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〃Do you know her； Master？〃 he asked me soberly； surprising Riccardo； who said nothing。
〃You know I do； Amadeo。 She told you I had e to visit her。 You saw my portraits on her walls。〃
I sensed a sudden and violent jealousy in him。 But nothing changed in his face。 Don't go to her。 That's what his soul said to me。 And I knew he wished that Riccardo would leave now and we could have the shadowy bed； with its concealing velvet curtains； to ourselves。
There was something stubborn in him； something directed entirely towards our love。 And how it tempted me； how it drew from me the most plete devotion。
〃But I want you to remember；〃 I said to him suddenly in his Russian tongue。
It was a shock to him but he didn't understand it。
〃Amadeo；〃 I said in the Venetian dialect； 〃think back to the time before you came here。 Think back； Amadeo。 What was your world then？〃
A flush came to his cheeks。 He was miserable。 It was as if I'd beaten him。
Riccardo reached out for him with a consoling hand。 〃Master；〃 he said； 〃it's too hard for him。〃
Amadeo seemed paralyzed。 I rose from my chair at the desk and I put my arm around him where he sat and I kissed the top of his head。
〃e； forget everything。 We'll go to see Bianca。 This is the time of night which she likes the best。〃
Riccardo was amazed to be permitted out at this hour。 As for Amadeo he was still dazed。
We found Bianca thickly surrounded by her chattering guests。 There were Florentines among them； and Englishmen as I'd been told。
Bianca brightened as she saw me。 She took me away from the others； towards her bedchamber where the elaborate swan bed was exquisitely adorned as if it were something on a stage。
〃You've e at last；〃 she said。 〃I'm so glad to see you。 You don't know how I've missed you。'' How warm were her words。 〃You are the only painter who exists in my world； Marius。〃 She wanted to kiss me but I couldn't risk it。 I bent to press my lips to her cheek quickly and then I held her back。
Ah； such radiant sweetness。 Gazing into her oval eyes； I stepped into the paintings of Botticelli。 I held in my hands； for reasons I could never know； the dark perfumed tresses of Zenobia； gathered up in memory from the floor of a house on the other side of the world。
〃Bianca； my darling；〃 I said to her。 〃I'm ready to open my house if you will receive for me。〃 What a shock it was to hear these words e from my own lips。 I had not known what I meant to say。 Yet on I pressed with my dream。 〃I have neither wife nor daughter。 e； open my house to the world。〃
The look of triumph in her face confirmed it。 I would do it。
〃I shall tell everyone；〃 she said immediately。 〃Yes； I'll receive for you； I shall do it proudly； I shall do it gladly； but surely you'll be there yourself。〃
〃May we open the doors in the evening？〃 I asked her。 〃It's my custom to e in the evening。 The light of candles suits me better than the light of day。 You set the night for it； Bianca； and I shall have my servants make everything ready。 The paintings are everywhere now。 You do understand I offer nothing to anyone。 I paint for my pleasure。 And for my guests I'll have food and drink as you say。〃
How happy she looked。 Off to one side I saw Amadeo gazing at her； loving her somewhat and loving the sight of us together though it gave him pain。
Riccardo was being drawn into conversation by men who were older than he and flattered him and loved his handsome face。
〃Tell me what to lay out on my tables；〃 I said to Bianca。 〃Tell me what wines to serve。 My servants shall be your servants。 I shall do everything as you say。〃
〃It's too lovely；〃 she answered。 〃All of Venice will be there； I promise you； you'll discover the most wonderful pany。 People are so curious about you。 Oh； how they whisper。 You can't imagine what a supreme delight this will be。〃
It came about as she described。
Within the month I opened the palazzo to the whole city。 But how different it was from those drunken nights in old Rome when people laid about on my couches and vomited in my gardens and I painted madly away on the walls。
Oh； yes； when I arrived； how proper were my finely clad Venetian guests。 Of course I was asked a thousand questions。 I let my eyes mist over。 I heard the mortal voices around me as if they were kisses。 I thought； You are among them； it is truly as if you were one of them。 It is truly as if you are alive。
What did it matter their little criticisms of the paintings？ I would strive to make my work the finest； yes； truly； but what counted was the vitality； the momentum！
And here amid my best work stood my lovely fair…haired Bianca； free for the moment from those who put her up to her wrongdoings； recognized by all as the Mistress of my house。
Amadeo watched this with silent grudging eyes。 The memories inside him tormented him like a cancer； yet he could not see them and know them for what they were。
Not a month after； at sunset； I found him sick in the grand church on the nearby island of Torcello to which he had wandered； apparently on his own。 I picked him up from the cold damp floor and took him home。
Of course I understood the reason。 There he had found ikons of the very style he had once painted。 There he had found old mosaics from centuries past； similar to those he had seen in Russian churches as a child。 He had not remembered。 He had merely e upon some old truth in his wanderings…the brittle； stark Byzantine paintings…and now the heat of the place had left him with a fever； and I could taste it on his lips and see it in his eyes。
He was no better at sunrise when； half mad； I left him in the care of Vincenzo； only to rise again at sunset and hurry back to the side of his bed。
It was his mind that stoked the fever。 Bundling him like a child I took him into a Venetian church to see the wondrous paintings of robust and natural figures that had been done in these last few years。
But I could see now it was hopeless。 His mind would never be opened； never truly changed。 I brought him home； and laid him down on the pillows once more。
I sought to better understand what I could。
His had been a punitive world of austere devotion。 Painting for him had been joyless。 And indeed all of life itself in far…away Russia had been so rigorous that he could not give himself over to the pleasure that awaited him now at every turn。
Beset by the memories； yet not understanding them； he was moving slowly towards death。
I would not have it。 I paced the floor； I turned to those who attended him。 I walked about； whispering to myself in my anger。 I would not have it。 I would not let him die。
Sternly； I banished others from the bedchamber。
I bent over him； and biting into my tongue I filled my mouth with blood and then I loosed a thin stream of it into his mouth。
He quickened； and licked his lips after it； and then he breathed more easily and the flush came to his cheeks。 I felt of his forehead。 It was cooler。 He opened his eyes and he looked at me； and he said as he did so often； 〃Master；〃 and then gently； without memories； without terrible dreams； he slept。
It was enough。 I lef