The Broker

15

Long before dawn, Marco once again awoke in a strange bed in a strange place, and for a long time worked hard gathering his thoughts — recalling his movements, analyzing his bizarre situation, planning the day ahead, trying to forget his past while trying to predict what might happen in the next twelve hours. Sleep was fitful at best. He had dozed for a few hours; it felt like four or five but he couldn’t be sure because his rather warm little room was completely dark. He removed the earphones; as usual, he’d fallen asleep sometime after midnight with happy Italian dialogue ringing in his ears.

He was thankful for the heat. They’d frozen him at Rudley and his last hotel stop had been just as cold. The new apartment had thick walls and windows and a heating system that worked overtime. When he decided the day was properly organized, he slowly placed his feet on the very warm tile floor and again thanked Luigi for the change of residence.

How long he might stay here was uncertain, like most of the future they’d planned for him. He switched on the light and checked his watch — almost five. In the bathroom he switched on another light and studied himself in the mirror. The growth under his nose and along the sides of his mouth and covering his chin was coming in quite a bit grayer than he had hoped. In fact, after a week of cultivation, it was now obvious that his goatee would be at least 90 percent gray, with just a few lonely specks of dark brown thrown in. What the hell. He was fifty-two years old. It was part of the disguise and looked quite distinctive. With the thin face, hollow cheeks, short haircut, and little funky rectangular designer eyeglass frames, he could easily pass for Marco Lazzeri on any street in Bologna. Or Milan or Florence or all the other places he wanted to visit.

An hour later he stepped outside, under the cold, silent porticoes built by laborers who’d been dead for three hundred years. The wind was sharp and biting, and once again he reminded himself to complain to his handler about the lack of proper winter clothing. Marco didn’t read papers and didn’t watch television and thus had no idea about weather forecasts. But it was certainly getting colder.

He hustled along under the low porticoes of Via Fondazza, headed toward the university, the only person moving about. He refused to use the map tucked away in his pocket. If he got lost he might pull it out and concede a momentary defeat, but he was determined to learn the city by walking and observing. Thirty minutes later, with the sun finally showing some life, he emerged onto Via Irnerio on the northern edge of the university section. Two blocks east and he saw the pale green sign for Bar Fontana. Through the front window he saw a shock of gray hair. Rudolph was already there.

Out of habit, Marco waited for a moment. He glanced down Via Irnerio, from the direction he’d just come, waiting for someone to sneak out of the shadows like a silent bloodhound. When no one appeared, he went inside.

“My friend Marco,” Rudolph said with a smile as they exchanged greetings. “Please sit.”

The café was half full, with the same academic types buried in their morning papers, lost in their own worlds. Marco ordered a cappuccino while Rudolph refilled his meerschaum pipe. A pleasant aroma engulfed their little corner of the place.

“Got your note the other day,” Rudolph was saying as he shot a cloud of pipe smoke across the table. “Sorry I missed you. So where have you been?”

Marco had been nowhere, but as the laid-back Canadian tourist with Italian roots he had put together a mock itinerary. “A few days in Florence,” he said.

“Ah, what a beautiful city.”

They talked about Florence for a while, with Marco rambling on about the sites and art and history of a place he knew only from a cheap guidebook Ermanno had loaned him. It was in Italian, of course, which meant he’d labored hours with a dictionary translating it into something he could kick back and forth with Rudolph as if he’d spent weeks there.

The tables grew crowded and the latecomers packed around the bar. Luigi had explained to him early on that in Europe when you get a table, it’s yours for the day. No one is rushed out the door so someone can be seated. A cup of coffee, a newspaper, something to smoke, and it doesn’t matter how long you hold a table while others come and go.

They ordered another round and Rudolph repacked his pipe. For the first time Marco noticed tobacco stains on the wild whiskers closest to his mouth. On the table were three morning newspapers, all Italian.

“Is there a good English newspaper here in Bologna?” Marco asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes I’d like to know what’s happening across the ocean.”

