Angela came back to have a drink and rest her feet from her ramblings over the pebbly courtyard. “At Moravia’s table they’re organizing a rebellion in case Campo wins,” she reported. “And Carlo Levi’s just arrived from Piazza San Giovanni, where he led the anti-American protest.” A beautiful blonde in transparent black organdy pajamas stopped by the table and Angela got out her pen and pad: “Is that your own hair?”

“No, it’s Chinese.”

“Chinese blonde?”

“Why not? A cross between races.”

Massimo stopped by. Marguerite had seen him earlier, circulating among the tables. His smile was warm; he looked happy, exhilarated, and confident.

“How are things going, Massimo?” Alberto asked. “You’ve got my vote anyway.”

“Thanks, Alberto. A lot of friends have said they voted for me. But you never can tell.”

“You’ll win,” said Aurelia, who just a moment before had conceded that Campo had it all tied up.

As Alberto got up to greet someone, Massimo sat down in his place next to Marguerite. “Are you all right? You look tired tonight,” he said. “Do you remember the year we met when I missed seeing you at the Strega?”

“Yes, I thought you were saying that just to be polite.”

“You know me better now. You know I say what I mean.”

She looked at him and nodded. Yes, she thought, unfortunately.

Massimo glanced curiously at Angela, who was jotting notes, and at Giorgio, who was looking distractedly into the distance. Leaning toward Marguerite he said, “It’s been three years.”

“Yes, we lasted three years.”

“You say that as if everything’s over,” he said defensively. “After tonight, once all this has ended, we’ll be together like old times. I’ll call you soon.” He got up, kissed her hand, and then was gone, merged with the crowd in the Renaissance courtyard.

“How can he be so confident?” Marguerite murmured.

“I wonder,” said Angela. “Campo’s already got it.”

But Marguerite hadn’t been thinking of Massimo’s book. She had been thinking of them. If he lost tonight, she lost, too. She felt sick, and a light sweat broke out on her forehead.

As she looked about at the setting of Pope Julian’s splendor, the suave summer night an enchantment around them, the courtyard full of the new courtiers of culture and their women, she thought, How did I get here? And now where do I go? If she could have moved, she would have run from the scene. But she felt turned to stone, another of the stone caryatids in that setting.