She reached out and her fingers touched my hand. ‘I am sorry,’ she said softly. ‘I think something terrible has happen in your life.’
The waiter brought my drink and I gulped at it thirstily. ‘Do you recognise that man?’ I asked and thrust the photograph across the table towards her.
She stared at it, her forehead wrinkling in a frown. ‘Well?’ I said impatiently. ‘Who is it?’
‘I do not understand,’ she said. ‘He is in Fascist uniform.’
‘And he has a moustache, eh?’
She looked across at me. ‘Why do you show me this?’
‘Who is it?‘I asked.
‘You know who it is. It is the man you meet last night.’
I knocked back the rest of my drink. ‘The name of the man in that photograph is Dottore Giovanni Sansevino.’ I picked up the pasteboard and slipped it into my wallet.
‘Sansevino?’ She stared at me uncomprehendingly. ‘Who is Sansevino?’