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gesturing out of the window. “Palazzo Mocenigo. Byron lived here. Ah, that was a man. I knew him.”
    Palewski raised an eyebrow, and Ruggerio put up a hand. “I am older than you think—but Byron and I, we were both young in those days. We swam together many, many times. Here, in the Grand Canal. My friends say to me—you are crazy, like Byron! Perhaps. What a beautiful man.”
    He whipped out a silk handkerchief and trumpeted into it, then tucked it back into his sleeve. “Every palazzo tells a tale, Signor Brett. But you must know where to begin. It is my pleasure. We will have a lovely day. And your accommodation, too. We will see to that. How long will you stay with us?”
    Palewski was growing used to Ruggerio’s sudden changes of tack. “A few weeks. A month.”
    Ruggerio closed his eyes and his hands swam before him in ecstasy. “A month!” He echoed, emphatically. “In La Serenissima, a month is like a day. But we can see everything,” he added hastily. “In a month, you will almost be a Venetian yourself.” He laughed. “And here we are—breakfast!”
    The gondola glided in between poles sunk in the water. Ruggerio handed Palewski out onto the pontoon, then sprang up after him. He bent a little closer. “Signor Brett, a small tip to the gondolier if you think it would be appropriate—he has sung, and he would appreciate it. No, no, five is too much—I will give him three. Already you see I am able to offer you some service—to protect the innocent traveler, ha ha!”
    He pushed his way eagerly into the market throng, Palewski in his wake. Now and then Ruggerio would turn around to check that his new American friend was following as they weaved between the stalls, dodging porters clattering their trolleys across the cobbles, slipping along the arcades until Ruggerio stopped outside a small café and bowed.
    “My visitors are always happy here,” he assured Palewski. “Even the Duke of Naxos! Small, but very clean. Come.”
    The café was nothing more than a wooden counter ranged with plates of fried fish, octopus, salami, and olives. There was nowhere to sit, but Ruggerio seized a few plates and bore them off to a high table, snapping his fingers for coffee.
    “May I suggest a prosecco, also?
Allora, due vini, maestro!
” He took some bread from a large open basket on the counter and beamed at hisguest. “So—wine, good food, a little coffee, and the Rialto in Venice! Is not life good, my friend?”
    Palewski had to agree with him. It had been many years since he had drunk wine among strangers, in open view. The sensation was agreeable, if peculiar at first, like the sight of unveiled women prodding the vegetables or drifting down the canal in a gondola. Many Europeans came to Venice because it offered them—in their imagination, at least—a glimpse of the Orient with none of the inconvenience: Byzantine domes and mosaics, strong colors, picturesque poverty, and an air of licentious freedom, comfortably offset by a familiar battery of French-speaking hoteliers, Catholic churches, and Renaissance art. These visitors, unlike the Polish ambassador, were often struck by seeing women who were, in fact, veiled according to a custom that went back to the days of Byzantine influence. But in Palewski’s world all women, even Christians, were veiled in the street; to him in Venice it seemed that any man could admire a woman’s features. Some of the women were very beautiful, he noticed.
    Ruggerio caught his eye and winked. “In Venice we have the most beautiful women in the world. You think the husband is jealous? The father—yes. But after a woman is married—
altra storia!
She takes admirers! Why not? The husband—he, too, plays the game.”
    When they had eaten, Ruggerio laid his hand on Palewski’s arm: “Twenty lire only will be enough. They all know Antonio Ruggerio. No cheating.” He shook his head. “It happens.”
    The Venetian aristocrat’s gondola was not to be found at the