I listened but did not speak. I had nothing to say. But after another drink my tongue loosened. I spoke of my artwork. How I longed to make something great and beautiful. I complained about my job and my boss Ticolat. I even confessed my worry over Simone’s health. The whole time Valfiero nodded sympathetically like an old friend. And continued to refill my glass. Then he leaned in and whispered. Said he had a way to reverse my fortune and laid out his plan.

He finished and I laughed. I was sure he must be joking.

Valfiero waited. Then he said it again and I could see he was serious.

I told him he was insane! I got up to leave. But the absinthe had gone to my head and I was unsteady on my feet.

Valfiero took hold of my arm with his spidery fingers and lowered me back into my chair. He explained how it could be done. Every detail. And how much money we would make.

I told him it was impossible.

We sat there a few minutes not speaking. I thought he must be crazy. His scheme the ravings of a madman.

It can be done was all he said. He patted my shoulder. My cheek. Telling me to trust him. Calling me DEAR BOY over and over. I wanted to spit in his face!

Then he offered me a few francs to help see me through Simone’s cold. I did not want to take his money. But I did.

He told me there would be more. Much more.

And it is true I took his money. But I say now and before God that I had no intention of doing what he suggested.

And I would not have had things not changed.

26

I turned the page, expecting to read more about Valfiero’s plan, but Vincent had switched topics, writing at length about the drawings he was carving into his prison walls with a stick he had picked up in the courtyard, smuggled into his cell, and sharpened on the stone floor—a partially nude woman, an homage to Simone, and Napoleon on horseback, the image based on a famous painting by the dictator’s court painter, Jacques-Louis David, which Vincent had drawn from memory. When the bells of San Lorenzo basilica sounded closing time, I had still not learned how Valfiero had persuaded Peruggia to steal the world’s most famous painting, and I wanted to know, wanted to keep reading. I reflexively went for my phone, as I had a half-dozen times before, to photograph the pages, then remembered I did not have it.

I closed the journal and looked up. Chiara was not at her desk, and Riccardo was nowhere to be seen. A minute to make the decision to do this. But how? I opened the top button of my jeans, and with my other hand still on the journal, I began to slide it off the desk.

27

From the outside, the café next door to my hotel looked drab, but inside, it was busy and crowded, wall sconces creating film-noir shadows. The bartender, a young guy with slicked-back hair, greeted me with a flashy smile and a complimentary glass of prosecco, which I wanted but knew better. I let it sit there and ordered a sparkling water while he described the three panini choices that constituted the bar menu.