By the time Andrew found his way back to the pensione, it was past three o’clock, easily the latest he had stayed out on his own since he and Henry had come to Florence. As soon as he stepped onto the via Tornabuoni, he saw his father standing in front of the palazzo, looking up and down the street impatiently.

The central feature that father and son shared was their thick hair, peppered now with gray in Henry’s case, a deep chestnut in Andrew’s. Most everything else about them was different. Andrew was a tall, spider-limbed boy whose imperfect complexion upholstered the bones of what in a few years seemed likely to be a handsome, possibly even notably handsome, face. Henry by contrast had a wide forehead, sharp, miss-nothing eyes, and a thick beard topped by a beak of a nose that looked as though its maker had been called away to a more important job halfway through; yet he was the sort of man people invariably noticed, mainly on account of his unbridled vitality. He was a pot on a constant flame, sometimes simmering, sometimes bubbling, or bubbling over. Some people found Henry’s vitality contagious, some people were oppressed by it, but no one responded to him with indifference.

Henry had changed out of his lecturing jacket and tie and was wearing a pair of khakis, a dark blue shirt, and comfortable shoes. His hurrying shoes, Andrew thought of them. Wearing his hurrying shoes while having to stand still put Henry’s mind and body in torqued conflict. Often the very sight of those shoes would cause Andrew himself to hurry. But not at the moment. At the moment Andrew decided to take a picture of his father. Calmly he turned on his camera and zoomed in on Henry’s face, where a scowl was implanted in his dense beard. Andrew captured the scowl—three times—then walked across the street and tapped his father on the shoulder.

“There you are. I’ve been worried. You’re turning into your mother, Andrew. She was perennially late, especially near the end.”

The end: as though she had died.

“You keep encouraging me to go out”—Andrew shrugged—“so I went out.”

Henry frowned. “Day after day I leave you suggestions, and day after day all you do is go for a run and sit there in the pensione. I accept that you’re not much of an adventurer. That’s more Justin’s thing.”

Nearly every time Justin’s name came up, Henry’s face darkened. He behaved as though traveling without Justin were like traveling without a limb.

Andrew was relieved that Henry didn’t ask where he’d been.

“Have you eaten?”

Andrew nodded. “But I can sit with you.”