“I’ll pick up the Herald Tribune occasionally. It makes me so happy that I live here, away from all the crime and traffic and pollution and politicians and scandals. U.S. society is so rotten. And the government is the height of hypocrisy — the world’s brightest democracy. Hah! Congress is bought and paid for by the rich.”

When he looked as though he wanted to spit, Rudolph suddenly sucked on his pipe and began grinding away on the stem. Marco held his breath, waiting for another venomous assault on the United States. A moment passed; they both sipped coffee.

“I hate the U.S. government,” Rudolph grumbled bitterly.

Attaboy, thought Marco. “What about the Canadian?” he asked.

“I give you higher marks. Slightly higher.”

Marco pretended to be relieved and decided to change the subject. He said he was thinking of going to Venice next. Of course, Rudolph had been there many times and had lots of advice. Marco actually took notes, as if he couldn’t wait to hop a train. And then there was Milano, though Rudolph wasn’t too keen on it because of all the “right-wing fascists” lurking there. “It was Mussolini’s center of power, you know,” he said, leaning in low as if the other Communists in Bar Fontana might erupt in violence at the very mention of the little dictator’s name.

When it became apparent that Rudolph was willing to sit and talk through most of the morning, Marco began his exit. They agreed to meet at the same place, same time, the following Monday.

A light snow had begun, enough to leave tracks for the delivery vans on Via Irnerio. As Marco left the warm café behind, he once again marveled at the foresight of Bologna’s ancient city planners who designed some twenty miles of covered sidewalks in the old town. He went a few blocks farther east and turned south on Via dell’ Indipendenza, a wide elegant avenue built in the 1870s so the higher classes who lived in the center would have an easy walk to the train station north of town. When he crossed Via Marsala he stepped in a pile of shoveled snow and flinched as the frozen mush soaked his right foot.

He cursed Luigi for his inadequate wardrobe — if it was going to snow then common sense would dictate that a person needed some boots. This led to a lengthy internal tirade about the lack of funding Marco felt he was receiving from whoever in hell was in charge of his current cover. They’d dumped him in Bologna, Italy, and they were obviously spending a fair amount on language lessons and safe houses and personnel and certainly food to keep him alive. In his opinion, they were wasting valuable time and money. The better plan would be to sneak him into London or Sydney where there were lots of Americans and everyone spoke English. He could blend in much easier.

The man himself strode alongside him. “Buon giorno,” Luigi said.

Marco stopped, smiled, offered a handshake and said, “Well, buon giorno, Luigi. Are you following me again?”

“No. I was out for a walk, saw you pass on the other side of the street. I love the snow, Marco. How about you?”

They were walking again, at a leisurely pace. Marco wanted to believe his friend, but he doubted if their meeting was an accident. “It’s okay. It’s much prettier here in Bologna than in Washington, D.C., during rush hour traffic. What, exactly, do you do all day long, Luigi? Mind if I ask?”

“Not at all. You can ask all you want.”

“That’s what I figured. Look, I have two complaints. Actually three.”

“No surprise. Have you had coffee?”

“Yes, but I’ll take some more.”

Luigi nodded to a small corner café just ahead. They stepped inside and found all the tables taken, so they stood along the crowded bar and sipped espresso. “What’s the first complaint?” Luigi said in a low voice.

Marco moved closer, they were practically nose to nose. “The first two complaints are closely related. First, it’s the money. I don’t want a lot, but I would like to have some sort of stipend. No one likes to be broke, Luigi. I’d feel better if I had a little cash in my pocket and knew I didn’t have to hoard it.”

“How much?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t negotiated an allowance in a long time. What about a hundred euros a week for starters. That way I can buy newspapers, books, magazines, food — you know, just the basics. Uncle Sam’s paying my rent and I’m very grateful. Come to think of it, he’s been paying my rent for the past six years.”

“You could still be in prison, you know.”

“Oh, thank you, Luigi. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I’m sorry, that was unkind on my—”

“Listen, Luigi, I’m lucky to be here, okay. But, at the same time, I am now a fully pardoned citizen of some country, not sure which one, but I have the right to be treated with a little dignity. I don’t like being broke, and I don’t like begging for money. I want the promise of a hundred euros a week.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

“The second complaint?”

