Marguerite used to fantasize that the place of love’s meeting might be a shared box at the opera, a line at American Express in Cairo, or a coach in that super train, the Settebello, which shared its name with Italy’s favorite prophylactic. Instead it was at a supper party at Cesare Servi’s that she met Massimo Bontelli.

“Be sure to come,” Servi said, telephoning her. “There’ll be new writers here both you and Alberto will be interested in meeting.”

“I’m sure we would,” she told him. “It’s just that my cousins from the States are in Rome now.”

“Bring them along,” said Servi, and to Marguerite it seemed a good solution for entertaining Louis and Irene Longobardi, just arrived in Italy.

She and Alberto called for them at their hotel and found them in the patio-bar having whiskey sours. (“Irene likes her drink,” Carla Scalzo would have noted. “She certainly was lucky to get Louis.”) Louis Longobardi, successful analyst, puffed on his pipe contemplatively, looking solemn, professional, correct, and in total control. Too much control. As if he were reminding himself constantly to be poised and wise, the remote father figure, the com-pleat angler, Rin-Tin-Tin. (“How are you, Marguerite?” he had said on the phone. “Good, Lou, it’s a good moment for me.” “That’s fine—Sam and Carla told me about things and I thought we’d be seeing you in Florence. But I’m glad it’s all worked out.”)

Louis Longobardi looked ten years older than he was, but Irene still affected the girlishness of her high school days. While he composedly exuded middle age—portly, graying, cuffed, and manicured—Irene had the tense bright look of all women who arrive in their forties not yet ready. She wore dangle earrings and a smart black dress and the too-bright lipstick of twenty years before, when for her, as for Marguerite, to be dressed like that meant “going out.”

Marguerite had fixed into Alberto’s lapel a little badge that had arrived in his mail that morning: Fa l’amore, non l’editore.

“What does that mean, Alberto?” said Irene.

“Make love, not books,” he said, pleased as always at a woman’s attention; charming as always.

Irene giggled happily. “Shall we start with a kiss?”

“There’s the power of the printed word for you,” said Marguerite. “Irene wouldn’t have thought of it otherwise.”

“That has nothing to do with it—it’s because I want to,” said Irene as she stuck a big red kiss to Alberto’s willing lips. They laughed happily, drinking their drinks, because it was a fine night and they were in Rome.

“We’re double adulterers, you know, Alberto and I. That’s what’s being said around town. Because we’re officially separated but living together—and not just for our daughters’ sakes.”

“Basically, Marguerite,” said Louis, “you’re a healthy girl.”