The Broker (15 page)

A powdered brioche of some sort arrived and Rudolph ate half of it with the first bite. A few crumbs dropped from the depths of his beard.

“Still a Communist?” Marco asked.

“Of course. Always. Why would I change?”

“Seems to have run its course, don’t you think? Not such a great idea after all. I mean, look at what a mess Russia is in because of Stalin and his legacy. And North Korea, they’re starving there while the dictator builds nuclear warheads. Cuba is fifty years behind the rest of the world. The Sandinistas were voted out in Nicaragua. China is turning to free market capitalism because the old system broke down. It really doesn’t work, does it?”

The brioche had lost its appeal; the green eyes were narrow. Marco could see a tirade coming, probably one laced with obscenities in both English and Italian. He glanced around quickly and realized that there was a very
good chance the Communists had him outnumbered in the Bar Fontana.

And what had capitalism done for him?

Much to his credit, Rudolph smiled and shrugged and said with an air of nostalgia, “Maybe so, but it sure was fun being a Communist thirty years ago, especially in Texas. Those were the days.”

Marco nodded at the newspaper and said, “Ever read papers from home?”

“Home is here, my friend. I became an Italian citizen and haven’t been back to the States in twenty years.”

Backman was relieved. He had not seen American newspapers since his release, but he assumed there had been coverage. Probably old photos as well. His past seemed safe from Rudolph.

Marco wondered if that was his future—Italian citizenship. If any at all. Fast-forward twenty years, and would he still be drifting through Italy, not exactly glancing over his shoulder but always thinking about it?

“You said ‘home,’ ” Rudolph interrupted. “Is that the U.S. or Canada?”

Marco smiled and nodded to a far-off place. “Over there, I guess.” A small mistake, but one that should not have been made. To quickly shift to another subject, he said, “This is my first visit to Bologna. Didn’t know it was the center of Italian communism.”

Rudolph lowered his cup and made a smacking sound with his partially concealed lips. Then with both hands he gently pawed his beard backward, much like an old cat slicking down his whiskers. “Bologna is a lot of things, my friend,” he said, as if a lengthy lecture was starting. “It’s always been the center of free thought and
intellectual activity in Italy, thus its first nickname, la dotta, which means the learned. Then it became the home of the political left and received its second nickname, la rossa, the red. And the Bolognesi have always been very serious about their food. They believe, and they’re probably right, that this is the stomach of Italy. Thus, the third nickname of la grassa, the fat, an affectionate term because you won’t see many overweight people here. Me, I was fat when I arrived.” He patted his stomach proudly with one hand while finishing off the brioche with the other.

A frightening question suddenly hit Marco: Was it possible that Rudolph was part of the static? Was he a teammate of Luigi and Ermanno and Stennett and whoever else was out there in the shadows working so hard to keep Joel Backman alive? Surely not. Surely he was what he said he was—a professor. An oddball, a misfit, an aging Communist who’d found a better life somewhere else.

The thought passed, but it was not forgotten. Marco finished his little sandwich and decided they’d talked enough. He suddenly had a train to catch for another day of sightseeing. He managed to extricate himself from the table and got a fond farewell from Rudolph. “I’m here every morning,” he said. “Come back when you can stay longer.”

“Grazie,” Marco said. “Arrivederci.”

Outside the café, Via Irnerio was stirring to life as small delivery vans began their routes. Two of the drivers yelled at each other, probably friendly obscenities Marco would never understand. He hustled away from the café just in case old Rudolph thought of something else to ask him and came charging out. He turned down a side street,
Via Capo di Lucca—he was learning that they were well marked and easy to find on his map—and zigzagged his way toward the center. He passed another cozy little café, then backtracked and ducked inside for a cappuccino.

No Communists bothered him there, no one seemed to even notice him. Marco and Joel Backman savored the moment—the delicious strong drink, the warm thick air, the quiet laughter of those doing the talking. Right now not a single person in the world knew exactly where he was, and it was indeed an exhilarating feeling.

______

AT
Marco’s insistence, the morning sessions were beginning at eight, not thirty minutes later. Ermanno, the student, still needed long hours of hard sleep but he couldn’t argue with his pupil’s intensity. Marco arrived for each lesson with his vocabulary lists thoroughly memorized, his situational dialogues perfected, and his urgent desire to absorb the language barely under control. At one point he suggested they begin at seven.

