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The van hits a stretch of paved road to the peak, smooth at last, and easy. The driver presses the accelerator to the floorboard on the final ascent to the quarry.

“To the left is number 35, where my dad and Louie Cap worked in the seventies. We’re going next door to 36,” Conor says.

“Infine!I may survive to make a living in Italy.” I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants.

The gate to the official Massa-Carrara operation swings open. We drive into the worksite cluttered with flatbed trucks and heavy equipment. In the distance, a group of miners sits on the rock wall eating lunch.

The main office trailer is propped against the mountain, a shortwalk from the entrance of the mine. Just for fun, or so it seems, our driver proceeds to hit every pothole in the gravel lot before he parks, jumps out of his seat, comes around, and slides the van door open for us.

Conor and I climb out.

“There’s got to be a sherpa guide around here that can lower us back down to town on ropes. And if you can’t find one, just throw me off the mountain,” I joke.

“Come on, I’ll show you around,” Conor says, handing me a blue hard hat. “It’s dangerous. Stay alert.”

The ground is covered in a thick white dust that clings to my boots. Gigantic blocks of pale white marble form the exterior walls of the mountain. Slabs of Calacatta are lined up in orderly wooden sleeves awaiting transport down the mountain to the sea. Looming behind us is the majestic face of the mountain, carved smooth from raw white stone so massive it pierces the clouds with its sharp edges. I find myself holding my breath at the sight.

Conor leads me through the mouth of the quarry. As we walk past the entrance and more deeply into the mountain, I realize the ceiling of the mine raises to several stories high. We stand in the white cathedral as I run my hands over the marble wall. The stone is cold and smooth like the surface of water. I trace the cursive swirls of gold in the white stone with my finger.

“This is Michelangelo’s quarry?” I ask Conor.

“Yep. That little endorsement from the master of the Renaissance has helped me sell marble in six countries five centuries later.”

I follow Conor back outside. The view from LaFortezza’s quarry is as delicious as the detail inside the mine. He points to the rolling caramel-colored tile roofs of Carrara that look like they’re made of toffee. We walk along the edge of the bluff. Conor shows me the competition, quarries in operation across the top of themountain range. Glaciers of white stone form a jagged line to the horizon. Below them, on the ground, bulldozers leave a trail of black zigzags on the white ground while the forklifts dig arabesque grooves in the slag. The face of the mountain is sliced flat, a white canvas of stone that throws a light of such intensity, the sun itself seems dimmed by its reflection. A system of pulleys and diamond ropes used to cut the stone dangles off the marble wall outfitted with hooks and handles used by the stonemasons to mark the stone for cutting. The slopes of Carrara marble that extend down the mountain in swirls of eggshell with slender veins of pale gold resemble Burano lace.

“There’s Louie Cap’s wall.” Conor points. “Fifty years later and they are still cutting marble from the face of it. In a hundred years, they will still be at it.”

The thought of eternity and Uncle Louie’s role in it moves me. I wipe away a tear on my sleeve. Conor doesn’t notice and I’m grateful. He may believe that the mountain is forever, but when you chip away at anything, whether it’s a vein of marble, a slab of wood, or a person’s self-esteem, bit by bit, day by day, and year after year, eventually it will cease to exist no matter what the experts say.

“LaFortezza’s operation is one out of about thirty,” Conor explains. “Underneath us across the Apuan Alps, there are more than one hundred and fifty deep mines.”

I follow Conor up a set of stairs made from marble blocks to a lookout that reveals the western vista. Tucked into the blue hills are clusters of small towns, including the gumdrop-colored rooftops of Porto Venere. The villages of Cinque Terre are scattered along the coastline like confetti while the rocky bluffs of the Gulf of La Spezia tower over the shoreline like parapets. The distant waters of the Ligurian Sea are a rich midnight blue, topped by foamy white waves that turn emerald green as they lap close to the shore. Except for therooftops below and the white quarries above, it is one brushstroke of blue from the sky down the mountain to the sea.

“Marble formed sixty-five million years ago in the ocean. Below sea level,” Conor says. “Do you think people appreciate that science when they bathe in a marble tub?”

“They do in New Jersey.” That’s something Uncle Louie would say because he believed it.

“At quarry 36, the LaFortezzas extract mainly luna marble. The pagans of ancient Rome named it. They looked up and saw the moon and thought it looked like it was made of stone.”

“When I was a girl, I used to hold marble tile samples against the sky through my bedroom window. I’d close one eye to see if the tile matched the moon.”

“Ciao, Kerrigan!” a voice thunders from below our perch.

“Make a good impression,” Conor says quietly. “If he likes you, you’re in.”

Mauro LaFortezza is a big, sturdy man, around fifty years old. His black hair has streaks of white, like my mom’s when she allows the gray to come in. His broad shoulders and large hands indicate that he hasn’t spent his career behind a desk. Either this man was a stonemason or he was a starting tackle for the New York Giants.

“I’d invite you in, but I have a meeting in Carrara,” Mauro explains. “I understand you draft?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I would like to see your work.Quando vedo il tuo lavoro capisco l’artista,” Mauro says.

“È vero.” I agree with the big man. The work is the artist, and therefore the artist is the work.

“This is the first time my American friend introduced me to another American in the marble business,” Mauro says.

“ItalianAmerican,” I offer.