.

“You young people must come here when you need a good meal,” she said. “Or a shoulder to cry on. Or to complain about my husband and what a harsh teacher he is.”

“For their own good, Angelica,” he said. “If I do not break down their stereotypes and rules, how will they find their expression?”

Throughout the dinner I had been engaged in conversation with the contessa. She told me she had been born in Poland but brought to Paris as a young child. Her parents were Jewish é migré s. As a young woman, she had modelled for various artists, including some well-known impressionists, and later expressionists.

“I knew Mary Cassatt,” she said. “And I modelled for Manet, and Berthe Morisot. Later for Picasso once. But he had too much of a roving eye, and his mistress was terribly jealous.” She touched my hand. “Some of them gave me sketches as a token of their appreciation.”

“Incredible,” I said. “You still have them, I hope?”

“Oh yes. I kept them as insurance against future poverty,” she said. “Fortunately, I married a rich Italian count and have been well taken care of.”

“Your husband also likes art?” I asked.

“My husband died twenty years ago, my dear. I have been a lonely widow ever since, but I surround myself with amusing people, and I still love to collect art.” She waved a finger at me. “You must come to my soirées. You will meet the most stimulating people. Father Trevisan here is always my guest, but it is more for my wine cellar than my conversation that he comes, I believe. Your dear professor often attends. And of course Vittorio is my little shadow.”