Today is my first day in Prato, and I am forced to consider some conflicting facts. Here now is Stefano, arriving to pick me up at the Bologna airport with my name scribbled on an A4 sheet. He confirms some suspicions about Italy—that he lost his previous job for an online gambling website, that he is starting German lessons next week, that he is considering moving to Mauritius where his sister lives in hopes of finding stable employment, that he seems relieved to turn on the radio rather than pursue polite conversation. John Malkovich is here, too, in the center of town. I passed his concept store, OpificioJM, with his initials emblazoned on the front door. The store was closed, but I recognized its signifiers—refurbished industrial space, minimalist café, roof terrace. These then are the parts from which Prato is assembled, the irreconcilable ends of its index.