“I would like some money so I can buy some clothes. Right now my feet are freezing because it’s snowing outside and I don’t have proper footwear. I’d also like a heavier coat, perhaps a couple of sweaters.”

“I’ll get them.”

“No, I want to buy them, Luigi. Get me the cash and I’ll do my own shopping. It’s not asking too much.”

“I’ll try.”

They backed away a few inches and each took a sip. “The third complaint?” Luigi said.

“It’s Ermanno. He’s losing interest very fast. We spend six hours a day together and he’s getting bored with the whole thing.”

Luigi rolled his eyes in frustration. “I can’t just snap my fingers and find another language teacher, Marco.”

“You teach me. I like you, Luigi, we have good times together. You know Ermanno is dull. He’s young and wants to be in school. But you would be a great teacher.”

“I am not a teacher.”

“Then please find someone else. Ermanno doesn’t want to do it. I’m afraid I’m not making much progress.”

Luigi looked away and watched two elderly gentlemen enter and shuffle by. “I think he’s leaving anyway,” he said. “Like you said, he really wants to go back to school.”

“How long will my lessons last?”

Luigi shook his head as if he had no idea. “That’s not my decision.”

“I have a fourth complaint.”

“Five, six, seven. Let’s hear them all, then maybe we could go a week with no complaints.”

“You’ve heard it before, Luigi. It’s sort of my standing objection.”

“Is that a lawyer thing?”

“You’ve watched too much American television. I really want to be transferred to London. There are ten million people there, they all speak English. I won’t waste ten hours a day trying to learn a language. Don’t get me wrong, Luigi, I love Italian. The more I study, the more beautiful it becomes. But, come on, if you’re going to hide me, then stash me someplace where I can survive.”

“I’ve already passed this along, Marco. I’m not making these decisions.”

“I know, I know. Just keep the pressure on, please.”

“Let’s go.”

The snow was heavier as they left the café and resumed their walk under the covered sidewalk. Smartly dressed businessmen hustled by them on the way to work. The early shoppers were out — mainly housewives headed for the market. The street itself was busy as small cars and scooters dodged the city buses and tried to avoid the accumulating slush.

“How often does it snow here?” Marco asked.

“A few times each winter. Not much, and we have these lovely porticoes to keep us dry.”

“Good call.”

“Some date back a thousand years. We have more than any other city in the world, did you know that?”

“No. I have very little to read, Luigi. If I had some money then I could buy books, then I could read and learn such things.”

“I’ll have the money at lunch.”

“And where is lunch?”

“Ristorante Cesarina, Via San Stefano, one o’clock?”

“How can I refuse?”

Luigi was sitting with a woman at a table near the front of the restaurant when Marco entered, five minutes early. A serious conversation had just been interrupted. The woman stood, reluctantly, and offered a limp hand and a somber face as Luigi introduced her as Signora Francesca Ferro. She was attractive, in her mid-forties, perhaps a bit too old for Luigi, who tended to gawk at the university girls. She radiated an air of sophisticated irritation. Marco wanted to say: Excuse me, but I was invited here for lunch.

As they settled into their seats Marco noticed what was left of two fully smoked cigarettes in the ashtray. Luigi’s water glass was almost completely empty. The two had been sitting there for at least twenty minutes. In very deliberate Italian, Luigi said to Marco, “Signora Ferro is a language teacher and a local guide.” Pause, to which Marco offered a weak “Sì.”

He glanced at the signora and smiled, to which she responded with a forced smile of her own. She appeared to be bored with him already.

Luigi continued in Italian. “She is your new Italian teacher. Ermanno will teach you in the mornings, and Signora Ferro in the afternoons.” Marco understood all of it. He managed a fake smile in her direction and said, “Va bene.” That’s good.

“Ermanno wants to resume his studies at the university next week,” Luigi said.

“I thought so,” Marco said in English.

