“Our city is very confusing, I must agree,” Signora Corsetti said. “We will give him a little longer, but I do not wish the food to spoil. But you can start by pouring our guests a drink, Alfredo.”

“Good idea.” He nodded and went across to a sideboard on which there were bottles and glasses.

“Tonight we celebrate with our local fizz,” the professor said, going over to the table. “Prosecco from the Veneto. The best.” As he talked, he twisted the bottle top with skill, and it opened with a satisfying pop. He opened a second bottle and filled glasses. “A toast to our visitors from abroad. May they all learn to free their art from everything they have been taught.” He raised his glass. We did the same and took a sip. It was fresh and bubbly, and I drank with appreciation.

We were just about to go through to dinner when the doorbell rang and a breathless Henry entered. “Scusi, Professore,” he stammered. “Lost. Wrong way. From vaporetto, I went right. Asked for church, and they thought I meant San Polo.”

“No problem, my boy. We have waited for you, but now we can go through to dinner, I think.” He led us through an archway to a long dining room. French doors led on to a shaded balcony. They were open, and a pleasing breeze came in, tinged with a hint of sea salt. There were place cards on the table, and I took my seat, between the contessa and the priest. Franz sat opposite me.

“May I help you?” I asked the professor’s wife, who had appeared with a tray of small plates.

“Oh no, thank you. You are our guests tonight,” she said, placing a plate in front of me. It contained a single octopus tentacle set amid some salad greens. Having had one at the Danieli last year, I was not put off by the look of it, but I could tell that Henry and Franz were eyeing it with alarm.

“Our local delicacy,” the professor said. “Shall we say grace, Father?”

The priest crossed himself, then muttered something in Latin. The others, except for Henry and myself, all crossed themselves. I would have to learn things like this if I wanted to fit in. I took a tentative mouthful of octopus, and it was as soft as butter, with a slight spiciness to it. Delicious, in fact. But I saw Henry trying to hide his under a lettuce leaf. I gave him an understanding grin.

Next came a pasta dish with tiny shrimp and then veal with a rich and herby tomato sauce. Last of all was tiramisu, my favourite Italian dessert to date. I think everyone cleared their plates. I know I did. The professor’s wife beamed with pleasure.

“You young people must come here when you need a good meal,” she said. “Or a shoulder to cry on. Or to complain about my husband and what a harsh teacher he is.”

“For their own good, Angelica,” he said. “If I do not break down their stereotypes and rules, how will they find their expression?”

Throughout the dinner I had been engaged in conversation with the contessa. She told me she had been born in Poland but brought to Paris as a young child. Her parents were Jewish é migré s. As a young woman, she had modelled for various artists, including some well-known impressionists, and later expressionists.

“I knew Mary Cassatt,” she said. “And I modelled for Manet, and Berthe Morisot. Later for Picasso once. But he had too much of a roving eye, and his mistress was terribly jealous.” She touched my hand. “Some of them gave me sketches as a token of their appreciation.”

“Incredible,” I said. “You still have them, I hope?”

“Oh yes. I kept them as insurance against future poverty,” she said. “Fortunately, I married a rich Italian count and have been well taken care of.”

“Your husband also likes art?” I asked.

“My husband died twenty years ago, my dear. I have been a lonely widow ever since, but I surround myself with amusing people, and I still love to collect art.” She waved a finger at me. “You must come to my soirées. You will meet the most stimulating people. Father Trevisan here is always my guest, but it is more for my wine cellar than my conversation that he comes, I believe. Your dear professor often attends. And of course Vittorio is my little shadow.”

“I would like that very much,” I said.

“Tell your new friends they are also invited,” she said. “I will be hosting one this Sunday, as a matter of fact. Only a small affair in the summer, since so many people are at their properties in the hills to escape the heat. But it will give you a chance to see my villa.”

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“On the Lido, my dear. Have you been there yet?”

“Yes, I once took a party of schoolgirls to the Lido so that they could swim.”

“Ah, then you know how to take the vaporetto, and from the dock you walk in the direction of the beach. About halfway down that wide road, you come to my villa on your right. Behind tall wrought iron gates. Villa Fiorito. It says so beside the gate. When my husband was alive, we had a small palazzo in the city, but I gave it away. Too noisy.”

“How can one have a small palazzo?” I asked, and she laughed.

“Small by palazzo standards. Only eighteen rooms. But too dark and depressing for me. I gave it to my departed husband Maurizio’s nephew and his wife. Wasn’t that nice of me?”

“Very nice,” I said.

“I like making people happy,” she said. “Until Sunday, then. You will enjoy my friends.”