The Blue Last

Twenty-three

That part of the Ponte Vecchio that he could see from this upper story of the tiny hotel was drenched in light. Such a distillation, such a concentration of light, Melrose had never seen before. It cast a golden skin across the Arno and beaded the graceful arc of the bridge where the goldsmiths traded, as if even more gold were called for, as if there could never be too much of it, as if the city could dissolve into sheer light and luster.

Florence’s abundant charms had laid themselves at his feet last night when, after stowing their things in the high cool rooms of their small hotel, they had gone in search of dinner. Trueblood had picked this hotel, liking its seclusion on a street so narrow it could hardly accommodate more than the two of them walking abreast. The hotel seemed to occupy no more than a floor of a building that seemed otherwise tenantless. Melrose loved it; he loved the lobby-reception room, the antique furnishings of his own small room and everything going about in slippered silence.

Except Trueblood, who now stood in his doorway. “Come on come on come on come on” jabbered Trueblood, with the speed of an auctioneer.

It was, thought Melrose, an unseemly pace for this otherwise slow morning. “Good lord, allow me to enjoy this vision of Florence.”

“We want to go to the Brancacci Chapel. That’s first.”

Trueblood was carrying the brown-paper-wrapped Masaccio panel, about as convenient as lugging an oar around. There had been a bit of a row with a long-suffering flight attendant over the disposition of this long parcel: Trueblood wanted it sitting in the seat beside him (as if St. Who was not very sturdy on his legs), and the flight attendant had told him no. It must ride somewhere out of people’s way. And, no, he could not purchase another ticket for it. Trueblood had given in and put it overhead, but had not been happy. He got a crick in his neck from constantly having to look up.

As Melrose swept coins and credit cards off the nightstand and into his pocket, he said, “Aren’t you afraid you’ll lose that walking around?”

“No.”

They left the room, Melrose sighing and exclaiming he trusted he wasn’t to be herded around at this pace the entire time they would be here. Trueblood didn’t answer, just went on before him through the little lobby. Melrose loved the cool space of this lobby, with its blush-tinted stone flooring, rich dark moldings and white busts in alcoves. Reception consisted of a Regency desk and the chap behind it. The breakfast room, where Melrose was headed, though Trueblood was not, was large enough for only four tables and gave the impression, since the other three were unoccupied, that it was a dining room of one’s own.

Failing to steer Melrose off course, Trueblood resigned himself to sitting down at the table. They were served by the ubiquitous reception-desk-fellow and another young man. The service was swift and pleasant and the food delicious. It would have been an altogether relaxing experience had not Trueblood sat sighing and checking his watch every two minutes. Melrose ignored this and tucked into the hotel’s homemade granola. “This is quite good. Have some.”

“I did. I ate an hour ago.”

“You’ve already eaten and you’d starve me? No, don’t unwrap Masaccio again.”

Trueblood was carefully sliding a thumbnail under the tape and folding the brown paper back as tenderly as a baby’s bunting. He had acquired a small magnifying glass which he clicked out of its black case and went about moving it all over the exposed part of the panel.

“For God’s sakes, Marshall, you know every inch of that painting by now. Who is this chap you’re dragging me to see?”

“A man named Luzi. Aldo Luzi. An expert, perhaps the most expert in all of Italy on early Renaissance art.”

“Really? But what about the Ickley woman? She, you said, was the foremost authority.”

“Then she was; she was then.”

“What in hell are you talking about? ‘Then’? It was only yesterday. Are entire reputations to be made or broken over this suspect Masaccio?”

Trueblood inspected a small croissant, then took a bite. “She is the authority in Britain. I only mean I thought she was the foremost authority until she filled me in on this Luzi chap.”

“Ah!” Melrose looped a little spoon of plum jam on his toast and said, “Then ‘foremost’ authority cannot move across borders.”

“Don’t be a nitwit.”

“Okay. Anyway, the Ickley woman couldn’t tell if the painting’s authentic?”

“It wasn’t something she could swear to either way. She could tell the panel, the paint, the varnish, and so forth were right for that period.”

“The period being-”

“Early 1400s. You know the Renaissance better than I do.”

“But only the British version.” Melrose signaled the waiter for more coffee and Trueblood slid down in his chair, eyes closed. “Actually, there was no Renaissance anywhere else; Italy had the whole thing tied up and screaming.”

Trueblood sliced him a look as the waiter poured coffee. “Don’t prattle on, will you?”

“You sound exactly like Agatha.”

Trueblood rewrapped Masaccio, then bounced in his chair a couple of times, displaying the frustration and impatience of a child.

Melrose laughed. “Here’s a side of you I’ve never seen. You’re as determined as a four-year-old trying to get his parents to stop eating and get up and go. This, so he can also go and do absolutely nothing.”

“Well, I’m not going to do nothing.”

Melrose sighed. “All right. I’m ready; bring on the Brancacci.”

“Bran-kah-chi, Bran-kah-chi.” Trueblood separated each syllable as if slovenliness in pronunciation would show a lack of respect that would have all of Florence bolting its doors and turning its back. He rose suddenly and walked toward the door.

“Finished!” said Melrose, throwing up his hands. He carefully folded his big napkin while Trueblood lurked in the doorway.

They descended a marble staircase into the murky depths of the entryway. They walked through the door into white light on pocked gray stone while on the other side of the narrow street purple shadows filled the crouched doorways, watched over by stone sculptures of animals and angels.

They walked, Trueblood in front and occasionally looking back and waving Melrose along.

Finally, they were crossing the Ponte Vecchio, Trueblood giving no quarter for pausing by these windows filled with gold necklaces, bracelets, earrings. The goods, Melrose thought, might have been molded out of the golden surface of the Arno-this morning’s dream scene. He was yanked back by Trueblood’s iron grip; the only thing he would be allowed to stand and ogle would be inside the Brancacci Chapel.

Melrose insisted on looking in the window of the little glove shop just at the other end of the bridge. Nothing but gloves! They lapped over one another in tiny colored waves of turquoise, lemon yellow, lapis lazuli, cobalt blue, crimson. He got pulled away yet again, and Melrose thought Trueblood must really be smitten if he could ignore such an addition to his wardrobe.

The temptations of the Ponte Vecchio behind them, Trueblood once again got in front; he was pointing at some destination, which in a while composed itself into a piazza and a church. “I forgot this was on the way. It’s the Santa Feliceta and there’s a fresco in here we want to see, too.”

It was a painting of the Annunciation, and Melrose liked the startled I-can’t-believe-what-you- just-said look on the face of Mary, turning to look at the angel delivering what was supposed to be really good news.

“Marvelous,” said Trueblood.