The morning he met Rudolph, Marco studied intensely for two uninterrupted hours, then abruptly said, “Vorrei vedere l’università.” I’d like to see the university.

“Quando?” Ermanno asked. When?

“Adesso. Andiamo a fare una passeggiata.” Now. Let’s go for a walk.

“Penso che dobbiamo studiare.” I think we should study.

“Sì. Possiamo studiare a camminando.” We can study while we’re walking.

Marco was already on his feet, grabbing his coat.
They left the depressing building and headed in the general direction of the university.

“Questa via, come si chiama?” Ermanno asked. What’s the name of this street?

“È Via Donati,” Marco answered without looking for a street sign.

They stopped in front of a small crowded shop and Ermanno asked, “Che tipo di negozio è questo?” What kind of store is this?

“Una tabaccheria.” A tobacco store.

“Che cosa puoi comprare in questo negozio?” What can you buy here?

“Posso comprare molte cose. Giornali, riviste, francobolli, sigarette.” I can buy many things. Newspapers, magazines, stamps, cigarettes.

The session became a roving game of name that thing. Ermanno would point and say, “Cosa è quello?” What’s that? A bike, a policeman, a blue car, a city bus, a bench, a garbage can, a student, a telephone booth, a small dog, a café, a pastry shop. Except for a lamppost, Marco was quick with the Italian word for each. And the all-important verbs—walking, talking, seeing, studying, buying, thinking, chatting, breathing, eating, drinking, hurrying, driving—the list was endless and Marco had the proper translations at his disposal.

A few minutes after ten, and the university was finally coming to life. Ermanno explained that there was no central campus, no American-style quadrangle lined with trees and such. The Università degli Studi was found in dozens of handsome old buildings, some five hundred years old, most of them packed end to end along Via
Zamboni, though over the centuries the school had grown and now covered an entire section of Bologna.

The Italian lesson was forgotten for a block or two as they were swept along in wave of students hustling to and from their classes. Marco caught himself looking for an old man with bright gray hair—his favorite Communist, his first real acquaintance since walking out of prison. He had already made up his mind to see Rudolph again.

At 22 Via Zamboni, Marco stopped and gazed at a sign between the door and a window: FACOLTÀ DI GIURISPRUDENZA.

“Is this the law school?” he asked.

“Sì.”

Rudolph was somewhere inside, no doubt spreading left-wing dissent among his impressionable students.

They ambled on, in no hurry as they continued to play name that thing and enjoy the energy of the street.

13

THE LEZIONE-A-PIEDI—LESSON ON FOOT—CONTINUED
the next day when Marco revolted after an hour of tedious grammar straight from the textbook and demanded to go for a walk.

“Ma, deve imparare la grammatica,” Ermanno insisted. You must learn grammar.

Marco was already putting on his coat. “That’s where you’re wrong, Ermanno. I need real conversation, not sentence structure.”

“Sono io l’insegnante.” I am the teacher.

“Let’s go. Andiamo. Bologna is waiting. The streets are filled with happy young people, the air is alive with the sounds of your language, all just waiting for me to absorb.” When Ermanno hesitated, Marco smiled at him and said, “Please, my friend. I’ve been locked in a small cell about the size of this apartment for six years. You can’t expect me to stay here. There’s a vibrant city out there. Let’s go explore it.”

Outside the air was clear and brisk, not a cloud anywhere, a gorgeous winter day that drew every
warm-blooded Bolognese into the streets for errands and long-winded chats with old friends. Pockets of intense conversation materialized as sleepy-eyed students greeted each other and housewives gathered to trade the gossip. Elderly gentlemen dressed in coats and ties shook hands and then all talked at once. Street merchants called out with their latest bargains.

But for Ermanno it was not a walk in the park. If his student wanted conversation, then he would certainly earn it. He pointed to a policeman and said to Marco, in Italian of course, “Go to that policeman and ask directions for the Piazza Maggiore. Get them right, then repeat them to me.”

Marco walked very slowly, whispering some words, trying to recall others. Always start with a smile and the proper greeting. “Buon giorno,” he said, almost holding his breath.

