I checked the time, almost eight thirty. Had I gotten it wrong, pushed Quattrocchi too hard last time with all my questions? I thought we’d ended on a cordial note, and it had been his idea to meet again.

I scanned the room. A girl at the next table, a student I recognized from the other day, returned my gaze.

“Ma scusi, stavo qui l’altro giorno e…”

“Sì, sì. I remember,” she said.

“Posso chiedere?”

“I speak English,” she said.

“Oh, great. The man I was with the other—”

“Professore Quattrocchi.”

“Right. I was supposed to meet him tonight. Have you seen him?”

“No,” she said, “but my class with him is not until tomorrow.”

The boy beside her spoke up. “The professore missed class today.”

“Do you know if he’s ill?”

The boy shrugged.

I checked my emails again. None from Quattrocchi.

I finished the soup, ordered a slice of very good olive-oil cake, took my time eating it, then sipped an espresso, thinking of Alexandra Greene, how we’d hit it off so well, at least I’d thought so, then her sudden departure. Maybe it was true that she needed to unpack. Or maybe an excuse to break away because she’d felt us moving toward something too quickly? I liked that explanation better, and I was not ready to give up.

Outside, it was dark, lots of people strolling despite the chill, but I was tired, ready to call it a day. I tried calling Quattrocchi for the second time and once again got his voicemail. I was just putting my phone away when I bumped into a man, or had he bumped into me?

“Sorry,” I said, seeing my own reflection in his dark sunglasses, the cigarette clamped between his lips. The guy turned away without a word. “Hey, you’re excused,” I called after him, but he was already disappearing into a crowd, his cigarette smoke mixing with the exhaust fumes that clouded the air.

19

Two long flights of stairs, then two shorter ones, Alexandra insisting we walk rather than take the elevator. I was a bit breathless, obviously missing my daily workouts. We reached the landing, and the Uffizi’s second-floor hallway unfurled like a treasure chest—a long rectangle lined with figural sculpture, a wall of windows splashing the space with light, a carved wood ceiling ornately painted, the overall effect almost dizzying—or was it the four flights of stairs?

A half hour ago, I’d shown up at the library, psyched to read, but it had been closed by a strike—a handwritten sign on the research room door stating the hours, 9.00 to 16.00. Civilized but odd, a few scholars, including the usual two and me, standing around in various states of annoyance, until Alexandra showed up and suggested we hit the Uffizi, a surprise invitation but a good one.

“Uffizi,” I said, “Italian for ‘offices.’”

“I never realized that,” she said.

“Designed by the artist Vasari to house the offices of the Medici family.”

“I love how you have these facts at your fingertips,” Alexandra said, then took the lead, heading into a gallery with two large paintings of the Madonna Enthroned. I knew them both from teaching, and Alexandra was impressed when I identified the artists from across the room.