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was not like the workaday one downstairs, marvelous as that chamber might be. It was a masterpiece of the Venetian High Renaissance, every inch of it decorated by Venetian artists and craftsmen. Here, surrounded by glory upon glory, Homer Kelly and Sam's other assistants unwrapped the beautiful volumes from the bubble envelopes that protected them against woodworm.
    With reverent hands Homer helped place them upright in the display cases. Then Sam Bell himself walked up and down, choosing the pages to be held open with satin ribbons.
    When the work was done, Homer spent an hour ogling the elegant pages, trying to read the Latin names. He could guess at Sallust's Catiline , which was adorned with floating cherubs, but Sam had to help him with the Greek titles, Ptolemy's Geography and the Epistles of Paul.
    "How many books did Cardinal Bessarion have altogether?" said Homer, gazing at the foliated initials of a Latin Livy.
    "Oh, thousands. That's why the library had to be built to house them." Sam took Homer's arm and led him to a case across the aisle. Leaning over it, he breathed a reverent mist on the glass. "Of course you're aware, Homer, that the printing press of Aldus Manutius was one of the first in Venice. This is his masterpiece, The Dream of Poliphilius . I think it's the most beautiful book ever printed."
    Homer was six feet six inches tall, his beard was gray and bushy, and he was fifty years old, but he wanted to weep like a child. His wife Mary sometimes complained about the way he was forever being hooked by some new obsession. The man was incapable of being bored by anything human, nor by any branch of learning, no matter how feeble his understanding. Now he was overwhelmed with sentimental awe, and he made a gulping sound in his throat.
    Sam clapped him on the back. "Come on. Facciamo uno spuntino. I've got a bottle of Prosecco in my office. I'll just make sure there aren't any dignitaries with hurt feelings swarming around downstairs."
    They walked through the glorious vestibule, where Homer craned his neck to admire Titian's allegorical figure of Wisdom on the ceiling—obviously a library enthusiast herself because she was consulting both a book and a scroll. Then they descended Sansovino's stupendous staircase, negotiated the open-air arcade, and walked up another set of stairs. As they climbed the second long flight very slowly—Sam was tired and Homer was out of shape—Sam told himself once again that nothing mattered anymore. He could do whatever he wanted.
    He could abandon everything, the whole damn thing, the exhibition and the conference and all his duties as caretaker of some of the most valuable books in the Western world. He could flee from all of that and embark in a little boat with Dottoressa Lucia Costanza, and its pink sail would be blown by a gentle wind, carrying them to the island of Cythera. It would be so easy, so simple. All he had to do was entice her away from the eminence of her procuratorship, burst her marriage chains, and make love to her at last in some flowery bower.
    "What did you say, Homer? Oh, of course, here we are. Come right in."
    The telephone was ringing in the outer office. Sam's secretary held up the phone and murmured, " Il sindaco. "
    "The mayor," said Sam apologetically, waving Homer on into the big room with its view of the lagoon. When he hurried in a few minutes later, he explained that the mayor was organizing a council to deal with acqua alta . "You know, consisting of everybody around the piazza."
    "Acqua alta?" said Homer. "Oh, you mean high water. Right. Well, it's here already. It's not so bad."
    Sam looked at him in disbelief. "Just wait, Homer," he said. "You haven't seen anything yet."
    "Nothin'," said Homer, correcting Sam's English. "I ain't seen nothin' yet."
    Sam looked puzzled. "But isn't that bad grammar?"
    "You betcha," said Homer, grinning at him.
    "Ah, a colloquial expression," said Sam. He poured bubbly wine into Homer's glass, lifted his