I started to cry.
Kriszti was impressed as I was. She asked me if I was going to take it home. I didn’t think I should. There was something – I don’t know how to put it – something sacred about the painting. Like it belonged in a church or a museum. I didn’t feel I had the right to take it. I wondered if this was the painting he meant to give me when he was dying. “No,” I told Kriszti. “We’ll just leave everything. I’m not touching anything.” I decided to leave everything the way Michelangelo left it. I was afraid to upset the special order of things he left behind. We lay the painting back on the table and covered it with the oil cloth with great care. Kriszti pointed to the tubes of oil paint and the palette on the counter. His brushes were soaking in turpentine. We left the apartment a
