She raised her reading glasses and tilted her head with a look both shy and flirtatious before offering a hand with nails painted bright fuchsia. Perhaps fifty, attractive and voluptuous in a tight sweater, she asked where I was from in a throaty whisper and, when I said New York City, said she’d never been but wanted to go. In my best Italian, I said I would happily show her around if she did. She smiled, then cast a look toward the outer office and whispered an apology if “Mussolini” had given me a hard time. She said her name was Chiara, and she was there to assist me in any way, then angled her chin toward the desk beside hers, “Beatrice,” she said, “il mio assistente.” The young woman, in her twenties, thick glasses and a loose sweater, looked up, ticked a nervous smile, then quickly returned to her work.

Chiara handed me a request form, which I filled out exactly as Quattrocchi had instructed: Guggliermo, High Renaissance Masters. She studied it a moment, then handed it to Riccardo, who gripped a metal book caddy beside her desk and disappeared into a back room while Chiara interviewed me: Had I been to Italy before? Did I have friends or family here? How long did I intend to stay? Then she told me to have a seat at the long table—anywhere I’d like—and watched me as I chose a spot facing her though on the far side and at the far end. I wasn’t sure why, but I wanted as much privacy as possible.

I tried to get comfortable but could not relax, anxious to see if the journal actually existed.

Two men came in and took seats at the other end of the table, both in their midthirties, both wearing glasses, one with a close-cropped beard, the other with a mustache, a goatee, and a ponytail.

While I waited, I got my laptop out and plugged the charger into one of the outlets on the tabletop. I sat back, drummed my nails, and immediately stopped, the sound echoing, everyone in the room staring at me. I offered an apologetic smile, then closed my eyes and pictured the altar in my Bowery studio, the years of accumulated inquiry concerning my great-grandfather’s theft, all the theories without conclusions, all the questions without answers.

I heard the book caddy’s metal wheels and opened my eyes to see a long, flat white carton, Riccardo wheeling it toward me. He placed it on the desk, then wheeled the caddy away.

I stared at it a moment. Touched it as if to be sure it was real. Then raised the lid.

Inside, a stack of manila folders, each identified with neat hand-lettering: High Renaissance in Florence, Early Renaissance in Siena, Notes on Mannerism. It was clear Guggliermo was a very organized man. I plucked one out, then two, then three, then four, the stack growing. It was a few more before I saw it: a blue notebook wrapped and tied with coarse twine.