She felt warm and protected in the steam-heated apartment after the austerity of her pensione and the Florentine winter like a severe Morandi painting. She needed a sensible, stodgy person like Alberto to help protect her against the romanticism of which she was always a victim. Everything about Alberto helped: his walk, his talk, the view of long underwear sometimes visible when he crossed his legs, and his careful rituals against indigestion when they ate out.

Sauntering in with his familiar step, Alberto went over and kissed Marguerite on the forehead. “Ciao, cara,” he said. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not so long.”

He complimented her on her improving Italian as he looked over the unopened mail on his desk. He tore up what didn’t interest him and methodically straightened his piles of notes and folders. He spoke to her absentmindedly, pedantically.

“How did you know Gillo?” she asked suddenly.

He looked at her, bemused. “Well, someday perhaps I’ll tell you, but not now.”

“Why not? What is there you can’t tell me? Gillo and I were lovers in London. Didn’t you know? Didn’t he tell you?” He left off fussing at the desk to look at her in astonishment.

“No, I didn’t know; Gillo didn’t tell me anything. But maybe that’s what he meant when he wrote he was having me meet an American girl with whom I could have a good time.”

“Is that what he said? Do you think he’s right?”

“Not in the way he meant it. I expected a completely different type—one of those smart, sophisticated women you see in fashion magazines. Not a schoolgirl.”

“I’m not a schoolgirl. And if Gillo meant something else, I didn’t deserve that from him.”

“No—you didn’t.”

Marguerite began to cry softly. “I didn’t know he was married. I loved him.”

Alberto came and sat next to her and held her hands, looking at her with concern and kindness. “Su, su, Margherita, Gillo is not bad, but he is cynical and embittered now because his life has taken a turn in a way he didn’t foresee and certainly didn’t want.”

“That is no reason for having deceived me—why didn’t he tell me the truth first?”

“It probably didn’t occur to him. It’s his misfortune that he has always used people. He always thought he had to; his life was not easy, ever, and now he has this family to support.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“In a whorehouse in Florence. He was like a young Apollo. I noticed him immediately for his beauty and then when we talked together I found he had a first-rate intelligence. Gillo gave me an enormous insight into my own poetry. His criticisms were in every case improvements.”

“It’s more important to be a poet than a critic.”