Just before dawn the fever broke, though I didn’t realize at first. I thought he was dead, he was so quiet, his breathing so shallow, and I myself so tired, so exhausted, it hardly seemed to matter, and I fell asleep beside him on the bed.

For how long, I couldn’t be sure.

Hours.

Minutes.

A gull crept along the balcony railing, and a watery light filled the room. Orsini awoke. He seemed to have very little memory of what had happened during his fever. He regarded me fondly.

“You were here all night.”

“Mostly.”

“The others betrayed me at every turn. But you—”

“Rest,” I said. “Don’t worry about anything.”

“I’m feeling better.”

He touched the collar of my robe, a silk garment I’d brought from Rome. It was Isabella’s. I know how that makes me look, but Isabella’s things and mine—they’d hung all intermingled in that closet. And she had so many things just hanging there, collecting dust.

“We’ll go shopping tomorrow,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Down in Beverly Hills. Then we’ll leave.”

“Where?”

“Mexico, Buenos—what does it matter, mia bella.”

He smiled wanly. This had been his nickname for her.

“I’ll buy us an island,” he said.

He wasn’t a good man—I knew that. But he’d been strong, I thought.  He possessed things. He knew what he wanted. Now I realized that wasn’t true. None of what he’d possessed had actually belonged to him. It had come from Isabella. Once, he’d wanted her more than anything. But he’d never gotten her, not really. Or maybe he’d just changed his mind. Things change. I knew this as well as anyone. You want something for a little while. Then you want something else.

Sooner or later he’d be done with me, too.

“Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“We’ll get a car,” he said. “A silver Mercedes. And drive down the beach.”

“That will be nice.”

“I’ll buy you a new dress.”

He made plans then, quite animated. We could do anything we pleased, he explained. There’d been plenty of people who’d done similar things. Exceptional artists, thinkers. Dante Alighieri, for example. Roman Polanski, the filmmaker. The great American poet, what’s his name, who’d spoken on the radio for Mussolini. Exceptionally talented people who didn’t play by the ordinary rules. We were the same, he and I. We didn’t need to go back to Italy. There were ways to protect his money, to escape extradition. To live in our own private kingdom.

“I need my tea.”

“Of course.”

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