“Stop trying to analyze me. I’m not a painting. Analyze Leonardo’s page, why don’t you, so we can find the Medici Dagger.”
“I intend to,” she huffed. “When we get to Milan.”
“And don’t pick on me because you’re scared. It doesn’t help. Fear is . . .” I felt suddenly inarticulate.“Well . . . it’s just fear.”
“Something you know a lot about,” she said to the window. She breathed on it and drew a little dagger through the condensation.
I checked the rearview mirror for Archie or any of Tecci’s goons. Neither. I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass.
The motor hummed like a Singer sewing machine.
“So,” I said again, “you’re an American.”
Antonia sighed. “I grew up in New York.”
“Where?”
“Staten Island.”
“Your parents are Italian? You look Italian.”
“My father was. First generation. My mother, second. We spoke Italian at home.”
“So, Italian neighborhood on Staten Island. Catholic school, right? Six kids?”
“Two brothers. Four and six years older.”
“Close?”
“Not really. I kind of split off from the family.”
“How come?”
A commercial van pulled up next to us on the right. I reached for a holster, checked the van. Two workmen. The driver blew Antonia a kiss. She responded with an expressive gesture involving her hand and her chin. He laughed and drove off.
“Italian men . . .” she grumbled. “Where were we?”
“Your family.”
“My father was an electrician. Very traditional.”
“And your mother?”
“A very bright woman. She went to college. Had big plans, wantedto be Jackie Onassis. They met while he was wiring her dorm or something and she just lost her senses. She’s a hopeless romantic. He was too handsome and captivating. So she dropped out and started having children and misery. You know, the man she gave up a future for.”
“And where did you fit in?”
“My brothers took after my dad. I was my mother’s great hope. The delegated academic with a scholarship to Vassar.”
“That’s an all-girls school.”
“So?” She looked annoyed.
“I thought girls who went to all-girls schools, you know, aren’t that into men.”
“Hah! Myth. Besides, it was a scholarship, to
“What’d you study?”
“History, until I came to visit my uncle Fausto. I fell in love with art in Venice. That’s when I decided I wanted to be a museum curator.”
Just like my father, I thought, smiling at the coincidence.
“So you graduated and moved to Italy?” I asked.
“I went to graduate school here, got my Ph.D. I took a job at the Gallerie, where I’ve been under the sweaty thumb of Sergio Corta ever since. The man just keeps on not retiring, and instead of letting me do research, he has me giving lectures to visiting graduate students. It’s about a half-step away from handing out rental tape players for the museum tour. That imbecile.”
“What about men?”
“What are you talking about, ‘What about men?’ ”
“You said ‘Italian men’—they’re what? Too traditional for you, right?”
“They’re very romantic . . . at first.”
“I see. After the flowers stop coming, the apron’s next.”
Antonia didn’t answer.
“So what do you do for fun, other than drive boats?”
“Oh, scathing wit. You’re centimeters from me, practically a total stranger, and you’re engaging in repartee. That’s really good.”
