It seems to me that shortly thereafter-though the sequence of events may be totally skewed in my memory-Detective Byrne reappeared to tell us that 'the body' had been removed. He went into some details that I have never been able to remember. I'm pretty sure that he even sat down at the table again with the officer and me, because I have a remembrance of warmth and heat and the thrill of male proximity.

I began to realize that Karoline was not there on the sidewalk any more. In fact she was nowhere. I put my head on the cool surface of the table once more. Listening with half an ear to the officers' inane details, I heard other voices again, this time our little group of philosophers discussing our favorite topic.

"So what about sex then? We used to believe in free love. But what does that mean?"

Daniel was more than half drunk. He clutched the glass of red wine and swirled it thoughtfully. The ruby legs flowed up and down the transparent sides, glistening in the light over the dining room table. Our favorite topic was not simply about sex. It was an exploration of the last two decades, the ones when hope and innocence intermingled with drugs to make us believe we'd change the world.

"Well, I personally define sex as any contact with another body in order to pleasure yourself," Vicki said. "Free love is any pleasure you don't have to pay for."

Raucous laughter ensued.

"But love ought to mean some kind of relationship," I pointed out, feeling high and pleasant and argumentative.

I knew everything at that moment. I was complacent and ignorant, mistakenly enjoying a life I thought was real.

"Free love is a misnomer. Maybe we should call it getting your rocks off without entanglement. I bet everyone would understand what that meant."

"Most men would." Vicki's lips were covered in the foam from her latest margarita.

The males laughed as though they wanted to confirm her indictment.

"Hey, most people would. I don't agree that men and women necessarily see sex in different ways. That's just societal expectation. Like calling sex 'love' instead of just plain sex. Women are supposed to want romance and marriage and babies, not an amusing romp in the sack. So that's what we pretend to believe," I shot back with the adrenalin that comes from depressing one's usual inhibitions.

Though I noticed Karoline's quizzical stare and unusual silence, I kept going.

"I for one have never believed that sex is just about reproduction. In that scenario, women are merely receptacles and incubators. I really think sex is essentially a very good time."

In response the men laughed again. Giulio gave my hand a squeeze.

"Don't say that too loudly," he said with a huge smile. "You're far too gorgeous. You'll be having a lot of fun every night if you don't watch out."

I don't know if anyone else heard Karoline, but I did. She sat at my right and whispered in my ear. I assumed she was teasing me. "Not much different from now."

"We're getting off topic," Daniel complained. "We're not discussing Anne's sex life in particular, although I probably shouldn't object. The original question was, what has happened to free love? How do we define sexual relations? Are the eighties bringing in a new prudishness?"

"I think we should define sexual intercourse, not relations. 'Relations' gives it a confusing element. People think of the word in terms of relatives or relationships. But sexual intercourse is different," Joseph proclaimed.

"Is it really?" Karoline asked. "I think intercourse is just as confusing."

The group began to laugh here, but she cut them off.

"Do we mean any mode of relating or connecting when we talk about intercourse? I mean, since we're having oral dialogue here about sex, does that qualify, too? The word means contact, interaction, communication. Doesn't that cover all the senses, including hearing?"

"Well, I like it," Daniel answered. "That means we can have sex any time we want. Which means love is definitely free, since it's in the air. Clearly we don't need to fear the eighties after all."

And so the discussion went on, philosophical, erotic, almost clinical in turns. Again, it would be Karoline who would bring an end to one angle and start us off in another direction. She always had quotes and references stored in her head. She made good use of silence and appeared to wait until we'd ventured into ridiculousness before she offered her sane, researched opinions.

When I reflected on the discussions the morning after or weeks later, I wondered if she did this on purpose. Was her mission to show us how stupid we were? Guilt would banish that thought from my mind.

Detective Byrne asked me suddenly if I was okay. I raised my head from the table, which was no longer polished or gleaming, but steamed and greasy from forehead and finger patterns. This time his gaze pored over my scantily dressed body, while I stared at the oddly chiseled features of his face. I wondered idly if he was any good in bed. There must be something to redeem that face.

I was too numb to actually feel anything though. I certainly don't remember any more interrogation. He reiterated what his companion had told me. They'd need to ask more questions very soon. I'd have to sign a deposition of my information. Would I mind if they searched her room once more before they left? Was there anyone they could call to come over and be with me?

