Zanche and I lingered at dusk on the deck overlooking the Pacific. The air smelled of jasmine and smoke. Bonfires burned along the beach. There was a pair of rooms below for her and Gasparo, steps to the sand. Though she said nothing, I knew it appealed to her. I’d seen her and Gasparo together and had a good idea of what went on between them.

The original plan had been to stay away only until things calmed down in Italy, but the situation there kept worsening. The murder rumors persisted—revisited by conspiracy theorists, for the hell of it, for political slander—and the New Piety entangled Paolo in other issues: irregularities with the online casino where Paulo had a stake; influence peddling; the discovery of kickbacks from the construction contract at Uzio—with my brother involved. This latter was their main focus, as the alleged corruption affected the new pavilion in Milan.

In Malibu, we fell into a kind of limbo in which our primary occupation was to keep from being recognized. I spent a good deal of time with my nephew, Dazio. He was lonely and got a bit of a crush on me. Sometimes as we walked along the beach, I let him take me by the hand—but it meant nothing. We had developed a routine and would lie out in the sun at a particular time each morning. A man who lived up the beach came almost every day to swim in the ocean in front of our house. I watched him take off his shirt and wade into the water.

“Why does he come down here?”

“To swim. It’s too rocky on the point.”

Dazio slouched forward, his long arms over his knees. The morning fog had burned away, and the surface of the ocean was bright. The man was a strong swimmer and before long he was pretty far out, bobbing along in the gray water.

“I’m thirsty,” I told Dazio.

“Then let’s go inside,” he said.

“I’d rather have something out here.”

“You’ll burn.”

“I’m okay.”

“You need some lotion.”

“Not now.”

I put a shirt over my shoulders and squinted out toward the swimmer. His head remained visible, though at this distance it might have been a seal, or a log, or some other bit of flotsam. The small spot grew smaller, and before long it would disappear altogether. I knew because I’d watched him before and had nothing else to think about out there on the sand. He would disappear for a time, long enough that I’d start to wonder if something had happened to him; or my mind would wander, forgetting him altogether—but then I’d see something: a tiny blackness, some small dot, a disruption way out on the horizon.

“Go make some lemonade for us. Fresh squeezed,” I said. “Wouldn’t that be nice? And bring it down in a pitcher.”

Dazio hesitated.