I looked away but it did not deter him.

He told me his name was Valfiero. The Marquis Eduardo de Valfiero. He repeated the name several times. Then sat down beside me. Opened a bag and took out an apple and a pain au chocolat and offered them to me saying he was not hungry.

I tried to resist but my stomach growled. I took them and ate hungrily. He prattled on about his noble birth and his friends. Said they were the most celebrated art dealers of the day. And that he had come to Paris to buy and sell art. I was interested but tried hard not to show it.

He asked if I worked in the museum. It was obvious. I was wearing my workman’s tunic with the museum emblem. I nodded. But I did not tell him that it was a part-time job. Or that I worried I might be fired.

He asked if it was interesting work. I told him it was not his business. I stood and he dared to stop me with his spidery hand on my arm.

He said he had an offer for me. Something lucrative. I pulled out of his grip. Insisted I had to get back to work. But he continued to speak. Asked me if we could meet after work. I said no. All I could think of was Simone in our cold flat. Of the logs in the fire that would need replacing. I walked away fast. But he followed. The whole time he asked questions. What they paid me at the museum? Did I enjoy my work?

I did not answer.

He called after me. Offered a drink. More food. Insisted I hear his offer.

I stopped. Faced him.

He looked at me and smiled. Said he could offer me more money than I could earn at the museum in a lifetime.

I stared at him. Said nothing.

He reached inside his coat. Took out a small silver case. Handed me a card on heavy cream-colored stock. Then he turned and I watched him walk away. His cane ticking along the path. His cape swirling around him like a cloud of black ink.

I looked at the card. His name and address printed in an elaborate cursive script. I considered ripping it to shreds. But I slid it into my tunic pocket. I doubted I would ever see him again.

18

The restaurant was even noisier and smokier at dinner then it had been at lunch—and Quattrocchi was late. I scrolled through my emails. None from him. One from my university chair about meetings I’d be missing. I concocted an excuse: In Florence seeing art I’m teaching next semester. Making notes that I hope will turn into a paper. Look forward to showing you for your expert eye. A little ass-kissing never hurt.

I ordered the minestrone soup again and thought back to what I had just read. Valfiero. I knew the name well from my years of research—the mysterious con man who some believed had been the mastermind behind the theft of the Mona Lisa. I could picture him now, sharp-featured and with a limp, seducing my great-grandfather with the promise of gold. I wanted to know more, what he was offering, and would have kept reading had the library not closed.