“Buon giorno,” answered the policeman.

“Mi può aiutare?” Can you help me?

“Certamente.” Certainly.

“Sono Canadese. Non parlo molto bene.” I’m Canadian. I don’t speak Italian very well.

“Allora.” Okay. The policeman was still smiling, now quite anxious to help.

“Dov’è la Piazza Maggiore?”

The policeman turned and gazed into the distance, toward the central part of Bologna. He cleared his throat and Marco braced for the torrent of directions. Just a few feet away and listening to every sound was Ermanno.

With a beautifully slow cadence, he said in Italian, and pointing of course the way they all do, “It’s not too far away. Take this street, turn at the next right, that’s Via
Zamboni, follow it until you see the two towers. Turn on Via Rizzoli, and go for three blocks.”

Marco listened as hard as possible, then tried to repeat each phrase. The policeman patiently went through the exercise again. Marco thanked him, repeated as much as he could to himself, then unloaded it on Ermanno.

“Non c’è male,” he said. Not bad. The fun was just starting. As Marco was enjoying his little triumph, Ermanno was searching for the next unsuspecting tutor. He found him in an old man shuffling by on a cane and with a thick newspaper under his arm. “Ask him where he bought the newspaper,” he instructed his student.

Marco took his time, followed the gentleman for a few steps, and when he thought he had the words together he said, “Buon giorno, scusi.” The old man stopped and stared, and for a moment looked as though he might lift his cane and whack it across Marco’s head. He did not offer the customary “Buon giorno.”

“Dove ha comprato questo giornale?” Where did you buy this newspaper?

The old man looked at the newspaper as if it were contraband, then looked at Marco as if he’d cursed him. He jerked his head to the left and said something like, “Over there.” And his part of the conversation was over. As he shuffled away, Ermanno eased beside Marco and said in English, “Not much for conversation, huh?”

“I guess not.”

They stepped inside a small café, where Marco ordered a simple espresso for himself. Ermanno could not be content with simple things; instead he wanted regular coffee with sugar but without cream, and a small cherry pastry, and he made Marco order everything and get it
perfect. At their table, Ermanno laid out several euro notes of various denominations, along with the coins for fifty cents and one euro, and they practiced numbers and counting. He then decided he wanted another regular coffee, this time with no sugar but just a little cream. Marco took two euros and came back with the coffee. He counted the change.

After the brief break, they were back on the street, drifting along Via San Vitale, one of the main avenues of the university, with porticoes covering the sidewalks on both sides and thousands of students jostling to early classes. The street was crammed with bicycles, the preferred mode of getting around. Ermanno had been studying for three years in Bologna, so he said, though Marco believed little of what he heard from either his tutor or his handler.

“This is Piazza Verdi,” Ermanno said, nodding to a small plaza where a protest of some sort was stuttering to a start. A long-haired relic from the seventies was adjusting a microphone, no doubt prepping for a screeching denunciation of American misdeeds somewhere. His cohorts were trying to unravel a large, badly painted homemade banner with a slogan not even Ermanno could understand. But they were too early. The students were half asleep and more concerned with being late for class.

“What’s their problem?” Marco asked as they walked by.

“I’m not sure. Something to do with the World Bank. There’s always a demonstration here.”

They walked on, flowing with the young crowd, picking their way through the foot traffic, and headed generally to il centro.

Luigi met them for lunch at a restaurant called Testerino, near the university. With American taxpayers footing the bill, he ordered often and with no regard for price. Ermanno, the broke student, seemed ill at ease with such extravagance, but, being an Italian, he eventually warmed to the idea of a long lunch. It lasted for two hours and not a single word of English was spoken. The Italian was slow, methodical, and often repeated, but it never yielded to English. Marco found it difficult to enjoy a fine meal when his brain was working overtime to hear, grasp, digest, understand, and plot a response to the last phrase thrown at him. Often the last phrase had passed over his head with only a word or two being somewhat recognizable when the whole thing was suddenly chased by another. And his two friends were not just chatting for the fun of it. If they caught the slightest hint that Marco was not following, that he was simply nodding so they would keep talking so he could eat a bite, then they stopped abruptly and said, “Che cosa ho detto?” What did I say?