The abbot's hand on my arm. "Very pretty," he says, "very pretty." My saints and angels float across the wall. They have grace, they inspire love and piety. I am pleased with them. But no, dammit. I am not pleased with them. I have seen the fat boy's frescoes in the Branacci chapel. "Pah," I said to my friends, "these are ugly, these are gross." That was a week ago. I have done a lot of thinking since. That Eve of his is a real woman. You can imagine the weight of her on the mattress at your side. Her grief appalls. I am still a young man, but my career is over. The fat boy has murdered it.