I stood in the center of the Hall of Mysteries, surrounded by those jewel-toned frescoes: Birth of Christ, Adoration of the Magi, Resurrection. When His Holiness ambled into the room—eyes on those walls, red velvet hat in hand—I spoke: “Dante Alighieri said, ‘Worldly fame is but a breath of wind that blows this way, and that, changing name as it changes direction.’ And it’s true, Your Holiness. Pinturicchio was once the most famous painter on this peninsula, but now new generations hardly know his name.” I gestured to a cardinal, gaping at the Assumption of the Virgin fresco, who looked young enough to still require a tutor. “But that’s a disgrace, Your Holiness. We should all know Pinturicchio. Some people, I suppose, might call copying our predecessor’s work thievery.” I glanced at Michelangelo, head back, mouth open, staring up at the Annunciation. “But I call it progress. Painters have built entire styles atop Pinturicchio’s innovations, and these paintings have personally given me inspiration, comfort, protection.” I thought back to those dark nights, when I’d slept in those rooms when I had no others. “So, I’m asking today that you save these paintings, Your Holiness, open these rooms, unbury these walls. These masterpieces don’t deserve to be buried beneath. They deserve to be seen. They deserve to be saved.” I dropped my head with a note of finality and stared down at my leather shoes, a fresh pair for the occasion, with not a single frayed thread or speck of paint.

There was thick silence—not a sniff or cough or shifting stance—and then the pope said in an incredulous or frustrated or defeated tone (I’m not sure which because I didn’t look up to see his expression), “Why in heaven’s name wouldn’t you save your own work, son?”

“Your Holiness,” I said. “Even if you destroy everything of mine inside the Vatican, I can paint new paintings. Because, as you see”—I extended my arms—“I’m still alive. But Pinturicchio? He’s gone from this Earth. He’ll never paint anything again. And the world doesn’t deserve to lose him.”

The pope shook his head—his expression was impossible to read—but before he could speak, a new voice called from across the room, “Allow me to show you what the world doesn’t deserve to lose, Holiness.”

The pope and I exchanged a bewildered look and then, along with everyone else, turned to see who had interrupted.