“Farmi una sorpresa,” I said. Surprise me.

A few minutes later, he brought me a panini of prosciutto di Parma and fontina cheese.

I had just taken a bite when a man eased onto the barstool beside me. “Chilly night,” he said. “I didn’t expect it to be so cold here.”

I nodded, not in the mood to talk.

“American?” he asked.

I looked him over: cap pulled down just above thick, tinted glasses that were almost opaque in the bar’s dramatic light.

I nodded again.

“Me too!” he said. “From Chicago. You?”

“New York,” I said, not matching his enthusiasm.

“Greatest city in the world!”

“Sometimes,” I said, then took a bite of my panini, head down, hoping he’d get the hint.

He lit a cigarette. “Thank God we can still smoke in Italy!” He offered me one. I hadn’t smoked in years, another habit I’d given up and didn’t want to start again.

The bartender poured him the complimentary glass of prosecco, which he chugged down and asked for another. He pointed to my panini and said, “Anche per me,” then looked at me. “I hope I said ‘Same for me.’ I don’t speak Italian, but it’s in the guidebook.”

I said, “You asked to sleep with his sister.”

“What?” The guy’s mouth dropped open.

“Kidding,” I said. “You got it right.”

“Good one,” he said and punched my arm, like we were fraternity pals. “So what brings you to Florence?”

“Visiting,” I said, still trying to keep my words to a minimum.

“I’m here on business,” he said, though I hadn’t asked. “To purchase some paintings and objects for my clients.”

That got my attention. “So you’re a dealer?”

“I don’t care for the name, but yes, I buy and sell art.”

“No shame in being an art dealer.”

“No, but sometimes I think I should do something else, you know, something worthwhile.”

“Buying and selling art isn’t worthwhile?”

“Well, it doesn’t do much for the betterment of mankind.”

“Few things do,” I said, wondering if that was what I was doing here—something for the betterment of mankind or just for myself?

“So what do you do?” He nudged my arm with his elbow.

I put my sandwich down, tried not to sigh. “Teach,” I said, hoping that would end the conversation.

“Oh. What do you teach?”

I considered making something up, knew that my answer would spark further conversation, but couldn’t come up with anything. “Art history.”

“No kidding,” he said. “Well, we have a lot to talk about.”

And that was it, the beginning of his art historical discourse with an emphasis on Leonardo, his “favorite artist of all time,” another thing that got my attention. Then it was everything, from Leonardo’s remarkable oil style to his disappointing experimentation with a new fresco technique. “Hey, don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I love the guy, but if he’d applied traditional fresco rules, The Last Supper would not be in such terrible condition.”

“Artists need to experiment,” I said, not wanting to be drawn into the conversation, thinking of Vincent and what Picasso had said to him.