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When I walked inside the church I saw a choir about to rehearse a hymn. I sat listening as they began to sing:

Morning glory, starlit sky

soaring music, scholars’ truth,

flight of swallows, autumn leaves,

memory’s treasure, grace of youth:

open are the gifts of God.

If I closed my eyes now, in Asolo, I could still see St. James’s interior: a vast, simple space surrounded by two-tiered windows beneath a barrel-vaulted ceiling. It struck me that St. James’s, an edifice plain on the outside but soaring and beautiful within, was the perfect place to honor Dame Freya.

The British couple, unlike me, had found the site they’d come looking for: the grave of Eleonora Duse. It was set apart from the rest of the cemetery, they told me, in a small patch of woods.

I had planned to stay for another hour or so, searching, but the light was fading and so was my energy. I walked back to the main road with the woman and her friend to their parked car. A chauffeur stood beside it, smoking a cigarette. Seeing them, he quickly stamped it out.

“Could we give you a lift back to town?” the young man asked.

“That would be very nice,” I said. He held open the door and I climbed in.

“By the way, I’m Jack Upton,” he said, holding out his hand. “And this is Mrs. Margaret Spenser.”

“I’m delighted to meet you,” I said, introducing myself and wondering, even as I did, what to say next. For some reason I felt the burden of conversation lay with me. As I rummaged through my head looking for something interesting to say, Mrs. Spenser broke the silence.

“Have you been enjoying your stay in Asolo?” she asked.

I told her I was enjoying it immensely, especially the quiet, pastoral setting.

“Yes, it’s quite restful, isn’t it? Particularly after the crowds we found in Venice. I must say, though, I find Venice simply charming. Have you been?”

“Yes, I have. And it is beautiful. No wonder painters could never get enough of Venice. I’ve read somewhere that the light in Venice actually changed the course of painting.”

My remark seemed to interest the two of them, particularly Jack. “It has been said you can classify Venetian painters by the light they preferred,” he said. “Bellini liked morning light, Veronese the midday, and Guardi the evening.”

“Are you a painter?” I asked.

“No, but I am interested in art.”

“Jack is too modest,” Mrs. Spenser said. “He’s quite an expert on Renaissance drawings.”

I was about to ask more when the car pulled up in front of the villa. Jack spoke to the driver in Italian, then helped Mrs. Spenser and me from the car.

“I told him to pick us up tomorrow afternoon at two,” he told Mrs. Spenser. “Maser is only four miles from here and Villa Barbaro is only open in the afternoon.” He turned to me. “One of the reasons for our visit here is to see the Palladian villas in the region. Particularly Villa Barbaro. Some think it’s Palladio’s masterpiece.”

“Yes. I’ve read about the Villa Barbaro. It’s on my list, too.”

We walked into the small lobby together. They were staying in the villa; my room was in a smaller, more modest building nearby. We said our good-byes and parted, going off in different directions.

That night I broke my usual routine. Instead of going to the square after dinner for a glass of wine, I sat in the garden thinking about Venice. About Venice and about Naohiro.

Just before leaving for Asolo I had spent my last weekend in Venice with Naohiro. When he arrived by plane from Paris on a Friday afternoon I was there at the small, crowded airport waiting for him. As usual, I was excited by the thought of being with him.

I spotted him first. He wore a black leather jacket and was moving quickly, but with his usual elegance, through the crowd. Watching him, I felt it: the leap of the blood. I wondered—no, I hoped—that he would feel it, too.

Naohiro, I could tell, had seen me. He walked to where I stood and put his suitcase down. Then in traditional Japanese fashion, he greeted me by bowing his head. In similar fashion I returned