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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."

Ora eavesdropped, her indictments fleeting, unserious. She shamelesslyloathed the vinegar-faced wife, admired the child studying her bright redmenu before whispering to her father, "Daddy, there are brains on this menu." "Really?" asked Nigel. "Where?""Underneath the fried foods." Nodding affably, Nigel carried on,talking of tombs, countless tombs he had seen, entire families entombed. Who,the child asked, was the youngest person in the tombs? Without the leastcondescension, he answered, "A fourteen-year-old girl, darling, hardlyolder than you." So the child was included, her age-appropriateinterests--brains and tombs--acknowledged but not catered to. Exactly how Oraand Giles would have raised a child had they been able to have one--the onewish denied them. Self-possessed beneath her wide-brimmed straw hat, thechild (a Sophie or an Evie) easily navigated between her parents'grownup, surface talk and her own green and hidden, burgeoning world.

Walking down shaded gravel paths through the ancient Villa Borghese gardens,she arrived early at the Galleria Borghese and stood waiting among a knot ofother tourists for her prebooked tour time. Once inside, she found her audioguide was broken, the descriptions unmatched to any of the paintings orsculptures. For several minutes, she tried coordinating the guide with herlocation, then gave up and simply wandered the gilt maze of rooms. When shecame upon Bernini's sculpture, the Rape of Persephone, she wastransfixed by the god of the underworld's fingers digging into, dimplingthe marble flesh of the girl's thigh and waist, oddly excited anddisturbed by this exquisite depiction of imminent sexual violence, violation.In the next room, she sank down on the room's only chair, conquered bythe sublime terror of Bernini's Apollo and Daphne. A young virgin,Daphne, escaping her pursuer by transforming herself into a laurel tree, herslender fingertips turning to delicate translucent leaves, white tendrils ofroots snaking from her sandals, her chaste, perfect limbs covered in roughbark.

Languid, she caressed, squeezed, one rose-colored nipple. With her otherhand, she felt how wet she was, and with him looking up at her, watching, shebrought herself to orgasm, the first since Giles' death. Lewd, her mother's derision, disgusting, her students' revulsion, shameless puss, old cunt, the world's recoil and punishment. Ora shuddered, her face contorting. 041b061a72