The Chapel by Michael Downing Page B

pats on the back that kept him in his place. Mitchell had read the Giotto passage from The Inferno a hundred times, a hundred ways. Surely, he hadn’t misread Dante’s meaning. I read it again to the end. “Obscure the other’s fame is now.”
    Mitchell had been half-right. Dante had bestowed upon Giotto a form of immortality. He’d damned him with faint praise.
    S ARA WAS STANDING ALONE IN THE LOBBY WITH A CLIPBOARD , her long hair gathered with a yellow rubber band high at the back of her head so it cascaded down several inches away from her neck, like a real pony’s tail. She was wearing skintight blue jeans and a tiny jean jacket with a pair of lime-green high heels that probably cost more than Mitchell’s BMW. I was relieved to be the first in line, above reproach. Sara was texting so I kept my distance, leaning on the front desk.
    From a swinging door behind the desk, a new character in a tuxedo emerged with two silver ice buckets. He was just about my height, with buzz-cut silver hair and a square, German jaw. He said, “ Prego .”
    I looked around. “ Prego? ”
    He said, “ Prego .”
    I got the sense he wanted me to want something, so I said, “Glue?”
    â€œBlue?”
    â€œGlue.” I licked my finger and pretended to get it stuck on the desk.
    â€œ Ah, francobollo. ”
    This seemed unlikely. “No, glue.” I rubbed my finger on the desk and flattened my hand against the spot, and then leaned back, pulling on the wrist.
    â€œ Si, si, si. Adesiva, adesiva .”
    I said, “ Adesiva!” We were both delighted.
    â€œ Adesiva, ha! No, no, no. Diciamo colla. ”
    Cola? I blamed the ice buckets. “No—no cola, grazie .”
    â€œ Prego, prego. ” He bowed, ducked under the desk, and headed for the elevator.
    I waved at Sara, and as I approached, she politely lowered her phone. I took the opportunity to report on T.’s decision to skip the day’s activities.
    She said, “ Il medico? ” She sounded exasperated.
    I nodded.
    â€œEveryone tells me nothing,” she said. “ Arrivederci !” She crossed his name off her list.
    I had intended to tell her about my altered afternoon plans, but I chickened out when Sara pointed at the four impatient couples staring at us from the sidewalk. She barked, “ Andiamo! ”
    As we stepped outside, one of the men said, “Which way?”
    Sara pointed to a crosswalk at the end of the block and the post office just beyond.
    I said, “Aren’t we waiting for Shelby?”
    Over her shoulder, one of the wives yelled, “She went ahead with that elderly gal. We were all waiting on you again.”
    I brought up the rear next to Sara, who towered over me, texting furiously. Corso Garibaldi was a major thoroughfare, with severallanes of two-way traffic, trams running on embedded tracks, and a broad sidewalk bordered by an unbroken run of waist-high iron-pipe railing that prevented pedestrian crossings for anyone who wasn’t ready to limbo. Within half a block, Sara pointed out the Church of the Eremitani on the far side of the street, a biggish, dark building oddly angled inside a curved brick wall. The church appeared as part of the Arena Chapel complex on the map she’d given us. “We will go there,” she said.
    I couldn’t see how.
    The shops we were passing were just opening up, and I asked Sara if the odd lot of cameras and ponchos and religious statuary was the edge of a shopping district.
    â€œFor tourists who must buy something, sure,” she said. “The station for trains, it is one kilometer up there. You will see Wednesday when you leave for Firenze.”
    I wouldn’t, but I nodded agreeably, as we were about to catch up with the couples. They were waiting at a traffic light where the railing opened up for a tram stop and crosswalk. The men were edging out into the street, their wives clotted on the