“As a matter of fact, that emblem of high vulgarity who is Carlo Ponti did propose a film at one time, on the condition, however, that I change the ending. At the time I was foolishly indignant and refused, but now I understand better. It doesn’t matter a bit what they do in a film, the book stays what it is.”

“But artistically you’re right. Why should they change an ending which is right as it is?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind a bit now. They could change the whole three books if they wanted. You know the story about Ibsen and the Germans? They wanted to put on A Doll’s House but the ending was too drastic for them—”

“But the ending is what it’s all about,” she exclaimed, interrupting Bacchetti with what Alberto called her literalness.

“I know, I know,” said the old man, “but the German soul or whatever it is couldn’t abide the starkness of Nora’s simply walking out and leaving her husband. So they asked Ibsen’s permission to change the ending: After Nora leaves, she has a change of heart and comes back.”

“How terrible! And Ibsen let them?”

“Certainly! He not only let them, but said it was fine for the Germans—exactly what they deserved!”

Marguerite laughed and Bacchetti was pleased, too. This was the life Alberto had always promised her. For a moment she existed in the old man’s attention to her. Then he turned to the others at the table and started discussing the season’s new novels—all shabby and contemptible, he said—and the most likely contenders among the asses and prick-heads for the coming literary prizes. As the Italian flowed faster and faster around her, she let it slip from her grasp. The pyrotechnics of their wit and brilliant remarks, their irony, sarcasm, and maliciousness swirled about her; she heard the sounds and felt the brilliance, but was, once more, out of it. She let herself subside; the tourists were leaving the Grand Canyon and with their departure annulling it.

Their walk back to the hotel was a slow passage held in interminable suspension by Bacchetti, who walked at the head of the group and stopped frequently to gesture with his cane or gaze distractedly about him. Twenty minutes to cross the street to the hotel. In the lobby someone proposed a whiskey in the bar before retiring.

“Why?” said Bacchetti, making a wry face. “It’s gone so well this far, why take a chance? Why risk ruining everything? It’s better for us all to go to bed.”

The next day Marguerite left Florence, stopping on her way to the station to buy a pair of large white-rimmed sunglasses to hide behind.

“I’m behind in my dreams,” she said, consulting her notebook. “All these dreams I had while I was sick after getting back from Florence—we haven’t discussed them yet.”

“Never mind your notebook,” he said brusquely, filling his pipe. “Tell me what you remember without reading.”