You gun the battered little green Fiat across the cobbled Piazza and into the vacant parking space you have targeted, in doing so incurring the wrath of a corps of similarly-inspired Perugians. Their mutual pique at your success, which is explicitly directed towards you, manifests itself visually in the form of a seemingly choreographed gesticulation of hands, each upturned and agitating with thumb, index and middle fingers touching at the tips. But you have seen it before: this is the manner in which to drive here.
You shrug in mandatory cosmetic apology. Today you have not time to be amiable. For merely fifty or so metres away, inside The Hotel San Pietro, awaits the focus of your attention, Snr. Vannucci, now considerably old and habitually elusive.

Momentarily your primary senses, of sight and of sound, are blinded and muted as you are propelled by your own angst-driven inertia through the revolving door and into the tranquility of the hotel lobby, panacea to the sensorial imbroglio that passes for a regulated traffic system on these Italian streets. Your brain searches for neutral and rapidly acclimatizes to ambient. It is immediately apparent that there is no necessity to consult the concierge, for the subject of your visit is unmistakable. That Snr. Vannucci is framed perfectly symmetrically in one of the hotel's famously comfortable armchairs is unremarkable in itself: that he is dressed so incongruously in the custom of a gentleman of the fifteenth century is no less astonishing than could have been expected.

You linger for the briefest of moments before approaching Snr. Vannucci, your urgency having now given way to respectful hesitancy. The old man, though, is less than bashful. He stands rapidly, belying his age with unexpected sprite, and extends his hands to your shoulders to make more intimate the greeting. There is surprising strength still left in these limbs.

"Bonjiorno", he begins, continuing in your mutual native dialect, "... it has been too long".

"It has", you stammer in return, the confidence of your youth failing you for once, awed by Snr. Vannucci's authority. "My work ..." you begin, but tail away, meticulously-rehearsed excuses suddenly seeming feeble when confronted by the difficulty of making them.

"Your work, of course, it is most important", reassures Snr. Vannucci, as you both bend to sit. "How is Rome?"

Snr. Vannucci's words inspire you, as they always have. You know your subject as well if not by now better than he, and with growing awareness of your stature in the eyes of your old master you relay to Snr. Vannucci a series of anecdotes from the papal city and beyond. As you speak, Snr. Vannucci sits quietly, eyes closed and hands clasped together on his lap, occasionally nodding benignly, content to let your words wash over him. Briefly he furrows his brow concernedly when you provide an update on the eponymous manoeuverings of the Florentine, and raises both eyebrows in unison when you question the wisdom of having a non-Italian pontiff, belying the grassroots piety of his own work. But generally he maintains a beatific smile as he recognizes names and places in your telling and recollects his own time in Rome as artisan for the Vatican. Finally, it is dark outside when, modestly, you reach the conclusion of your news: that you too have been appointed as artisan to the Vatican.

"You have come far", says the old master to his pupil, congratulating. "I am proud of you. You have worldliness that I could never possess. Ci è sempre stanza alla parte superiore, Raffaello, there is always room at the top – and it is your turn now."

"Arrivederci Snr.... Perugino", you add. And with that, you are gone.

* * *

• Perugino's The Delivery of the Keys can be viewed at The Sistine Chapel, the Vatican, Rome.