I looked out at the Campo. It had been a flower meadow once, then an encampment. The Roman priests had laid offerings to the statue of Venus down in the caves, and centuries later the clergy and the nobility had met their mistresses here before taking them up to the papal orgies in the gardens above the Forum. Now it was midday and the stalls were shuttered. The Campo was empty of people, except for the hooded statue of the heretic and an old woman who sat at the base of the statue, hanging her head in the heat. Closer by, I could see a couple sitting at the fringe, on a restaurant patio. The woman swung her leg idly, and the man next to her tapped his fingers on the table. There was something beautiful about them, something illicit. They didn’t touch each other. It was too hot. It was that long, slow time of day when even the tourists seemed to flag—when it was easy to imagine the world had always been like this and always would be—and the waiters were at any rate in no hurry to bring anyone a drink.

14

The next day I talked with Johnny. We were at his apartment, eight stories up. Rome was outside the window, all cluttered and dirty. The apartment had air-conditioning, but the building was old and the unit couldn’t keep up with the weather. I stripped down then took a shower. I sat in in my panties and T-shirt with the balcony door open and the fan spinning overhead. Johnny sat bare-chested in his shorts.

We had done the same as kids, in Houston, when it got too hot and the air-conditioning failed. We talked about our mother’s men—Johnny and I, hanging around in our flimsies, under the fan—and usually we didn’t find much good in them. The more we talked, the more black-and-white things became. That was how it was with families.

There’s me and you. And then everybody else.

It was the same talking about Frank. Johnny sat close to me on the bed.

“You don’t have to go with him.”

“What choice do I have?”

“You could stay in Italy.”

“And how would I survive?”

“There are ways.”

“Divorce in Italy isn’t so open-and-shut.”

“I hate to see you like this. Orsini would be willing to help.”

“I’m not a whore.”

“His intentions—”

“How will that look? With Isabella not even in the grave. People will talk.”

“They will talk, yes. For a while. Then, later, they’ll talk about something else.”

Johnny ran cool water over some washcloths. I leaned my head back and he placed the cloth over my brow.

“You’re looking a little pale,” he said.

“It’s just the heat.”

“A fever coming on, maybe.” He reached out and put a hand on my forehead, feeling my temperature. “And the world spins a bit when you walk.”