After the police officers departed, I heard, for the first time, a deep and absolute silence in our apartment. The utter complete lack of Karoline. Even when she was quiet I was aware of her aura, her smile, her smell. For most of our years together the apartment had been filled with music.

We were eclectic in our tastes. Any decade, any style, as long as we liked the words and could dance to the music. We loved to sing along, boogie through the hallway and the living room, do the dishes to the rhythms that boomed from our stereo.

Now all of that was gone. Along with her physical presence, Karoline took the music with her. A ringing started in my ears that replaced the swish of her movements, the creak of her bed, the slam of her doors. The rumble of her pen across the endless pages that she had written. Letters that I discovered later. Letters that destroyed us.

I returned to rubbing the table, which had once again been contaminated with the officer's notebook and the dots of my saliva as I lay breathing and thinking on the wooden surface. I spread the cleaner further and further over the wood. Around the Murano cut glass bowl that we'd picked up in Venice. Around the gold-plated candle sticks that we'd bought in Florence. Around the tray with the salt and pepper shakers we'd brought home from Milan. Karoline would expect me to use the gold revitalizer on the candlesticks by next week. We'd bought it specifically for that purpose and we made sure it was done on schedule. The salt and pepper shakers were full. From now on I would have to remember all on my own to dust everything.

Our jobs not only had prestige but paid well, too. We had lived relatively frugally but we travelled high and often.

I thought about that fateful trip to Italy, the days we had with Giulio and the days we subsequently lost.

Dear Diary, I love her, but I have never met anyone so shallow. That goes for the Eye-tie, too. They're silly, lazy, too easily satisfied. I am always the one who has to do everything, make things happen. They plan and organize but they don't follow through, so what's the use?

Chapter 4.

"Buon giorno, signorina! Desidera le valige?"

"Ciao, Marco!! Come stai?"

Giulio's arms circled the other man, who responded with kisses. His face showed every bit of his unqualified joy in his cousin's presence.

Giulio's eyes glistened with tears as he turned to us and waved at a small group of smiling people. "Ti la presento mia famiglia."

Everyone beamed and shook hands and picked up our luggage, laughing loudly as they led us to their cars.

What followed was a round of visits to eat and drink wine. Karoline was much better at picking up the nuances of language than I was or ever will be. She understood what everyone said despite the unfamiliarity of the words. I was left to nod and smile as I met 'la zia, lo zio, il cugino, la cugina, il nonno, la nonna'. On and on it went, house to house, dining room to dining room. They devoured huge pots of pasta and enormous bottles of red wine everywhere we went. Very quickly, after being squeezed between short, round people on couches for photo after photo, my mouth was tight and tense. I found it difficult to smile.

Karoline, however, had never seemed so alive. She laughed and talked and waved and hugged in a manner that I'd hardly ever seen and certainly have not seen since. My little dumpy friend who saw herself as homely and plain was suddenly the star of this group of homely dumpy people who didn't seem to mind an extra pound or two around the waist, as long as it meant you liked to 'mange'.

With me they were overly polite and solicitous. The women didn't seem to register my presence while the men rarely raised their eyes to my face. Sometimes I caught them elbowing each other as they looked in my direction. The women did this surreptitiously while the men giggled openly even in Giulio's presence. Once I saw my friend's face go red. He appeared to give his Zio Alfonso a mini lecture, which Alfonso completely forgot the next time he was face to face with my breasts.

Karoline was the center of attention. For once I felt quite ignored and was, I must say, very content with that. My major problem was that I had become completely bored with family visits. I could have stayed home and done the same thing. I took to walking up and down the beaches. I poked in shops, ferreting out all the tourist attractions that each little Marina or Alta had to offer. In Silvi, a beautiful little town by the Adriatic Sea, Giulio finally noticed my boredom. He assigned his cugino Paolo to take me up the mountain to Silvi Alta, where some beautiful little churches could be toured and lovely vistas could be photographed.

At first, the only thing I noticed about Paolo was that he was much shorter than me. As I walked along to the car, I could see the top of his head. I was suddenly embarrassed that I had worn the red shoes with stiletto heels. His hair looked wavy, clean and soft, as though begging fingers to trail through it.

Just as this thought crossed my mind he looked up and smiled a white, inviting smile. His deep brown eyes sparkled with energy and sensuality. I stumbled and he caught me with a firm grip on my elbow.

