UMBERTO DA VENECIA (popularly known as the Duke) is very glad that the private committee room is well soundproofed, because Nestor Brabanta shows no sign of calming down. He won’t sit down, either; he comes back to the table only to bang his fist on it. As chairman of the Rialto board of directors, the Duke has presided over some pretty fiery meetings; he deserves his reputation for soothing diplomacy. But he is beginning to think that the only thing he can do is call the city zoo and get them to send someone over with a tranquilizer gun and the kind of dart that floors a rhino. The other two men present, Ariel Goldmann and Pedro dos Passos, sit staring at their clasped hands like seasick ferry passengers. The mild-mannered Goldmann, apparently appalled by Brabanta’s language, has a face like vanilla pudding. Even so, it is he who tries to interrupt.

“Nestor. Nestor, please. Drugs? Witchcraft? This is craziness.”

“You think so? What, you think it’s a myth, that stuff? Listen, I’ve been up North. I’ve seen what those damned Africans are into. I’ve seen normal people turned into animals, Ariel. So don’t shake your head like that! Not unless you’ve got a better explanation.”

“Look, Otello is a black man from the North, yes, but he’s not, you know, he’s not into that. He’s, well, charming and —”

The Duke thinks, Oh, God, Ariel.

And sure enough Brabanta flares like oil lobbed onto a fire.

“Ah! Charming. You want to think about that word, Ariel? You want to ask yourself exactly what kind of charms persuade a girl who has everything, everything, to marry this, this nigger, two weeks after meeting him? You ever wonder why black magic is called black magic?”

Pedro dos Passos coughs lightly. “Actually —” he begins, but gets no further because Brabanta comes to the table and puts both hands on it and leans across it; his eyes are hot and moist, and his voice is congested. The Duke wonders if the man might be on the verge of a seizure.

“My daughter is a star. That’s not sentimentality; it’s a fact. She’s worth millions in her own right. You all know that. And she’s my only child. So she has men hitting on her all the time, okay? Nice men. White men. Rich men. Men from the best families. Maybe she sleeps with some of them — I don’t know. I don’t ask. But marriage is an issue we talk about, me and her. Because I understand the pressure she’s under. And you know what she always says? She says she doesn’t believe in marriage. Which, yes, has something to do with me and her mother. I accept that. I do accept that. Then all of a sudden she’s married to a black she hardly even knows? And you think this is natural? You think something as, as . . . gross as that can be explained in normal terms?”

At last he sinks into a chair. He lowers his head onto his hand and surreptitiously wipes an eye with a finger. The Duke has never before seen a senator shed a tear, so he waits a couple of seconds.

“Nestor, you called this meeting. So I assume there is something you want us to do.”

Without looking up, Brabanta says, “For a start, I want this so-called marriage annulled.”

The Duke, who is, among other things, Brabanta’s legal adviser, sighs. “As you asked me to, I’ve looked into that. I’m afraid that, despite its hastiness, the, er, ceremony was perfectly legitimate. Unless, of course, Desmerelda was acting under duress. Or indeed drugged or brainwashed or some such thing.”

“She was! She must have been!”

“Unfortunately there is no proof of that. Of course, if she were to testify that she was . . . But that seems extremely unlikely.”

Brabanta thrusts his fists forward and sits up straight. “In that case, I want us to sell the black son of a bitch.”

Goldmann and dos Passos react as though both their heads have been tugged by the same length of string. Goldmann opens his mouth, but the Duke lifts a hand to silence him.

“Nestor, my old friend, you know you cannot ask for that. Imagine —”

“No, you imagine. Imagine what it would be like if you had to watch that bastard play for your club, knowing that after the game he was going to go home and clamber into bed with your daughter. Eh? Could you do that? Could you bear that?”

The Duke, whose two daughters are plump, plain, and inoffensively married, pretends to give Brabanta’s question serious consideration. “I understand your pain, Nestor. Your outrage. We all do.”

Dos Passos and Goldmann nod, solemnly and synchronized.

“But let’s be realistic. We could never persuade the board to sell Otello. Apart from anything else, there would be huge legal and financial problems. And think of the fallout. Think of the effect upon the club. Think about the ridicule in the media. Rialto is bigger than any one of us. It is bigger than all of us. Those are not my words. You yourself said that, three months ago, in this very room.”

Brabanta turns his head toward the Duke. He has the look of a fatally wounded bull preparing for a last lunge at the matador.

“Then I’ll resign from the board. I’ll dump my shares on the market.”

The Duke sits back in his chair. He takes his spectacles off and lays them on the table. He gazes at them for a moment or two. Eventually he says, “Yes, you could do that. To spread the pain around. But in the end, who would be hurt the most? I can tell you who would not be hurt, and that’s Otello. He’s got a contract tighter than a squid’s rectum. You yourself made sure of that.”

Half an hour later, Ariel Goldmann and Nestor Brabanta descend together in the elevator.

Goldmann feels he should put his arm around the other man’s shoulders but somehow cannot bring himself to do so.

“Nestor, please. Try to allow this rage, this bitterness, to pass. Give it some time. The Duke is right — it’s hurting you more than anyone else. And, you know, the victim who smiles takes something back from the thief.”

“Christ, Ariel.” Brabanta spits the words. “I can’t stand it when you come on like a goddamn hippie rabbi.”

Goldmann flinches visibly.

The elevator doors open onto the VIP parking garage, underground. Brabanta doesn’t get out. Instead, he presses his hand on the button that holds the doors apart. Leans on it, looking sick. “Sorry, Ariel. I shouldn’t have . . .”

Goldmann at last manages to lay his hand on his colleague’s arm. “It’s okay. Forget it.”

Brabanta lifts his head. “Tell me this, though,” he says.“How would you feel if one day your little princess presented you with a piccaninny as your first grandchild?”