Francesca fired up another cigarette and crunched her full red lips around it. She exhaled a huge cloud of smoke and said, “So, how is your Italian?” It was a rich, almost husky voice, one no doubt enriched by years of smoking. Her English was slow, very refined, and without an accent.

“Terrible,” Marco said.

“He’s doing fine,” Luigi said. The waiter delivered a bottle of mineral water and handed over three menus. La signora disappeared behind hers. Marco followed her lead. A long silent spell followed as they contemplated food and ignored each other.

When the menus finally came down she said to Marco, “I’d like to hear you order in Italian.”

“No problem,” he said. He’d found some things he could pronounce without drawing laughter. The waiter appeared with his pen and Marco said, “Sì, allora, vorrei un’insalata di pomodori, e una mezza porzione di lasagna.” Yes, okay, I’d like a salad with tomatoes and a half portion of lasagna. Once again he was very thankful for transatlantic goodies such as spaghetti, lasagna, ravioli, and pizza.

“Non c’è male,” she said. Not bad.

She and Luigi stopped smoking when the salads arrived. Eating gave them a break in the awkward conversation. No wine was ordered, though much was needed.

His past, her present, and Luigi’s shadowy occupation were all off-limits, so they bobbed and weaved through the meal with light talk about the weather, almost all of it mercifully in English.

When the espressos were finished Luigi grabbed the check and they hurried from the restaurant. In the process, and while Francesca wasn’t looking, he slid an envelope to Marco and whispered, “Here are some euros.”

“Grazie.”

The snow was gone, the sun was up and bright. Luigi left them at the Piazza Maggiore and vanished, as only he could do. They walked in silence for a while, until she said, “Che cosa vorrebbe vedere?” What would you like to see?

Marco had yet to step inside the main cathedral, the Basilica di San Petronio. They walked to its sweeping front steps and stopped. “It’s both beautiful and sad,” she said in English, with the first hint of a British accent. “It was conceived by the city council as a civic temple, not a cathedral, in direct opposition to the pope in Rome. The original design was for it to be even larger than Saint Peter’s Basilica, but along the way the plans fell short. Rome opposed it, and diverted money elsewhere, some of which went to the founding of the university.”

“When was it built?” Marco asked.

“Say that in Italian,” she instructed.

“I can’t.”

“Then listen: ‘Quando è stata costruita?’ Repeat that for me.”

Marco repeated it four times before she was satisfied.

“I don’t believe in books or tapes or such things,” she said as they continued to gaze upward at the vast cathedral. “I believe in conversation, and more conversation. To learn to speak the language, then you have to speak it, over and over and over, just like when you were a child.”

“Where did you learn English?” he asked.

“I can’t answer that. I’ve been instructed to say nothing about my past. And yours too.”

For a split second, Marco came very close to turning around and walking away. He was sick of people who couldn’t talk to him, who dodged his questions, who acted as if the whole world was filled with spies. He was sick of the games.

He was a free man, he kept telling himself, completely able to come and go and make whatever decision he felt like. If he got sick of Luigi and Ermanno and now Signora Ferro, then he could tell the whole bunch, in Italian, to choke on a panino.

“It was begun in 1390, and things went smoothly for the first hundred years or so,” she said. The bottom third of the façade was a handsome pink marble; the upper two-thirds was an ugly brown brick that hadn’t been layered with the marble. “Then it fell on hard times. Obviously, the outside was never completed.”

“It’s not particularly pretty.”

“No, but it’s quite intriguing. Would you like to see the inside?”

What else was he supposed to do for the next three hours? “Certamente,” he said.

They climbed the steps and stopped at the front door. She looked at a sign and said, “Mi dica.” Tell me. “What time does the church close?”

Marco frowned hard, rehearsed some words, and said, “La chiesa chiude alle sei.” The church closes at six.

“Ripeta.”

He repeated it three times before she allowed him to stop, and they stepped inside. “It’s named in honor of Petronio, the patron saint of Bologna,” she said softly. The central floor of the cathedral was big enough for a hockey match with large crowds on both sides. “It’s huge,” Marco said, in awe.

