In spite of Ross’s knowledge and love for the art, it was his interaction with the group that she was most pleased with. Twelve years in the business had taught her a peculiar truism: most tourists spend more time looking at the guide than the art.

She gave him a hundred and twenty thousand lire in cash along with her cellular and home phone numbers and the time of his next tour. She had already booked him a tour for the next morning. Francesca was a shrewd marketer and had arrangements with most of the large hotels. She led more tours than any other guide in the city and still turned down nearly half her offers.

They parted and Ross set out for his next task. After six months of sleeping in hotels and hostels, he was ready to settle down. He remembered passing a real estate office near the train station, and he headed off to find it, wandering slowly through the back streets toward the station. He stopped briefly at the open market at San Lorenzo, where he looked at leather-bound books and a sweater, but purchased nothing. Forty minutes later he found the agency.

The office was small with two wooden desks. A young man was speaking on the phone behind one of them. A cigarette burned in his hand, its smoke rising in wisps, occasionally dissipated by an oscillating desk fan. His other hand held a pen, which he tapped rhythmically on the desk. Despite the summer heat, he wore a tweed jacket with a collared shirt beneath.

As the door shut behind Ross, the man looked up and acknowledged him with a curt nod. Ross glanced around then walked to the side of the room, where handwritten apartment information was posted on the wall.

Five minutes later the young man hung up the phone. “Buona sera. May I help you, sir?” He spoke in clear English.

Ross turned around. “I’m looking for an apartment.”

“Yes. Please sit down.”

Ross sat in one of the small metal chairs in front of the desk.

“You are looking for something in Florence?”

“Outside the city a little. Perhaps in Chianti.”

He took a short puff of the cigarette. “Yes, in Chianti. You are quite fortunate as there are now many places free.” He reached for a black binder on the desktop and opened it. “Chiocchio, Strada in Chianti, Impruneta. Greve. There are many. How many rooms will you require?”

“It’s just for me. I would like something with a fire-place and a good view. Someplace interesting. Perhaps an old farmhouse or in a villa near a vineyard.”

“In Chianti they are all near vineyards.” He stood from behind the desk. He was in actuality much taller than he had looked sitting down. He extinguished his cigarette in a glass ashtray, then extended his hand. “My name is Luigi Tommassi.”

“My name is Ross. You speak good English.”

“Yes, well, I went to school in San Diego for three semesters. Do you speak Italian?”