The other man looks surprised. “Your prostate? You’ve never had any prostate problems. And if you’ve never had any so far, you certainly won’t have any now.”

Fred raises his eyes to look at the doctor. In a most unexpected manner, he smiles and says, “So I’m old, but we don’t know why I’m old.”

The doctor gives him a smile tinged with sadness.

Through the window Fred can make out the distant figure of the young masseuse walking quickly through the garden in her uniform. The young girl’s movements are rapid and smooth. And as Fred follows her with his usual melancholy gaze the doctor says, “And so, do you know what’s waiting for you after this?”

“No, doctor, what’s that?”

“Youth.” He smiles, a sad, reflective smile. “Mick Boyle often dropped in here for a chat.”

Fred sees the masseuse disappear behind the line of trees into the indoor swimming pool and then asks the doctor, “Did he ever mention a Gilda Black, by any chance?”

“He spoke of nothing else.”

Fred rouses himself, overcome with curiosity. But he hides it so he can hear what he wants to hear.

“Was she his girlfriend?”

“‘Girlfriend’ would be going too far, I think. All that happened between them is that once, as teenagers, they walked around together in a park holding hands.”

Fred grins to himself.

“He called it ‘the moment I learned to ride a bicycle’. He never spoke to you about it?”

“No. We only ever talked about the good things.”

68

Venice is a beautiful place. And how! So full of mystery. So unique.

At night, however, it seems desolate, deserted. Even the most dedicated tourists have fallen into the arms of Morpheus.

Canals, calli, Piazza San Marco. Motionless as statues.

Then a figure appears in the distance, small and vulnerable, the shuffling footsteps of an old man. He holds flowers in his hand. It is Fred Ballinger making his solitary way through the city. He crosses a small bridge. Below him a motor launch passes by in near silence.

*

A water taxi creates ripples against the side of the cemetery. Fred is sitting on board, looking sad and weary, gazing into space, holding the flowers in his lap.

It is dawn and he is walking along the long gravel pathways dotted with tombs. He is looking for one in particular. He peers at certain names, but cannot remember. His sense of direction was never great.

Then, at last, he finds it. Facing him now is the tomb of Igor Stravinsky. But the flowers remain firmly in his hands.

*

Fred now knows the way. He walks along a narrow alley beside a canal. He turns and stops. He looks up and sees the plaque of a private clinic.

69

Fred is standing in the sober but expensively furnished private single room of the clinic, holding the flowers in his hand. He is looking at something. He sees a bed next to a window and, facing away from him, an elderly woman with unkempt hair is resting her forehead against the pane.