“Contessa, may I introduce Miss Browning from England,” Signora Corsetti said. “My dear, this is our dear friend, Contessa Fiorito. She is a great patron of the arts in this city.”

I wasn’t quite sure whether I was supposed to curtsy, but I took the hand that was extended to me. It was an elegant hand with blue veins showing through very white skin.

“How lovely,” she said in perfect English. “And how brave of you to come. We did not expect to see anyone from England this year, given the tense situation. But have no fear. This is Venice. We do not believe in war here.”

“Can you keep it out if it happens?” I asked.

“Of course. We will simply blow up the causeway,” she said and laughed. “But do not worry. Our beloved leader has big ideas, but trying to make Italians fight is like herding cats. I do not think we will go along with Herr Hitler’s monstrous vision.”

“Italian, please, Gabriella.” The professor came over to us. “It is not fair that you two have your conversation that my other guests cannot join in. And how is her Italian to improve if she speaks her own tongue?”

“Scusi, Alfredo.” The countess gave me a conspiratorial wink. “How is your Italian?” she asked in that language.

“Not too bad,” I said. “I just need practice.”

“And you will get it, although I have to warn you that the Venetian accent is terrible, and we have a language of our own. We do not say buon giorno like the rest of Italy. We greet each other with bondì . You’ll soon get the hang of it.”

“Stop talking for a moment, Gabriella,” the professor said, “and let me finish my introductions. This is Vittorio Scarpa. He owns a gallery, and he assists the contessa with her collection.” He put a hand on Signor Scarpa’s shoulder. “If you learn from what I have to teach you, then you may end up exhibiting your paintings in his gallery, or even at the next Biennale.”

“Professore, please. Do not put false hopes into their heads. If they want to exhibit at my gallery, they will need to become new Salvador Dalí s. I am very, very choosy, as you well know. Only the best, right, dear Contessa?”

This man was much younger—thirties or early forties—good-looking in a very Latin sort of way: dark, wavy hair with a little too much grease for my liking; dark, flashing eyes and a suit that was probably made from raw silk. When he shook my hand, his felt podgy and clammy. Not a pleasant feeling, but he gave me a condescending smile.

“Welcome to Venice,” he said.