‘I liked her company,’ he observed quietly. ‘She was easy to talk to, and she gave back more than she knew.’

‘You’re just being kind. I’d had enough of her. I’m ready for Ruth Three.’

‘And what is she like?’

‘I have no idea, that’s the best of it. I never met her before today, but I think she’s been waiting to appear for some time. I’ll tell you this, she’s not just going to sit there and take it like the other two.’

‘Just the same, they had something that mattered. Don’t change too much.’

She put her head on one side, then the other. Then she brushed her fingers through the front hairs where they fell over her forehead. This way, then that way.

‘I can’t decide,’ she said.

‘Let me see.’

He turned her to him and touched her forehead gently. But then he stopped, for his fingers had brushed against a scar, the last reminder of her injuries.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

‘It doesn’t hurt anymore,’ she assured him. ‘That’s all in the past.’

But it wasn’t in the past. It was still here and now, despite the new appearance and the burst of confidence.

‘Does it show very much?’ she asked.

‘No, just a thin line. You’d never see it-unless you already knew it was there.’

‘That’s the way to be,’ she said softly. ‘Keep the pain to yourself, unless you find someone else who understands.’

He nodded. ‘You’re right, although not everyone is that lucky.’

He brushed her few hairs back and leaned down, gently laying his lips against the scar.

‘It’s going to be all right,’ he whispered.

They settled into a comfortable routine. Pietro gave Ruth a key to the side door, making her independent. Most days she went to the shop with him. At other times she stayed at home studying papers, brushing up on her Italian, sometimes going for walks, learning about Venice as she’d never done before. In Gino’s company she’d thought only of Gino, but now she began to love the little city for its own sake.

Stripped of tourists, it contained barely seventy thousand people, ‘true Venetians’ who thought their unique home the most perfect place on earth, no matter how difficult and impractical life might become.

There were no cars, so that people either went by boat or walked. Even an elevator could be a luxury.

‘We can’t install elevators,’ Mario told her. ‘The buildings are so old and frail that the vibration would make everything fall down. My grandparents have to climb seventy steps to get from the ground to their apartment at the top of the building.’

‘Wouldn’t they be better off somewhere else?’

He stared at her in amazement.

‘They’re Venetian,’ he said, as though that explained everything. And Ruth guessed that it did.

Sometimes she helped Mario with his English, sometimes he helped her with her Italian.

‘But you’ll also need to know Venetian dialect,’ he told her once. ‘Have you noticed the sign outside the shop? “Qua se parla anca in Veneto.” It means “Here we also speak Venetian”. Not everyone does, and we’re very proud of it.’

‘I guess I can manage,’ Ruth said cheerfully. ‘We have dialects in my country too. Remember that man?’

‘The one you helped me with? Yes, but he only pronounced English words in his own way. Venetian is a completely different language.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said slowly as something cropped up in her mind. ‘Venetian has the letter “j”, which you never find in Italian.’

‘That’s true,’ Mario said. ‘So you already know about our dialect?’

‘A little,’ she murmured. ‘I remember about the “j”.’

How Gino had chuckled the day he said, ‘Ti voglio bene.’ It means “I wish you well”,’ he’d explained. ‘But it’s how Italians say “I love you.”’

‘I don’t believe it. It’s so sedate.’

‘But we are sedate,’ he’d said in mock indignation. ‘A very sedate, proper people. We say “Ti voglio bene.” Unless we are Venetian, and then we say, “Te voja ben.”’

Gino’s words whispered through her head. Te voja ben-te voja ben.

But suddenly there was another memory fluttering at the edge of her mind, refusing to let her seize it but also refusing to go away. It was more recent-he had said these words to her and she had said them back to him again and again, holding him close in an ecstasy of love. Just a few days ago-but that was impossible-if only she could remember-

‘Ruth, are you all right?’ Mario asked anxiously.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said hastily.

The memory vanished. She sighed and let it go. It had escaped anyway.

A few days later she was working in the back with Pietro when Mario put his head around the door.

‘Ruth, there’s a man out here who’s looking for you.’

She drew a sharp breath. Gino must have returned. Who else would be looking for her? But then she remembered that Mario knew Gino and would have said it was him. Conscious of Pietro’s eyes upon her, she asked, ‘Did he give his name?’

‘Señor Salvatore Ramirez.’

‘What? But he’s the man whose books I’m translating. Let me see.’

