Gray was popular that season with Italian politicians. Gray with a slash of red. A crimson tie, maybe. A handkerchief exposed in a breast pocket. The committee members wore different shades, some more muted and others more shiny, sharkskin gray, lung-cancer gray, gray the color of old clouds and cigarette smoke. The faction leaders were difficult to tell apart, friend from foe. By prior arrangement, so the opposition might have its moment, Senator Anthony Secca led the questioning: a small, thick man, dressed in gray like all the rest. He had yellow teeth and a detestable manner. He focused with the most intensity on the nature of my preparations: the clothes I had worn and the makeup I’d put on that day, before the party at Palazzo Orsini.

“And do you remember what lipstick you wore that evening?”

I glanced at my lawyer to see whether he might protest this line of questioning, but he seemed to have fallen into a trance. He gazed at me as if he, too, was curious.

“No, I don’t remember,” I said.

Cardinal Whiting flustered up from his seat, but only as far as his infirmities allowed, hunched and absurd, flapping like some withered crow.

“I would beg otherwise,” he said. “Vittoria was quite obsessed with her lipsticks.”

One might expect such outbursts wouldn’t be tolerated, but the committee operated by its own protocol. “She took elaborate care of her lips,” said Whiting. “And she always knew the names of her lipsticks.”

Secca then read into the record the names of the lipsticks discovered when the police had searched and inventoried my apartment on the Campo.

Cherry Lush.

Roman Tart.

Pale Desire.

“You spent all day, prior to this party, out shopping?”

“What does that matter?”

“And you purchased a blouse that you charged to your husband’s credit card?”

The projector displayed pictures from that evening. They weren’t unflattering. It had been a long evening, though, and the camera caught me in a slatternly moment. My blouse hung off my shoulder, and I was smiling, a sloppy smile, a little too much light in my eyes.

“And this was the outfit you wore that evening?”

“Apparently.”

“But you left early?”

“My husband stayed late at cards.”

“You left separately?”

“We did.”

“And you went home?”

Before my appearance, Paolo’s lawyers had stressed one thing: not to perjure myself, no matter how trivial the matter. I scrutinized my former landlady down in the witness area alongside Whiting. She didn’t appear particularly happy in her polka dots.

“No,” I said. “I tried to leave, but there were no taxis available.” I explained how I had gotten lost on the streets and ended up back at the Palazzo. “My brother let me back in.”

“And you stayed the night?”

“I did.”