He was apparently a shrewd negotiator, and worse still, completely impervious to Francesco’s unique brand of charm. “What shall I do once I find him?” Paolo had asked. He was standing in Francesco’s large office. Francesco’s place of business was near the Campo San Bartolomeo, near the great spice warehouses, and no less impressive. Magnificent tapestries covered one wall, opposite which stood windows of such exquisite craftsmanship, Paolo wondered whether Tomaso himself had made them. “You look surprised Canever,” Francesco smiled. “I am a merchant. I must be at the heart of things,” he said, patting the area of his chest below which resided his heart, “not all the way down by the little toe.” Francesco illustrated his point by apparently wiggling his toes, although the effect was lost inside his shoe. It was true. Paolo had not expected such lavish surroundings. He hadn’t thought about it much, but now realized that he had in fact looked upon Francesco as a bit of a fool.