The energy in the car after that was difficult to ignore. As though to distract us both, Paolo kept up a running commentary in his lilting if limited English. He described the medieval village to which this winding pathway led.

"You see the wall, here, here," and he pointed to the stone border that hugged the road, "that is how the old town is, you see. It is like a...like a crown on the hill. The stones are like the jewels all around it. But you see it is not for the decoration but for protection in those days. It is very high up this mountain. You will see."

I was trying very hard to see, as he kept repeating the phrase, but all I really noticed were the hard muscles in his bare arms, the soft black hairs curled against his brown skin.

"From up there, you will smell the salt of the ocean," he said, his voice soft and caressing, "because the breeze, it always carries the sea to the mountain."

But all I could smell was his aftershave, his slight perspiration and a sexual musk that had nothing to do with the ocean.

When the little car, somewhat protesting the final slopes, had finally made its way within sight of the village, I was gratefully distracted by its charm. Beautiful arches of stone gave way to small rows of homes dotted with colorful flowers and trailing vines. On nearly every corner one could enter a dark, hushed church and savor its art and history. We walked all around on the flat cobblestones, soaking in the atmosphere.

Paolo stopped and spoke with several people, introducing me to some. I actually nodded and smiled and said, "Buon giorno," trying my best to trill the r's and not sound quite so foreign. Every one of the villagers grinned and shook my hand, some toothless and wrinkled, some young and contemporary. The vigor in the little place was seductively friendly and happy. I snapped dozens of pictures with what I thought was artistic abandon.

In the early afternoon, when the sun was extremely hot on my foolishly bare head and my idiotically clad feet were on fire, we stopped in a cafe for lunch. Paolo seemed to know the owner. He indulged in a short conversation with the host and hostess who glanced over at me once in a while. Finally, the woman smiled slightly and showed us to a table with an astonishing view.

Slightly elevated, the restaurant provided a vista of the hills on one side and the ocean on the other. The sun blazed above the canopy and glinted on the green and blue patches of the scenery. Inside the cafe, people gathered around glasses of wine or beer and mounds of delicious food. All about us the stores and streets had gone quiet for lunch followed by siesta.

Paolo at first kept up his running commentary on the people or the grape varieties or the food, all the while his eyes on mine. He pointed out historic sites that could be seen around the valley from this vantage point. He asked questions about the United States and our life there, which I answered in as little detail as possible.

As the afternoon progressed, the small line of sweat across my upper lip was not from the heat of the day. My entire body was electric with the nearness of him. I could feel darts of excitement run from my breasts to my inner thighs to my toes. I tried very hard to focus on his words but all I could hear was the rhythm of his voice. All I could see was the plumpness of his mouth as he formed words or as his tongue spread over his lips to lick away a drop of red wine.

The hostess continued to serve us carafes of wine until the sun began to make its way over the highest hill towering to the left of where we sat. My face was flushed with the wine and the desire coursing through my body. It seemed that there was no one else here but us.

When I leaned over and brushed my mouth across his soft thick lips, the electricity of his touch radiated to every part of me. I shuddered with want. I was completely flesh. No thought other than having him could penetrate my brain. I followed that touch with a passionate kiss. My tongue probed the warmth of his mouth. I felt him shiver with excitement. He pulled back very quickly, his hand holding only my finger, as though afraid he might burn himself on my desire.

He whispered, "Andiamo," in his soft musical voice.

Suddenly I noticed that the village had become alive again, hours ago perhaps. The stores and streets bustled with people once again. The hostess stood there with the bill, her face dark and cold. I barely registered the fact that her eyes were thunderous. What's more, I don't think I would have cared if I had.

I followed Paolo out of the cafe, my hand tucked in his as he led the way. I barely noticed the narrow streets or the people as we made our way, silently, back to his little car. Once there he folded me into the passenger seat and climbed hastily into the driver's side. Only the sound of our breathing betrayed the urgency of our departure, for he was careful as he wound the car down the steep road.

I closed my eyes and relished the feeling of coveting him, of the sexual vibrations that sang in my groin, of the tingling in my breasts that made my nipples press against my blouse. By the time he parked the car in a small clump of trees, I was wet and scarcely able to breathe.

