The third guest was a priest. Having grown up as a member of the Church of England, I had a deep distrust of anything Catholic. This one didn’t look in any way frightening. He was a large, round man with rosy cheeks and eyes that flickered with amusement. He was introduced as Father Trevisan.

“A foreigner like you,” the professor said.

“Really?” I asked.

The priest chuckled. “Because of my name. From the town of Treviso. Half an hour away on the mainland. So to Venetians I shall forever be an outsider. Although I have to point out that at least one of our doges was a Trevisan.”

“Are you a member of an order, Father?” Gaston asked.

The priest gave an innocent little smile. “I was a little worried about the poverty, chastity and obedience,” he said. “I am quite good at the chastity, but I’m not so good at obeying, as my superiors will tell you, and I do like a good meal and a good vintage occasionally.”

We all laughed.

“Alfredo, too much talk,” the professor’s wife said. “Shall we not go through to dinner?”

“We are still waiting for the last guest, cara mia ,” he replied. “Our American friend has not yet arrived.”

“He is probably wandering around San Marco or Cannaregio looking for the address,” Imelda said with a brittle laugh. “He didn’t seem to know where San Polo was.”

“Our city is very confusing, I must agree,” Signora Corsetti said. “We will give him a little longer, but I do not wish the food to spoil. But you can start by pouring our guests a drink, Alfredo.”

“Good idea.” He nodded and went across to a sideboard on which there were bottles and glasses.

“Tonight we celebrate with our local fizz,” the professor said, going over to the table. “Prosecco from the Veneto. The best.” As he talked, he twisted the bottle top with skill, and it opened with a satisfying pop. He opened a second bottle and filled glasses. “A toast to our visitors from abroad. May they all learn to free their art from everything they have been taught.” He raised his glass. We did the same and took a sip. It was fresh and bubbly, and I drank with appreciation.

We were just about to go through to dinner when the doorbell rang and a breathless Henry entered. “Scusi, Professore,” he stammered. “Lost. Wrong way. From vaporetto, I went right. Asked for church, and they thought I meant San Polo.”

“No problem, my boy. We have waited for you, but now we can go through to dinner, I think.” He led us through an archway to a long dining room. French doors led on to a shaded balcony. They were open, and a pleasing breeze came in, tinged with a hint of sea salt. There were place cards on the table, and I took my seat, between the contessa and the priest. Franz sat opposite me.