The Broker (18 page)

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.”