When he asked again how my work was going, I turned it around and asked about his. He said it was going slowly, and I asked why, and he went into a thing about no one caring about old master art anymore and how it cost ten times more to buy an Andy Warhol than a Titian, and I pretended to commiserate because I wanted to keep him talking.

“Some people don’t even like what they buy,” he said. “It’s all about the name, the prestige of owning something of known value.”

I didn’t think that was anything new, pictured my own paintings, bubble-wrapped and gathering dust in my studio.

“I hate the idea that art is traded like a commodity,” he said.

“Isn’t that what you do?”

He took off his cap for the first time and scratched his head, his hair buzzed a fraction of an inch, a shadow on his skull, but he kept the shades on, paused a moment as if considering what to say. “So what’s worse, being an art dealer who has to buy and sell art he doesn’t really like or being an artist who has to kiss up to collectors and critics?”

I told him I’d never been good at ass-kissing, and he said, “But you must make sacrifices to get what you want.”

“Sometimes,” I said, thinking more about the things I might have sacrificed by coming here—my teaching job, my art career—then turned the attention to him again. “How about your sacrifices?”

He paused as if composing an answer, then said, “It’s an addiction, don’t you think?”

I had no idea what that meant, though the word addiction was loaded for me. I wondered if he had picked up on my drinking problem and was giving me a dig. But why? “What do you mean by addiction?”

“Art, you know—making it, collecting it.”

I told him I’d never thought of making art as an addiction.

“Collecting then,” he said, “acquiring. Some people can’t get enough.”

“Then they have to pay for it. Simple as that.”

“Not always so simple,” he said, finishing his beer in one long pull, then ordering another. I was tempted to ask if he had a drinking addiction. “What if the art is not for sale?” he asked.

“Like art theft?”

“Sometimes people buy stolen art without knowing it’s stolen.”

Unless I was reading into it—and that was possible—the conversation was definitely taking a weird turn. Was it possible he was offering me stolen art?

I asked if he worked through other art dealers or if he had an office in Florence, trying to glean more information.

“Who needs an office these days?”

“So what then? You use a coffee shop or a library—maybe the Laurentian Library, like today?”

“I wasn’t at the library, just passing by,” he said. “I told you that.”

“Oh, right. I forgot. Are you often in this part of town?”

“Not really,” he said, taking his time to light another cigarette. “You know, sometimes people want something so much they stumble into dangerous situations without even knowing it.”