“Yes, and this is about one-fourth of the original design. Again, the pope got worried and applied some pressure. It cost a tremendous amount of public money, and eventually the people got tired of building.”

“It’s still very impressive.” Marco was aware that they were chatting in English, which suited him fine.

“Would you like the long tour or the short one?” she asked. Though the inside was almost as cold as the outside, Signora Ferro seemed to be thawing just a bit.

“You’re the teacher,” he said.

They drifted to the left and waited for a small group of Japanese tourists to finish studying a large marble crypt. Other than the Japanese, the cathedral was empty.

It was a Friday in February, not exactly peak tourist season. Later in the afternoon he would learn that Francesca’s very seasonal tourist work was quite slow in the winter months. That confession was the only bit of personal data she divulged.

Because business was so slow, she felt no urge to race through the Basilica di San Petronio. They saw all twenty-two side chapels and looked at most of the paintings, sculptures, glasswork, and frescoes. The chapels were built over the centuries by wealthy Bolognese families who paid handsomely for commemorative art. Their construction was a history of the city, and Francesca knew every detail. She showed him the well-preserved skull of Saint Petronio himself sitting proudly on an altar, and an astrological clock created in 1655 by two scientists who relied directly on Galileo’s studies at the university.

Though sometimes bored with the intricacies of paintings and sculptures, and inundated with names and dates, Marco gamely held on as the tour inched around the massive structure. Her voice captivated him, her rich slow delivery, her perfectly refined English.

Long after the Japanese had abandoned the cathedral, they made it back to the front door and she said, “Had enough?”

“Yes.”

They stepped outside and she immediately lit a cigarette.

“How about some coffee?” he said.

“I know just the place.”

He followed her across the street to Via Clavature; a few steps down and they ducked into Rosa Rose. “It’s the best cappuccino around the square,” she assured him as she ordered two at the bar. He started to ask her about the Italian prohibition of drinking cappuccino after ten-thirty in the morning, but let it pass. As they waited she carefully removed her leather gloves, scarf, overcoat. Perhaps this coffee would last for a while.

They took a table near the front window. She stirred in two sugars until things were just perfect. She hadn’t smiled in the past three hours, and Marco was not expecting one now.

“I have a copy of the materials you’re using with the other tutor,” she said, reaching for the cigarettes.

“Ermanno.”

“Whoever, I don’t know him. I suggest that each afternoon we do conversation based on what you have covered that morning.”

He was in no position to argue with whatever she was suggesting. “Fine,” he said with a shrug.

She lit a cigarette, then sipped the coffee.

“What did Luigi tell you about me?” Marco asked.

“Not much. You’re a Canadian. You’re taking a long vacation through Italy and you want to study the language. Is that true?”

“Are you asking personal questions?”

“No, I simply asked if that was true.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s not my business to worry about such matters.”

“I didn’t ask you to worry.”

He saw her as the stoic witness on the stand, sitting arrogantly in front of the jury, thoroughly convinced that she would not bend or break regardless of the barrage of cross-examination. She had mastered the distracted pouty look so popular among European women. She held the cigarette close to her face, her eyes studying everything on the sidewalk and seeing nothing.

Idle chitchat was not one of her specialties.

“Are you married?” he asked, the first hint of cross-examination.

A grunt, a fake smile. “I have my orders, Mr. Lazzeri.”

“Please call me Marco. And what should I call you?”

“Signora Ferro will do for now.”

“But you’re ten years younger than me.”

“Things are more formal here, Mr. Lazzeri.”

“Evidently.”

She snubbed out the cigarette, took another sip, and got down to business. “Today is your free day, Mr. Lazzeri. We’ve done English for the last time. Next lesson, we do nothing but Italian.”

“Fine, but I’d like for you to keep one thing in mind. You’re not doing me any favors, okay? You’re getting paid. This is your profession. I’m a Canadian tourist with plenty of time, and if we don’t get along, then I’ll find someone else to study with.”

“Have I offended you?”

“You could smile more.”

She nodded slightly and her eyes were instantly moist. She looked away, through the window, and said, “I have so little to smile about.”