Once again I followed him. He grabbed a blanket from his trunk and led me to a little clearing. Though the temperature was no longer sweltering, there was no wind and the evening was warm. My desire kept my skin hot to the touch. He laid me down on the blanket and began to kiss my neck while he undid the buttons of my top. I stroked the back of his head, tangled my fingers through his soft hair, traced the outline of his back and shoulders through his silky shirt. He gently released my breasts and began to lick and suck them, his tongue supple and wet. The thrill rocketed through me, causing me to moan and begin undoing his belt.

Once unconstrained, his penis was large, thick and honeyed. Moaning, I moved my hand up and down on his hardness while he lifted my skirt and began to play his fingers inside my wetness. I could feel the spasms as I responded with orgasmic tremors. I was transported somewhere else when voices suddenly infiltrated the fog of pleasure.

Drunkenly, I lifted my head as the faces began to appear more distinctly before my misted eyes. They were very close, standing just at the edge of the clearing. They certainly would have an unobstructed view of my companion's hairy curved ass as he bent over to pleasure me. I had to shake him and point over his shoulder to get his attention.

Once he looked in the right direction, Paolo scrabbled to his feet. His penis became limp and ridiculous in the fading light. I pulled my legs up. I threw my skirt over my nakedness, unaware that my breasts continued to shine in the moonlight. There stood the host and hostess from the cafe. Their arms literally held up a young woman who had dissolved in tears.

A huge roar of Italian resounded in my ears as I pulled my panties up. I straightened my skirt and quickly readjusted my bra once I saw that my breasts were in full sight of the entire clan. At my side, Paolo had swiftly pulled up his pants and was redoing his belt buckle. All the while he roared back in his language at the same volume.

I brushed the grass and bits of twigs from my clothing and hair. I began to walk toward the little car, leaving the foursome to scream at one another. Still dazed from the ferocity of our encounter and the rush of adrenalin that left my heart pounding, I stood and stared off into the darkness. The voices behind me intruded on a soft and luxurious country night.

Before I knew it, the host from the restaurant, a rather large, dark man, silent and grim, had climbed into the driver's seat of the car. He gestured at me to join him via the passenger side. Chastened, I did as I was told. I watched as Paolo followed the younger and older woman-in the streetlights I could see that they were obviously mother and daughter-to another car. Evidently abandoned hastily, it waited crookedly at the side of the road. Paolo climbed into the back while his accusers took up the front.

The older woman sprayed gravel noisily onto the hood of Paolo's car as she raced away up the hill. My driver turned the wheel and sped at a frightening speed back down the mountain, his lips set in a harsh line. Even if he could have understood me and I him, I knew he would not speak.

So I sat in stunned silence, feeling rather like a child who'd been caught in an evil deed. I tried to work out what had happened. Obviously the younger woman was Paolo's girlfriend. I wondered why he'd taken me to the cafe in the first place. Perhaps he hadn't planned our rendezvous at all, but had succumbed to the same power that I'd felt.

I was never a person who felt that sex was any different from sharing a scrumptious meal with someone. I didn't have any qualms about having a sexual encounter with a person I'd never see again. I could remain friendly with a man with whom I've had a torrid affair. In those days I assumed the only protection you needed was birth control, though I changed that stance over the years.

Before Ethan, I'd never really been in love. I still have no illusions about fidelity. I don't know if I can actually do it for a sustained period of time.

It was blatantly obvious to me that night, however, that the poor young woman, the daughter of those cafe owners, certainly believed in fidelity. She was devastated by Paolo's indiscretion. Of course that caused me to feel a certain amount of guilt. Especially when we reached Giulio's uncle's home. The grim father-of-the-injured-party leapt from the car, leaving me to fumble out of the passenger side. He raced into the house where he promptly, with lots of shouting and hand waving, told the entire story, round hirsute ass and all.

When I reached the doorstep, I could see their faces. The whole group of aunts and uncles and cousins turned to look in horror at me. I imagined what I looked like. Disheveled, flushed, clothes askew, I was unable to hide a glimmer of sexual aura. In other words I was a Western Tramp, a putana. Giulio's eyes, when I caught his glance, were the worst. He signaled disappointment, shame and disgust in such poignancy that all at once I was overflowing with remorse.

"I didn't know..." I tried to say, but was prevented from finishing by Karoline's firm hand on my elbow.

She steered me back outside away from the shocked hush of Giulio's relatives and the continued flow of invective from the aggrieved cafe owner.

