I asked her about her family. Her husband had been dead for many years, but she had a son who now lived in Milan. He came to visit occasionally. His wife was not too simpatico. And they had no children. “Can you imagine? No children. Not one grandchild.”

“My mother doesn’t have any grandchildren yet,” I said, “but I expect my sister, Winnie, will produce one soon. She hasn’t been married long.”

“And you? Why do you not marry? You are an attractive woman. There was never a man you wanted?”

“I live in a village and take care of my mother. I teach in a girls’ school. There is really no opportunity to meet men.”

“Maybe you will meet a good Italian man while you are here,” she said.

I smiled. “That would be nice, but I have to return to my mother, I’m afraid.”

We finished the meal with more fruit, and I helped her wash up. My head was feeling a little woozy, as I was not used to drinking in the middle of the day. Not used to drinking at all, actually. I went to my room and fell into a deep sleep, awaking to someone singing in the street below. I looked out and saw a man sitting on a front step, playing the accordion and singing. People had clustered around him, clapping to the music and singing along. A little girl got up and danced, twirling so that her long dark braids flew out behind her. Such a joyous scene, and again I was conscious of being the outsider, the observer.

At seven I dressed, this time in my evening gown and my fringed wrap for the journey across on the vaporetto. Signora Martinelli handed me the key without being asked, as if an evening with a countess was beyond doubt.

“Find out when the last vaporetto returns,” she said. “They do not run as frequently on Sundays.”