"And was it authentic?" I said in my most neutral tone of voice.
"Almost certainly," he said. "A really fine example, in perfect condition. Now, let's go see my place."
The building was rather unprepossessing, and the elevator more than a little rickety. I took a quick look behind us as I entered the place, but I couldn't see anyone I knew. To my surprise, Nicola's place was a stunner. It was a very large room on the top floor, loft-style we'd call it, with a glass wall on one end, and a fabulous view over the rooftops. There was a small kitchen on the wall opposite the window, a partitioned-off area for the bed, which I stayed away from, and decorated with a few pieces of very modern, beautifully designed, Italian furniture. While I'd been rather careful not to ask him about his personal life, it was so obviously a bachelor's place, I knew I didn't need to probe. The walls were covered in art, some of it really quite good.
"Can I take your coat?" he said.
"Sure," I said. "But just toss it somewhere."
He took it and, despite what I'd said, he carefully put it on a hanger and placed it in a closet near the door. He then took off his jacket, folded it very carefully, looked about to put it on the back of a chair, but then hung it up as well.
"I'm surprised we've had such a pleasant evening," I said with a smile. "I'm rather untidy, you see. I call it creative clutter." We'd end up killing each other, I thought.
He smiled, too. "You've noticed I am somewhat compulsively neat," he said. "Sorry, does it bother you?"
"Of course not. I'm just jealous," I said. "I'd love a modern home like this. It's just that modern is minimalist, and as certain friends have pointed out on more than one occasion, I don't do minimalist. Mine is rather more, shall we say, eclectic in taste. Modern, primitive, whatever catches my eye, and lots of things do."
"Seriously," he said. "Do you like the place?"
"It's fabulous. I'm surprised, for some reason. I'd have thought a curator would have, I don't know.. .."
"Less modern furniture and art?" he said. "It's not as strange as you think. I've found I enjoy good design, regardless of era. But more to the point, I can't own antiquities, now, can I? And once you've seen the real thing, reproductions don't work, at least not for me. This furniture is the genuine article. I've collected some of the best examples of what I think is called mid-century modern where you come from. I work with thousands-of-years-old artifacts during the day, which have a beauty all their own, and then I come home to a different kind of world, a different kind of beauty, I suppose you might say."
"I can tell you picked each of these pieces, the furniture, the area rugs, the glass vase here, the paintings, individually. I know I'm not expressing this properly, but some people just buy stuff, they don't choose it with real care. They buy sets, or something. Or is that a North American phenomenon?"
"I'm not sure," he said. "But you are rather perceptive. I did pick each piece individually. I'm a collector at heart, I guess."
"But a very selective one," I said.
"Perfection is an important concept for me," he said. "In people, too, I'm afraid. It no doubt explains why at forty-six years of age, I still live alone. That and the fact I'm compulsively neat."
"You paint, obviously," I said, gesturing toward an easel by the window. "Are any of these paintings your own work?" I felt we were entering dangerous territory here, conversationally speaking, and I thought I'd just change the subject.
"No," he said. "I'm afraid mine are considerably less exuberant than these abstract paintings. I'm a detail person. You have to be to do the kind of work I do. So when I paint, I'm afraid that love of detail comes out, despite persistent efforts on my part to break free. I could show you some of my work, if you promise not to judge me against these other paintings."
"I'd love to see it," I said.
"There's one piece on the easel," he said. "And I'll bring a few more out." He went out into the hallway, and I started to follow him. "Just wait there," he said. "I have a little work space just down the hall, where I keep my work. It's a glorified bathroom really, just some extra storage space and a worktable when I bring stuff home from the office. Don't come, though." He laughed. "It's almost untidy." I followed him anyway. The room was filled with books, most of them on antiquities, and there was a worktable covered in shards of ceramics, and a kiln in the corner. It was messier than his living quarters but still awfully well organized. "I do some of my research here, as you can see," he said. "It's not a very sophisticated setup, but I can test a few hypotheses from time to time."
I pulled one of the books from the shelf. It was a well-thumbed tome on Etruscan art. After idly flipping through it while Nicola looked through drawers, I put it back. As I turned away, I caught him pushing the spine of the book I'd just replaced, so that it lined up perfectly with the others.
Despite his modesty on the subject and his compulsive tidiness, Nicola's painting was quite exceptional. It was, as he said, rather detailed, small works on canvas, some as small as six or eight inches square, that drew heavily, to my eye, anyway, on ancient designs.
The brushwork was confident and the overall impression very pleasing. "I love these," I said, as I sipped a limoncello. "In many ways, perhaps because of the work I do, I feel more of an affinity to yours than some of these others. It's the ancient quality to it, I think, that appeals to me."
"You are very kind," he said. "I don't show my work to many people. It's a little like baring your soul, isn't it? Thank you for being so gentle with it."
He was standing so close, our shoulders were touching, and I knew it was time to go home.
"I'd better go," I said.
"I'll take you back to your hotel," he said.
"No," I said. "You don't need to do that. If you'll just find me a cab?"
As I left, he kissed my hand. "Here," he said. "For you." It was a small painting. "I think this was your favorite?"
"You mustn't," I said.
"Please, I want you to have it."
"Thank you," I said. "I'll think of you every time I look at it."
"If you're ever back in Rome," he said, handing me his card. "Or if you grow less fond of the policeman, I hope you will think of me."
The streets were almost empty when I left. I looked back through the rear window of the taxi and saw him standing, framed in the light, watching me leave.
For some reason, the way the light hit the glass, perhaps, or the way the windows were framed, he looked to me as if he were imprisoned. Which maybe he was, with his immaculate clothes and his perfect furniture, carefully placed, and not so much as a crumb to be seen. For me, it was a stab to the heart.
THIRTEEN. AREZZO
I SPENT MOST OF THE NEXT DAY IN BED, in a funk so black I could hardly lift my head from the pillow. I snapped at the chambermaid, ordered food but couldn't eat it, opting instead to drink cup after cup of coffee, until my nerves were so frayed my eyeballs hurt. Then I checked my E-mail, thinking it would make me feel better, but it made me feel even worse.
"Hi Lara," the message said. "Hope you 're enjoying France, Italy, or wherever it is you are. The operation I'm involved in is taking a little longer than expected, but everything is fine. In fact, the assignment, as usual, is rather boring. I'll be back home soon. Hope you will be, too. I love you, Rob."
I hit Reply. "Hi Rob," I typed. "Italy is fine. I just have a couple of things left to get under control here, and then I'll be home. I'll see you soon. Love you, too. Lara"