Karoline hurried me down the dusky pathway to a bench overlooking the ocean, a spot I would have reveled in at any other time. After we sat down, she grasped my hand and turned my face to look at her with firm fingers on my chin. "So tell," she said, and I did, though I left out the details of the sexual experience in question, afraid I would be too flowing in my description and therefore not at all contrite.

"I had no idea he was attached to anyone," I said in my defense. "He never mentioned a girlfriend."

"It's a fiancee. Apparently that little clearing is a secret rendezvous of theirs. So the parents are really upset. Not only is it obvious that Paolo is a cheat, but he's also been screwing his intended. I guess virginity is still revered around here. The wedding takes place next week, or at least it's supposed to."

She let go of my hand. "It's one of the major reasons we're here. Giulio is the best man. Or did you forget that part of the itinerary?"

I stared off across the water, listening to the soothing sound of the waves, wishing I could disappear. "I guess so. I thought we were going on a tour of Italy, not a family visit."

I know I sounded childish and selfish, which is in fact exactly the way I felt. Karoline, as always, was sympathetic.

"This really hasn't been what you expected, I know that. Maybe you and I should just go off on our own. Maybe very early tomorrow morning."

I gave her a sheepish smile. "Yes. Sneak out of town before dawn. I get your meaning. But you really don't have to come with me, you know. You are enjoying this immensely. I truly don't want to spoil it for you. I could join a tour or something. I honestly wouldn't mind. If I were on an organized group tour, I'd be safe so you wouldn't have to worry."

She looked at me as though actually considering the suggestion, but I realized quickly that she was making a decision. It was a choice. Her original, cherished friend Giulio or her other, in some ways more valued friend, Anne. In the end, the selection that she made ended her life.

As it turned out, we did leave before anyone was up the next morning. Giulio didn't come to say good-bye, although Karoline admitted later that he'd kissed and hugged her before she left. I was the one he didn't want to see. I had mixed emotions as we climbed aboard the bus to parts unknown. I was suffused with guilt only because I'd hurt Giulio. Certain that he would forgive me at some point, I found that I was not enormously sad. In fact, quite the opposite. I was thrilled to be free.

Karoline and I spent four weeks traveling through Italy. We made no plans, pre-booked nothing. Karoline had her own ideas about sightseeing. We never trod on the path of common tourists. We went south to the romantic Amalfi coast where we fell in love with Sorrento and Capri. From the cliff tops, we gazed out over the navy blue water, watched birds sail the winds in every direction, soaked in the salt air. We avoided the gift shops and instead traversed little winding alleys and roadways that led out to sheer drops. We marveled over dazzling stone cottages. We ate in quaint cafes that were tucked under trees or behind a house, away from mainstream scrutiny.

We went north to Florence and stood on bridges to gaze at the domes, steeples and baptisteries. Under Il Duomo's spell of green, peach and white angel carvings and gold tales of hope, I almost entered the hallowed ground, until Karoline reminded me that, throughout history, organized religion was responsible for too much war and death. It would have been unconscionable to appear to admire this monstrosity. We found little shops in the alleyways, far from the tourist marketplaces, with treasures made by hand from stone, marble or glass. We ate authentic Florentine meals, drank heavy dark wine and enjoyed the flow of Italian words and laughter all around us.

In Venice, just north of the Three Bridges, we discovered a square that was a young adult night scene. Surrounded by student residences on all sides, giant old red-bricked buildings with wrought iron Juliet balconies leaned with approval over the scene. We sang and danced with the locals, drank beer, ate panini and took a ride on someone's speed boat up the canal.

All the while, I assiduously took pictures of every step of our adventure. Our albums stand all dusty and ignored now. They had once proudly graced a coffee table and have been pawed through more times than I can count. Karoline and I look happy, excited, rested and young. We are together in most of the photos, arms around each other, laughing, pointing, posing. Neither of us had ever had so much fun.

I had three more lovers after Paolo, two native Italians and one transplanted German. These secrets I never shared with Karoline, though she must have known where I was. She never asked so I never told.

Nor did I ask her about the waiter she flirted with and who took her on a late-night stroll, nor about the boat's captain who seemed to spend a very long time with her in his cabin.

Dear Diary, She thinks I don't know about most of the men she has fucked, but I know every single slimy one of them.