She darted past him into the front of the shop. Pietro, following more slowly, was just in time to see an extravagantly handsome man approach her with a theatrical gesture.

‘I have brought the books myself because I had to meet the lady who understands my writing better than anyone in the world,’ he declared expansively, speaking in Spanish. ‘I called first at your address but they told me to come here.’

‘You’re very kind,’ she murmured.

‘And now tell me that I can take you away. We will spend the evening together, talking about many things you need to know to help you with the other books. I will open my heart to you, you will open your heart to me, and in the joy of mutual understanding we will create a work of art.’

‘Well, there are some questions I’d like to discuss with you,’ she mused. ‘Pietro, is it all right if I go? Señor Ramirez says-’

‘Yes, I understood quite as much as I wanted,’ Pietro said in disgust. ‘Get him out of here.’

‘I don’t suppose I’ll be very late-’

‘Be as late as you please, but go before I throw up.’

Ruth returned to the palazzo in the early hours, having enjoyed one of the best evenings of her life. She slipped in quietly, prepared to creep up to her room, but Pietro was lying on the sofa with his feet up and a baleful expression on his face.

‘Is this what you call not being very late?’

‘Is it late? I hadn’t noticed.’

‘Too busy creating a work of art?’ he asked ironically.

‘Something like that.’

Her eyes were bright with champagne, but also with an evening’s pleasure. She threw herself into a chair, stretching luxuriously.

‘Oh, what an evening! I learned so much.’

‘Good,’ he said briefly.

‘I hope you didn’t wait up for me.’

‘I was a little concerned for you. I shouldn’t have let you go off with him like that. He might have been any kind of a bad character.’

‘No, he’s charming. It was a wonderful night.’

‘I didn’t think restaurants stayed open this late.’

‘It didn’t. They threw us out, so we went back to his hotel.’

‘And stayed there for several hours,’ he said grimly.

‘Really?’ She looked at her watch, apparently startled. ‘Oh, yes, I didn’t notice the time.’

‘So you had such a good time that now you’re full of ideas for translating his books?’ Pietro’s voice had a touch of sarcasm.

‘Yes, I-oh, heavens! The books.’ This time her alarm was genuine.

‘Where are they?’

‘I must have left them in the hotel room. I’ve got to go back. How did I manage to forget them?’

‘I can’t imagine,’ Pietro said dryly.

At that moment there came the sound of the bell from the side door down below. Exchanging glances, they went to the window and looked out. There stood Salvatore, accompanied by a beautiful woman in her forties.

‘Ruth,’ she called up merrily. ‘You left the books behind.’ She held them up.

‘Amanda, I’m so sorry,’ Ruth called.

‘I’ll come down and let you in,’ Pietro said.

‘No, no, we can’t stay,’ Amanda called. ‘We leave early tomorrow morning and we must get some sleep. I’ll leave the books here on the ground. Goodbye.’

She and Salvatore blew kisses and vanished into the night, arms about each other. Pietro hurried down and collected the books.

‘Don’t lose them again,’ he said, giving them to Ruth. ‘And who is Amanda?’

‘His wife, of course. Isn’t she sweet?’

‘His wife?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’s been with you all the time?’ Pietro asked slowly.

‘Of course. Actually I learned more from her than from him. I think she helps to write the books, or even writes most of them. She’s probably the one who insisted on having me to translate.’

‘Does Ramirez do anything himself?’

‘Well, he tells very good funny stories. I’ve never laughed so much as I did tonight-at least, I don’t think I have. But like many men, he’s chiefly window-dressing.’ She yawned. ‘Now I must go to bed. Goodnight.’ When he didn’t answer she raised her voice. ‘Goodnight, Pietro.’

He jumped. ‘What?’

‘I said goodnight, but you were staring into the distance. Did you hear me?’

‘No-yes-goodnight.’

She smiled as she went into her room. For reasons she couldn’t have explained, she had enjoyed the last few minutes more than she would have thought possible.

Now her days were pleasantly full, either working at the shop or sitting up late working on the books she was translating. Ruth clung to her resolve not to brood about Gino, and found that it worked better that way. Odd snippets did come back to her, to be fitted, piece by piece, into the wall that her mind was gradually building up. It helped, but it wasn’t a final answer.

‘Perhaps there won’t be a final answer,’ she mused to herself. ‘Maybe I’ll just have to remake my life from here.’