He continued: “And Gaetano—let me tell you, I do not feel bad for him one bit. He is cheating on his boyfriend, Pier Paolo. Yes, they started dating only six months ago, and Gaetano is already sleeping with Rocco. I think they are in love or something. Rocco never told me, of course. But I saw his texts with Gaetano, telling him to break up with Pier Paolo.” Giovanni shook his head. “I do not even care at this point.”

The waiter arrived carrying our pizza. She set it on the table, and I dove in. It burnt my tongue, the roof of my mouth, but it was delicious. And it took my mind off the fact that Giovanni had just wiped away the perfect image I had of these people, wiped it away clean like an Etch A Sketch.

“We are all pretty fucked, Amir,” Giovanni added quietly, washing down the last of his beer. “I know things are not great with your family back home, but we are all quite fucked over here, too.”

• • •

When we got back to Giovanni’s place, Jahan opened the door for us, a glass of wine in hand.

“You’re back!” he exclaimed. “Finally. Rocco’s gone and raided the liquor cabinet. He’s in a bit of a grumpy mood. How was dinner?”

“Dinner was good,” Giovanni said. “We went to that pizza place off Piazza Santa Maria.”

“That’s the one with the owner who used to own the kebob shop on the Viale, no?” Jahan said. “Remember when the Bengali worker got locked in that basement and everyone thought it was the owner who did it? They must have had major beef. Or should I say, shawarma . . .” Jahan snickered to himself. “Anyway, Rocco is guzzling whiskey or scotch, something manly like that, in the living room. I’m a classy lady, so I’m sticking to wine.”

Giovanni went and poured himself a glass of wine. He asked if I wanted one, and I said I was good.

“You have been working very hard lately, Jahan,” Giovanni said.

“Don’t remind me. I’m actually stressed,” Jahan moaned. “I shouldn’t even be here right now.”

“You’ll be fine,” I said to him. “You were a beast with the Pythagorean theorem yesterday. You’re going to kill it.”

Jahan nodded. “Yeah, I hope so.”

We gathered around the dining room, under the Caravaggio. I quickly scanned the room for any trace of Giovanni and me. A hair, a sock, anything we might have left behind when we were hooking up.

“Caravaggio never had to learn algebra,” Jahan muttered.

“Caravaggio murdered someone, did he not?” Rocco said. He was sitting on the couch where Giovanni and I had gotten frisky just a couple hours earlier.

Giovanni rolled his eyes. “Yes, and it got him exiled from Rome. Which is one way to get someone out of this city.”

Rocco glared at his boyfriend and said something sharp in Italian.

“I suppose da Vinci was a mathematical genius,” Jahan said, defusing the tension. “So maybe there’s some merit to knowing math as an artist.”