“Angelo made me a sandwich,” Henry said, his vexation receding. “Things are opening again in a few minutes—I know you’ve been wanting to go see the Fra Angelicos at San Marco. What do you say to heading over that way? And afterward I thought we might look for some shirts. I know how you like your Italian shirts.”

Andrew had never said a word about wanting to see the Fra Angelicos at San Marco; he didn’t even know what they were. And it was Justin who liked Italian shirts—it was Justin who liked things.

“Sounds good,” Andrew said, because sometimes it was simply easier to agree.

For the second time that day Andrew headed up the via Tornabuoni. He didn’t walk alongside his father, as he had with Costanza, but behind him. Henry, in his hurrying shoes, wasn’t interested in the experience of getting from one place to another. He wasn’t interested in the shop fronts, the street life, the light, the language. He was interested in getting where he was going, fast.

He was also interested in being prepared when he got there, and preparing Andrew in turn. Henry was a devourer of guidebooks (still!) and books on travel, history, architecture, and art, and as they headed to San Marco, he asked and answered his own questions in a rapid-fire staccato delivery, first into the air alongside him and then, when he realized Andrew was lagging behind, back over his shoulder: “—Patron? Cosimo il Vecchio. Architect? Michelozzo. Period of transformation of buildings? Fifteen years from 1437 forward. Special feature? First public library in Europe. Most famous prior? Savonarola, and we know what came of him. Most famous friar-painters? Fra Bartolomeo and Fra Angelico. Better of the two?”

When Andrew didn’t answer, Henry turned around. “Well?”

“This feels like a class, Dad. You want to be my teacher? Wouldn’t you say I have enough of those already in my life?”

“I want to be a student. The truth is, if I could do it all over again…”

Andrew came to a standstill. Therefore so did Henry. Andrew looked at his father’s face to see if he was serious. “You wouldn’t be a doctor?”

Henry shrugged. “It could be this city,” he said, gesturing. “It’s so … infinite. It’s so … what’s that phrase of Justin’s? It’s so my way. Everything about it. The history. The art and architecture. So much began here, so much ingenuity, so many ideas. It makes me think, I don’t know, of all the possibilities in life…”

Andrew was perplexed. “I can’t imagine you as anything other than a doctor.”

“Yes, but I can,” Henry said. “Left to my own devices, I might have become a historian, or an art historian. I might have been a musician, who knows?”

“Dad, you’re tone-deaf.”

“I guess that’s where Justin comes in. He expresses enough music for the rest of us.”