Massimo put a bold sneer on his face, watching himself in one of the Elena’s tall spotted mirrors. “If this tiny gadget is too big for your closed mind, then I’ve got to find another blogger! A blogger with some guts!”

“Great. Sure. Go do that. You might try Beppe Grillo.”

Massimo tore his gaze from his own reflection. “That washed-up TV comedian? What does he know about technology?”

“Try Berlusconi, then. He owns all the television stations and half the Italian Internet. Prime Minister Berlusconi is just the kind of hustler you need. He’ll free you from all your troubles. He’ll make you Minister of something.”

Massimo lost all patience. “I don’t need that! I’ve been to a lot of versions of Italy. Yours is a complete disgrace! I don’t know how you people get along with yourselves!”

Now the story was tearing loose. I offered an encouraging nod. “How many ‘versions of Italy’ do you need, Massimo?”

“I have sixty-four versions of Italy.” He patted his thick laptop. “Got them all right here.”

I humored him. “Only sixty-four?”

His tipsy face turned red.“I had to borrow CERN’s supercomputers to calculate all those coordinates! Thirty-two Italies were too few! A hundred twenty-eight… I’d never have the time to visit all those! And as for your Italy… well… I wouldn’t be here at all, if it wasn’t for that Turinese girl.”

“‘Cherchez la femme,’” I told him. “That’s the oldest trouble-story in the world.”

“I did her some favors,” he admitted, mournfully twisting his wineglass. “Like with you. But much more so.”

I felt lost, but I knew that his story was coming. Once I’d coaxed it out of him, I could put it into better order later.