“No, she is frivolous. It’s part of her charm. It’s what everybody likes about her.”

“Including you?”

“Sure.”

“A son who loves his mother. Very Italian.”

“You see how respectable. So, how about it? Some lunch hour? I’ll help you with your English.”

She looked directly at me. “Why?”

I stood there for a second, not knowing how to answer. “Why?” I said finally. “I don’t know. I’m in Venice. I should get to know some Venetians.”

“They’re Venetian,” she said, moving her hand toward the others.

“None of them asked to meet me.”

She smiled. “Don’t make too much of that. It was for politeness. And now you want to go out with me?” she said, trying “go out.” “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know your people go way back. So that’s all right. And you’re the first person I’ve enjoyed talking to since I got here.”

“But it’s you who are talking.”

I grinned. “Okay. You talk.”

“No, I have to go.”

“And leave me with them?” We turned. “Look, now it’s priests.” Bertie was greeting a priest in a flowing scarlet cassock, who extended his hand in a royal gesture, barely moving his head, standing in front of some unseen throne. “Who’s that? Do you know?”

“No.”

“I thought everybody here knew everybody. He must be a monsignor or a cardinal. Something. I wish I knew the difference. You’re from Rome-can you tell by the colors?”

“I don’t know. I’m a Jew,” she said quietly.

“Oh,” I said, turning back to her.

“Is that a problem?”

“Why should it be a problem?”

“Jews are not so popular. Not in America either, I think.”

“So you don’t know,” I said, ignoring it, “if he’s a monsignor.”

“No. Don’t you? You’re not a Christian?”

“I’m not anything. Not a Catholic, anyway.”

“But not a Jew either.”