They bickered frequently now as Gianfrancesco protested the prices of things like funeral candles and poultices to comfort the dying. Until at last I persuaded him to go to bed. His manner was deferential, even eager. From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened. She had mentioned the address where she and her sister had lived. He had a blue overstuffed couch, his own television, even a computer with its own desk. Yet her hands dropped, and she sighed deeply. She pulled his shirt from its tucked belted state and snaked her hands around his waist. “Yes, I remember,” she said. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. His expression became pained. Permit me to introduce myself. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik.
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