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Chop-chop. What do you want me to wear?” I said, looking at her, primped, even some of her good jewels.
    “We’re going to the Monaco, so something decent. You know.
Not
the uniform, please. That wasn’t funny at all, at Mimi’s. How do you think it makes them feel?”
    “It was the only thing I had at the time.”
    “Well, not at the Monaco.”
    “God forbid.”
    She looked at me. “You’re not going to be in a mood, are you?”
    “Promise. Actually, I’m in a good mood.”
    “I can see. The art, no doubt.” She raised an eyebrow. “I can smell the wine from here. Go easy at Harry’s. As long as you’re doing this, you might as well make a good impression. He’s nervous about you.”
    “Why?”
    “Because you’re the only family I have. You know what Italians are like about families.”
    “What about Aunt Edna?”
    She laughed. “Darling, she’s what I use when I want to get
out
of something.”
    I looked at her. “What do you want to get into?”
    She turned away, picking up her purse. “Nothing. I just want us to have a nice dinner.” She looked back. “I live here now, you know. Gianni is a good friend. It’s not too much to ask.”
    “No.”
    “You used to be so charming. I suppose it’s the war.”
    It seemed such an extraordinary thing to say that for a minute I couldn’t think how to answer. But she had caught my look.
    “You know what I mean. I know—well, I don’t know, that’s the problem. But you never say, either. And anyway, it’s over, that’s the main thing. Now look at the time. I’m going to be late.”
    “He’ll wait.”
    She smiled. “That doesn’t make it right.” She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Don’t be long. And no politics.”
    “Why? What are his politics?”
    “I haven’t the faintest idea. I never ask. And I don’t want you to, either. It always ends in arguments, no matter what it is. Besides, it’s their country—things never make sense to outsiders.”
    “All right. No politics. Art?”
    “Art.” Her eyes were laughing, full of their old spirit.
    “Maybe we’ll just talk about you,” I said, smiling. “What could be more interesting?”
    “Mm. What could?” she said, throwing me a look, then heading for the stairs. Below us, I could hear the motorboat taxi churning water at the canal steps. “Good thing I’m going first. I can tell him you’re adopted.”
    I was ready by the time the taxi returned. It was still raining, and after we rounded the tip of the Dogana and headed across to San Marco even the lights seemed blurry, as if the city were actually underwater. The campanile disappeared somewhere in an upper mist and the piazza itself was deserted, with nothing to fill the empty space but lonely rows of lamps.
    Harry’s, however, was snug and busy, all polished wood and furs draped over chairs and eager American voices. The bar was hidden behind a line of uniforms, officers on leave. My mother and Gianni were both drinking Prosecco, their second by the look of the half-filled olive dish.
    “Ah, at last,” he said, getting up. “I’m so happy you could come.” A polite smile, genial.
    “Sorry to hold you up. Should we just go over?” I gestured to the door and the Monaco just across the calle.
    “No, no, there’s time. Have a drink.”
    A waiter appeared, summoned apparently by thought.
    “Well, a martini then,” I said to the waiter, ignoring my mother’s glance.
    “What is the expression?” Gianni said. “Out of wet clothes and into a dry martini.” He smiled, pleased with himself.
    “Yes,” I said. “Look, there’s Bertie.”
    He was at the far end of the room, drinking with a woman in an elaborate hat. Between us was the usual crowd, half of whom had probably been at his party.
    “Yes, we saw him earlier,” my mother said. “Gianni, who’s he with?”
    “Principessa Montardi.”
    “Really a principessa?”
    “Well, the prince was real. And she married him. Her father was in milk products.