Quattrocchi nodded as I approached, and we shook hands, his soft and warm.

“How did you recognize me?”

“I Googled you,” he said, “and there were pictures. If you don’t mind me saying, you are a lot better-looking in person. Forgive me if I am embarrassing you,” he said. “You just arrived. You must be tired.”

“Actually, I’m great,” I said, and it was true, that despite jet lag and hours hunched over the journal, I felt more energized than I had in years.

Quattrocchi looked like an Edwardian gentleman in his brocade vest and paisley ascot, out of place among the students, several of whom acknowledged him with an affectionate nod or smile as they passed our table.

“It’s obvious they like you,” I said.

“And I them—although teaching can be bloody hell at times.”

“I’ll second that,” I said. “So you’re English? Not Italian?”

“No, not English, but I went to Oxford. The accent and expressions were hard to give up, though honestly I did not try,” Quattrocchi said. “I wager that you expected me to be wearing glasses.”

“Why? Oh… Your name. Of course. Quattrocchi—‘four eyes’ in Italian. It hadn’t occurred to me.”

“It would if you had grown up with it!” Quattrocchi lifted a carafe. “Wine?”

I told him I’d stick to sparkling water and he frowned, insisting a glass of vino would make me feel good.

“Too good,” I said, recalling blurred days and lost nights.

Quattrocchi signaled the waiter, asked if he could order for me, then did, minestrone soup and a bottle of Pellegrino. “Specialty of the house and best thing on the menu.” He leaned forward, the buttons of his vest threatening to pop, and whispered, “Have you seen the journal?”

“Yes. It was at the very bottom of the carton, buried under folders.”

“Was it? I thought I’d put it in on top. I must be getting old. Well, I am old.” He dragged a hand over thinning hair he had combed forward in a failed attempt to hide his near baldness. “I must have forgotten. It was a difficult time, Tonio dying and… Is it interesting, the journal, I mean?”

It took me a moment to recognize that Tonio was a nickname for Antonio Guggliermo, the professor who had acquired the journal.

I told him it was very interesting and asked if he’d read it. He seemed appalled at the question.

“Not a word. I might have if Tonio had lived, but no… I am just getting used to the fact that I am…alone.” Quattrocchi’s voice cracked, and there were tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I said, realizing that Quattrocchi had obviously been more than a cataloger of Guggliermo’s papers.

“No need to be sorry,” he said, swiping the tears away. “I was one of the lucky ones. I found love at a very young age. Tonio was my professor at university. I was twenty-one. He was forty-two. We were like Leonardo and Salaì.”

“But you weren’t ten!” I said. I knew all about Leonardo and his young lover, not just from my years of teaching art history but from my obsession with everything Leonardo.