The Medici Dagger

“Okay. Can I just ask a real question, then? No snappy retort.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Whatdoyou do for fun?”

She paused a second and said, “I sing occasionally. Don’t laugh.”

“That’s so cool. Like in clubs?”

“One. An out-of-the-way place, where no one from the Gallerie would ever go. On amateur night.”

“What kind of music?”

“Anything soulful as long as there aren’t too many notes. I don’t have much of a range. I wish I did.”

“You have a smoky speaking voice.”

“Three cigars a day. Going on twenty years now.”

“Everybody needs a vice,” I smiled. “So, what’s the first tune you ever sang in public?”

Antonia said boldly, “ ‘Like a Virgin.’ ”

I pictured her cooing that song—a good image of her full lips against a microphone.“Hot number,” I said, trying to clear my head.

“Madonna or ‘Like a Virgin’?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

“It’s not the song you sing or the notes you hit, it’s how you hit them,” she said, absently smoothing out her skirt.“It’s soul that counts.”

That made me smile. She was looking out the window and didn’t notice.

“It’s not the same with painting,” she continued.

“No. Of course not.”

“Painting requires soulandskill. Infinite soul, finite skill,” she said animatedly. “The two have to mix in just the right balance, which varies widely from artist to artist.”

“Definitely. Varies widely. Why are you looking at me that way?”

“Because you’re yessing me.”

“I am?”

“You’re no longer paying attention. I hate that when someone repeats what you say so you won’t think they’re really ignoring you.That’s so vapid. You don’t even know what I mean about soul and skill in painting.”

“No?” I said. “I think what you’re referring to is most evident in portraits. Let’s compare, say, Franz Hals and, um, John Singer Sargent. One splashes color into everything, brings out the nobility in the barmaid and the beer- swiller in the duke, and the other daintily goes about his business making the rich look richer. Both had amazing skill. Who had more soul? Tragic that old Franz died in the poorhouse, wasn’t it? Show me a vapid stuntman, I’ll show you a Vassar graduate in a torpedo bra.”

A quick sideways glance revealed Antonia’s surprised look. She began to speak, then sank back in her seat, folded her arms, and stared out the windshield.

“I’ve spent my life in museums,” I said.

“Touche,” she said softly. “One car ride, two myths dispelled. God I’m tired.”

She weakly waved a hand, signaling me onward.

After three hours, Milan was in sight. Antonia had slept the whole way, mouth open, face wedged in between the headrest and the window.

I had no intention of searching for a hotel without consulting her. As we closed in on the city I gave her a gentle shake. Sitting up, she wiped a little drool from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, then turned toward me, lids half open.

“We’re here,” I said, trying not to breathe on her. My mouth tasted like a gym towel.

Antonia blinked hard. “Where?” she asked, coming to.

“Milan. Remember?”

She squinted in the low afternoon sun and looked out the window, checking the signs. “Oh, yeah. Milan.”

“Pick a big hotel. A nice one.”

“How nice? Gritti-nice?”

“Sure. As long as they have a bathroom.”

She directed me to the Four Seasons, a medieval-looking manor surrounded by ancient walls. It was situated in the shopping district, Via Montenapoleone—the Rodeo Drive of Milan. I parked by the entrance, and extricated myself from the torturous little vehicle. A man in a white uniform and hat opened Antonia’s door for her. I tipped him and we headed into the building.

The lobby was not medieval, although impressive frescoes and columns intermingled with shiny new bronze, thick glass, and Murano chandeliers. In my soggy jacket I felt underdressed.

“I attended a day seminar on Leonardo’s influence on Raphael here once,” Antonia pointed out. “I always wanted to stay at this place.”