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Boxwood topiaries edged the formal terrace, scented jasmine frothed in whitewaves over the hotel's pale gold and bisque walls. Waiters inblack-and-white uniform stood idle. Beneath Ora's chair, a charcoal-graypigeon, obdurate and fat, waited for crumbs. Others fluttered from matureplane trees lining the boulevard to the stone parapet or marched across themarble floor with its white-and-black chessboard pattern. Someonebreakfasting near Ora spoke to someone else. "We were middle-classfamilies, two servants apiece. After the war, we thought we would return tothat. Now, only Eastern Europeans remember the art of service."

In a seventeenth-century courtyard off Via del Corso, with its square ofparched lemon trees, withered fruit, and dry fountain, Ora found the ticketwindow, purchased her ticket and audio guide, and climbed several flights ofmarble stairs to Palazzo Doria Pamphilj. Pressing the device to her ear, shelistened as Prince Doria Pamphilj himself told of his idyllic childhoodgrowing up in the palazzo (his privileged voice already grating on Ora'snerves), adding that he still lived here, in a set of private apartments. Oh, lucky him. She progressed, accompanied by sparkling bits of Haydn (composed during theAustrian musicians visit to the palace) through a series of enormous, emptystaterooms, high-ceilinged, opulent--the Jupiter, the Poussin, the Throne andVelvet Rooms, the Hall of Mirrors. In the Ballroom, she stood near a trio ofheadless wire mannequins outfitted in the Doria Pamphilj family'soriginal livery--the fabric, green silk and red velvet, faded androtting--and listened as the Prince related a charming story of beingpunished as a boy for roller skating back and forth across theballroom's original sixteenth-century brick floors, hand-cleaned andbuffed, as they had been for centuries, with soap, water, and naturalbeeswax. Ora was deeply interested. What had been le petitprince's punishment? His adult voice, smug, silky, pious, provoked vicious envy inher. She imagined stuffing the audio guide and going in search of the Princesprivate apartments. His beast hunted down by her beauty. But she was nobeauty, and the question of his bestiality, absence or presence, was unknown.

Back at the hotel, Ora dined at so early an hour, five o'clock, she wasalone in the enormous, chilly room with its great urns of white star lilies,blue delphinium, and pink roses, its oversize mirrors and glitteringchandeliers. When a father with three adolescent boys was given a tablebehind her, their combined silence went on so long Ora, curious, glancedback. All four, the father, too, slumped down in their chairs scrolling,texting, scanning messages on their cell phones. Strange. She and Giles hadnever run out of things to say, had played and laughed late into most nights.When they were alone, they behaved like children.

Before sunrise, the door opened. She sensed his closeness, a conspiracy, theshedding of shoes, belt, pants, shirt. In darkness, she touched her fingersto his face, imagined she knew him. As he loosened her limbs from thewhite-sheeted, narrow plinth of bed, she thought to tell him her night'sstrange dream, sucking the ugly, swollen cock of some faceless, grotesquemonster. Instead she took his cock--surprising, hot smelling, familiar--intoher artful, swimming mouth, urged him with her great sun flowering hunger,urged him on until they both cried lost, found-Marco!--Polo!--children inthrall to, gaming at, love. 041b061a72