I thanked her and tried to seem pleased at this information, getting the feeling that anyone who did not go to some kind of church was probably damned to hell. Actually, I found myself keen to visit a Catholic church and suggested to my landlady that I might want to attend at San Marco. She nodded approval. “So beautiful,” she said. “Maybe you will learn to accept the true faith after all.”

We ate breakfast together—no fresh rolls today as the bakeries were closed, but cold cuts and peaches, sitting by the open window and listening to a distant bell. Then I walked to the basilica. I had only seen it as a visiting tourist before. Now it was full of people. A choir processed in, their singing echoing to the domes above. Light shone in through windows in the dome, illuminating first one alcove, then another. Gold sparkled everywhere. Gems flashed on the high altar. The sweet smell of incense wafted through the air. Used as I was to the simplicity of the English country church, I found this overwhelming, as if I was witnessing a spectacle, not a place to pray. I tried to follow the order of the Mass in a book that was half in Italian and half in Latin but was hopelessly lost. A bell rang. They knelt. Another bell. They stood. I was always half a beat late for everything and with no idea what was happening. Suddenly I felt alone. All of these people sitting with their families—a long line of children next to proud parents, the smallest one wriggling and being taken on to a father’s knee. And I had nobody.

I came out feeling uncomfortable and unsatisfied. Maybe next week I would try St George’s after all.

I had mentioned to the signora that I was invited to a soirée on the Lido—by a countess, no less. She was quite impressed and suggested that we have lunch together since I would be out for the evening meal I had paid for. So I returned from church, passing families heading for the vaporetto stops, carrying picnic supplies and towels. I thought a swim might be a good idea, but I had already accepted my landlady’s luncheon invitation. I could tell Signora Martinelli had made an effort. There was a lace cloth on the dining table, not at the kitchen table where we usually ate. She served antipasto of melon with prosciutto, then a pasta dish sprinkled with cheese and finally a small pork chop, grilled with courgettes. I was now aware that the meat was probably a big sacrifice for her and glad that my rent would mean an occasional meat meal. She even opened a bottle of red wine.