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while, they ignored each other. Waiters and sommeliers came and went. Danny got progressively more drunk. Jack did not drink at all. As instructed, Arthur drew Jack out, asking him questions, challenging his answers, making him talk, think, defend. The boy was remarkably fluent, but always sincere and respectful. Humorous but never witty. Because of the girl, Jack was charming everyone in sight, which meant that he smiled frequently. And when he smiled, you saw what the girl had seen—something elusive but unmistakable.
    The waiter, a sore-footed, gruff New York type who had seen it all, saw it, too. He hovered over Jack, explaining the menu, advising him to choose the cannelloni, followed by a nice porterhouse steak alla fiorentina. He liked Jack—it was obvious. And, effortlessly, Jack was making the waiter believe that he liked him.
    The girl continued to stare at Jack. She was searching for something. A resemblance. He smiled. She saw it. I saw it myself. It was in the smile, which lasted just an instant too long. It was fleeting, not quite strong enough to be arresting, puzzling. And yet it made you stop and try to remember. You saw a face you could not quite summon up, a gesture you could not quite place, a charm that reminded you of someone. But who? And then Jack spoke in a staccato Kennedy tenor, Ohio-accented instead of Bostonian, and suddenly you got it, and black-and-white images from the past tumbled into your mind.
    Between questions from Arthur, Jack took care of his friend Danny, who by now was at the point of passing out. There was nothing feigned about Jack’s solicitude. These boys really were friends, in the unashamed way that only American boys can be friends. There was perfect trust and understanding between them. It was quite touching.
    Toward the end of the evening, Danny had to go to the men’s room. He could hardly stand up. Jack went with him.
    Peter called for the check, and while he waited for it, his girl excused herself. We were the last customers. She was the only woman in the place. She was even more interesting to look at when she was standing up—high heels, long legs, no stockings, bottom like a peach, covered by narrow white panties that were visible through the thin white cloth of her dress. Even Peter seemed a little distracted, watching her walk away.
    She was gone for less than fifteen minutes, but when she came back, though her hair was in perfect order and there was not a wrinkle in her dress, she was not the same woman as before. She moved with a certain unmistakable languor. The white flower was gone from her hair. Her eyes were different—no mascara, no makeup. She had washed her face.
    Peter raised his eyebrows: Shall we go? She responded with a little nod, as if there was no more to his unspoken question than that. She took Peter’s arm, swaying a little on her high heels, as if—I am not an imaginative man, I look for evidence—she was weak in the knees. Her back was to me. On her right buttock, through the thin cloth, one could see a tattoo and, looking more closely, identify it as a butterfly. This had not been visible when she walked away from the table. Was she wearing one less garment than before?
    She felt my eyes on her and turned to confront me. In my case it was a quick inspection, a glint of contempt. But she showed me enough of her face for me to see that it had changed. The lips were a little swollen, and her dark wahine eyes looked inward, as if at a memory of pleasure.
    She and Peter left. After a moment so did I, without waiting for Jack and Danny to reappear. To observe the departure of Jack and the others, I took up my post in the doorway across the street.
    Quite soon the three of them emerged. While Arthur scouted for a taxi, Danny and Jack stood together on the sidewalk. Danny was laughing, pointing a finger at Jack, shouting, “Bwana Devil!” Less than half an hour before, in the restaurant, Danny had been so drunk