David looked down at the drawing. “When you were hammering on the door, you know, I thought it was the police. Michele’s having a few problems. I work for him. There’s no Vittorio. It’s just a name with the right sound. Anyway, he’s finally sold the wrong picture to the wrong person. It’s all over for him in this business, for me too by extension. In this country. Anywhere, above a certain level.”

“Fakes?”

“It’s not binary, Andy. When something is five hundred or so years old … back then, each painter had whole studios of apprentices and everyone copying one another. Authenticity is on a scale.” He screwed up his face, like the false notes in his voice were hurting his ears.

“And this picture?”

“Mine. I sold all the others I had to get it. It’s just a little sketch. I’ve always thought it’s by Montocci. There’s a painting he did in the chapel of San Clemente. It’s of the war in heaven. I’m sure this is a study for one of the figures. It’s always been my favorite. I was certain I could get it authenticated. But not now. I doubt it’s worth a bean now. You can go see it, the original, it’s not far from here. Well, you probably can’t right now.”

The house was making strange noises, creaking noises, like it was being squeezed in a fist.

“I hope you have it insured.”

David put his head in his hands and groaned. “Can we talk about something else?”

At that moment, I very much wanted to ask David if he’d ever loved me. Because it was suddenly clear to me that I had once loved David. The way he moved, everything that belonged to him. It had been many years since I had seen him, and I was not the same person. Still, his voice moved me, stirred in me the restless girl I’d once been. I was unable to stop myself remembering certain things.

“Was it you who called the telephone box? After you disappeared that summer, I used to wait outside. Someone called it, kept calling it, but they never said anything.”