She thought of their arrival on the hydrofoil and how the place had come to sight: the great rocks that were the outer islands of the Ponza group rising from the sea. Behind the outlying rocks was Ponza itself, with the pink and white town, the boat-filled harbor, and the flowering backbone of cactus and wild broom that grew among the lava-rock of the island. It was a place of fishing nets and high-style boutiques, nightclubs, fishermen’s taverns, stalks of gladioli stuck ridiculously in crystal vases on the deck tables of moored yachts, vegetable stands, and clotheslines full of sarongs, hats, bikinis, and sandals for sale along the docks.

It was a beautiful place. It broke on her vision like a dream of some paradise. The limpid, agate water; the white houses of the fishermen outlined around doors and windows in bright colors and covered with fragrant greenery; calm little coves crammed with fishing boats or the relics of old schooners; the tiny streets climbing up the lava wall of the island and ending in shrub and cactus; bamboo, purple bougainvillea, huge marigolds, huger zinnias, cascading geraniums; clumps of pink or yellow houses stuck here and there on the gaunt island top; laughing people. All beautiful.

When they arrived she had wanted to sit on the eighteenth-century mole built by the Bourbon kings in Naples and see if anyone they knew passed by, but Alberto was full of anxieties about getting a lift to their hotel: Hotel Pontius Pilate.

And what is truth, Pilate, an inhabitant of the island, had once asked. This island, thought Marguerite, is truth—a belief, while it lasts, like any other.

The hotel was a strong white in the dusk, a multileveled dwelling carved out of the hillside and utilizing several preexisting fishermen’s homes; it was built around open areas ablaze with the blooms and wild vinery of the island’s rampant growth. Their room was on the top floor and from the terrace she could see the round church dome, which seemed to rise from the hotel itself, and the lights of the harbor and ships like reflections of the star-filled sky. Just below, in the whitewashed church, bells began to ring; the sweet smell of acacia filled the suave night.

“Alberto,” she said, turning to where he sat on the edge of the bed in the dim room, “how beautiful it is!”

“How can they go to the trouble of making a hotel like this and then not put a tub in the bathroom?” he said peevishly, his shoulders hunched over. “I’m not well. I haven’t felt well since we stopped for lunch at Anzio.”