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near the Church of the Madonna dell’Orto in the Cannaregio, Maria Galuppi stopped for a drink. She put down her basket of laundry and nodded to Bettino Tullio, the padrone .
    Bettino brought her glass of anisette to her usual table next to the heater. There were five other people in the restaurant, all of them men and all sitting at the corner table playing cards silently and without much enthusiasm on this winter afternoon.
    Bettino leaned against a chair back. He enjoyed chatting with Maria. There had been a time when he had thought her the most beautiful woman in the Cannaregio. Her daughter at the same age hadn’t really held a candle to her. Now, of course, she was nothing like her former self. Over the years her poor eyesight had lent her face a perpetual squint that had hardened her features. Yet her dark eyes still had a warmth that could rekindle some of the feelings he used to have for her. He was glad she had always refused to dim their charm with glasses, however much they might have helped her vision.
    â€œA little late today, aren’t you?” He indicated the basket.
    â€œWith the rain everyone was using the machines.” She took a sip of the anisette and closed her eyes.
    â€œHow’s Carlo?”
    â€œThe same. The death of the American signorina gives him bad dreams. I think he is remembering his sister—although that wasn’t the same at all.” She opened her eyes and darted a look at him. “But what can I do? Last night I stayed up with him and spoke well of her. Ah,” she sighed, “ la poverina! We had some good talks, the two of us, a stupid old woman like me, can you imagine! I only hope she got as much from the little I could tell her as I got from what she had to tell me. But I doubt it.” She smiled to herself, not looking at Bettino but down into the glass of anisette. “Yes, I doubt it. What I learned from that poor woman was as priceless as—as—” She groped for just the right expression. Then, the smile broadening into a grin: “As priceless as the body of Santa Teodora in her glass coffin!”
    She drained the glass. Bettino picked it up to refill it but she stood up quickly.
    â€œOnly one, you know that well. It hasn’t been any different all these years. Besides, it’s time I was getting this back. I’ll be helping out at the Contessa’s party tonight.”
    â€œSince Carlo isn’t with you today, why not have one of the boys playing in front of the Madonna dell’Orto help you?”
    She shook her head.
    â€œMy last weakness will begin when I depend too much on the strength of someone else. It’s just me and Carlo. We can take care of each other.”
    She rebuttoned her long black coat and picked up the basket, breathing heavily. Bettino wondered how much longer she would be able to push herself like this for her son’s sake. The poor woman’s needs were few but he knew that her son’s uncertain future had started to trouble her deeply. Yes, it was all done for him now.
    He watched her from the window as she walked slowly down the calle and up the steps of the bridge toward the Madonna dell’Orto. He hoped that her last weakness was a long, long way off.

8
    AT eight-thirty that evening when Urbino reached the bridge that provided the only land access to the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini, he was beginning to feel as if he shouldn’t have come after all.
    He stopped on the bridge, delaying the moment when he would enter his friend’s salone .
    The calle that began on the other side of the bridge was empty. The intricately patterned globes flanking the iron door of the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini and the lighted windows of the piano nobile only made the alley seem all the more cold and forbidding. It was strange that no one was coming and going through the large iron door. Were most of the guests using the water entrance on the Grand Canal?
    He heard a scratching