18

Urbino drank down the tiny cup of espresso that Natalia pressed on him as if it were medicine and took a few bites of Madeira cake. He promised her that he would have a proper breakfast shortly. He had to make a telephone call first.

He dialed the Contessa’s number from the library as he looked from the window down at the empty, fog-wreathed quay. He usually didn’t call her before nine-thirty, but this was a special occasion.

The Contessa picked up after only two rings.

“Whatever’s the matter, caro?” She sounded worried.

“As if you don’t know, you wonder worker. If I hadn’t found out today—in fact, it was only a few minutes ago—I was going to break down and beg you to tell me what you’ve been up to. I can’t wait to give you a great big kiss and hug. It worked.”

“What worked?”

“Whatever it was you did, whatever strings you pulled, whatever promises you made, whatever spell you cast. I love you and I love your Madeira cake! I’m in. I’m in the Ca’ Pozza, or I will be at precisely four-thirty this afternoon!”

There was silence at the other end of the line.

“But I didn’t do a thing, Urbino!” the Contessa cried out, after a few moments. “Not one single solitary thing. I had to leave for Bologna on Saturday evening right after I saw you. Poor Clementina is desperately ill.” Clementina was the Conte’s elderly cousin. “I was afraid I would have to postpone my first conversazione. I was at her house until last night. She’s out of danger now, thank God. I was going to call you later and apologize.” The Contessa drew in her breath, then added, “So you see, you’ve done it all on your own, you clever boy.”

“But how did I do that?”