“Palazzo Rossi would have found me,” he replied with an almost arrogant grin. “I was expecting to see you one more time. Then we could have arranged such things.”

“I didn’t get a chance to write to you. The next morning, my aunt found out I had been with you and took me straight to Florence. She was very angry. She said that no respectable girl goes out without a chaperone in Italy, and therefore you were up to no good.”

This made him laugh. “I have never been one to abide by the rules,” he said. “And I behaved like a gentleman, did I not?”

“Almost,” I said. “You did kiss me.”

“Well, you deserved one little kiss.” His eyes were flirting with me.

I didn’t like to say that it was more than one little kiss.

A bottle of Dom Pé rignon champagne was opened and poured.

Leo raised his glass to me. “A toast,” he said, “to welcome you back to La Serenissima. May your days here always bring you joy.”

I raised my own glass to him. The glasses clinked together. Leo was smiling at me. It was almost like a beautiful dream. I was certainly not going to pinch myself in case I woke up.

A seafood risotto followed, rich and creamy and studded with prawns, mussels, pieces of fish, mushrooms, peppers. We didn’t talk much while we ate, but my head was buzzing. He was glad to see me again. He was clearly a successful man, judging by the cut of his suit and the way that the staff here treated him. For the first time in many years, a small bubble of happiness grew inside me.

The main course was a whole scorpion fish, and the waiter deboned it skilfully at our table.

“It looks terrifying,” I said. “Are you sure you are not about to poison me?”

He laughed. Then he said, “So you finally came to the Biennale. What did you think?”

“I found it interesting—one could see the image each country wanted to convey of itself. The German pavilion was particularly striking. Lots of happy peasants.”

“Who are half starving and told by the Fü hrer that it has to be guns, not butter, at home,” he said. “I have to go to Germany quite often these days. Good for business, of course, but I can’t wait to get home. When I cross the border into Switzerland, I give a big sigh of relief.”

“Do you really think they intend to go to war?”

“When it suits them,” he said. “They have been producing lots of tanks and guns, that is for sure. I think Herr Hitler wants to dominate the world. He is clearly mad, but nobody seems to notice.” He glanced around before he added, “And here in Italy, we are going along the same path, I fear. My father often has dealings with Mussolini, and he says Il Duce dreams of another Roman empire, dominating the Mediterranean. He is talking just like Hitler, how we need expansion room for our growing population, how Corsica and Nice and Malta should all be Italian. And what’s more, he has already been fighting a war in Abyssinia.”

“I saw a lot of soldiers at the station when we arrived,” I said.

“Yes, he’s busy recruiting—fighting for the mother country, you know. Plenty of poor boys with no work eager to sign up. But do not worry—we are nowhere near equipped for war yet. You can breathe for a while.”

“Let’s not talk of sad things. I only have one more night here, then we leave for Florence.”

“Oh, that is too bad,” he said. “I’m afraid I am not free tomorrow. I am still in charge of the businessmen tomorrow, and in the evening I must attend the birthday party of the father of my betrothed.”

“What?” I hadn’t meant to blurt out the word.

He frowned. “Did I not use the right word? My English is not so good these days. Lack of practice, you know. I meant the girl I am going to marry.”

“Oh no, you used the right word,” I said, trying to keep my face calm and expressionless. “So you are going to be married?”

He made a face. “In three weeks’ time. At her family church of San Salvatore. A big wedding with half of Venice present.”

“Congratulations.” I managed to say the word.

He gave a rueful smile. “I think commiserations are more in order. I put it off for as long as possible. In Venice, men are not expected to marry until we turn thirty, and I am now thirty-two, so the pressure was mounting.”

“You don’t want to marry her?”

He shrugged. “I have no choice in the matter,” he said. “We were promised to each other the moment she was born. She is seven years younger than I. My father owns a shipping company. Her father builds ships. And she has no brothers to inherit. Therefore a match made in heaven, from a business point of view.”

“But you don’t love her?”

His eyes met mine. “She is not a very loveable type of person. She has grown up as the only child of a very rich man. She has had everything she wanted, and is horribly spoiled. She has temper tantrums if she doesn’t get her own way all the time.” He sighed. “No, I do not think it will be an easy marriage for me.”

“Then why go through with it? Is money so important?”

“Not money, necessarily, but the honour and status of my family. And the business opportunity with another powerful family, of course. The whole of Venice has known that we are to marry. If I backed out, it would mean disgrace to my family as well as financial hardship. I can’t do that to my father.” He picked up his glass, drained it in one gulp, then banged it down again. “So I will be the dutiful son and hope that one day she might grow up and come to love me.”