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We watched as the spectral figure continued on, in the direction of two women studying a window display of expensive leather bags.

“I suppose he’s a walking advertisement for some mask shop,” I said. There were many such shops in Venice, where mask-making is an art form, one whose origins go far back in the city’s history.

Naohiro said nothing. But a look passed across his face, one I couldn’t identify. Was he offended by the tombstone admonition? I realized how little I knew about death and burial traditions in Japan. It was something I would ask him about, I decided, over breakfast.

It was a little after nine when we arrived at the terrace café in the Hotel Monaco. In a perfect setting overlooking the Grand Canal we ordered cereal and fresh fruit, a basket of sweet rolls, and strong coffee. Just as I started to ask Naohiro about the ceremonies and customs associated with death in Japan, he asked me a question.

“I have been thinking,” he said. “Why do they say on their tombstones that ‘Time flies, remember you must die’? Would it not be more useful to say that ‘Time flies, remember you must live’?”

It was such a simple observation. But profound, I thought. It reminded me of the way children think; of how they try to understand the world by asking the obvious or naive question. It was a great gift, I thought, to retain such directness as an adult.

I looked at Naohiro and felt a tenderness usually reserved for my sons. “You are right,” I said. “It is more useful to remember that we must live.”

On Sunday afternoon we boarded the Number 1 vaporetto for a leisurely ride along the length of the Grand Canal. It was a quiet time along this watery thoroughfare. Quiet enough for Naohiro and me to hear the soft lapping sounds of water meeting land and the echoes of children playing in the narrow calli near the canal. On Sunday afternoons there was none of the early-morning commerce of boats delivering fresh produce or the sight of rubbish barges picking up refuse. Nor any of the midday rush of tourists, many of whom had already left after spending a weekend in Venice. The vaporetto that Naohiro and I boarded was almost empty.

For the next hour we sat mesmerized by the changing light, by the white palazzo steps that disappeared into the canal, and the tethered gondolas riding up and down on the water like restless black steeds.

Naohiro was the first to spot the silver-haired gentleman standing on the balcony of his grand palazzo, an elegant greyhound by his side. Later it was I who called to Naohiro’s attention the gauzy fabric covering the palazzi being renovated; it was as though the artist Christo had come to Venice and wrapped the buildings in thin white nets.

Later that night we walked back to our pensione under a moon that glowed silver through the fog, like a light shining through ice. Giddy with happiness we crossed bridge after bridge, turned down one narrow street after another, walked along the quays of small canals. And then it dawned on us: we were lost.

We ducked into a piano bar on the Zattere to ask for directions. After listening to directions given in a combination of Italian and English by a very kind patron, Naohiro and I still had no idea of how to get back to the pensione.

“Maybe we should have left a trail of bread crumbs, so we’d be sure to find our way back,” I said, forgetting that Naohiro probably was not familiar with the fairy tale about Hansel and Gretel.

“Or perhaps we should not try to find a way back,” he said. “Perhaps the answer lies in finding a way to go ahead.”

As I sat on the terrace in Asolo remembering all this, the phone in my room rang. I ran inside and picked it up.

“This is Jack Upton,” the voice said. “I do hope it’s not too late to call. But Mrs. Spenser and I were wondering if you’d like to drive with us tomorrow to the Villa Barbaro.”

The call startled me somewhat. I was still back in Venice. But after a few seconds of readjustment I accepted his offer. It was just what I needed, I decided, turning out