The Broker (19 page)

“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.”

16

THE SHOPS ALONG VIA RIZZOLI OPENED AT 10:00 A.M.
on Saturday and Marco was waiting, studying the merchandise in the windows. With the five hundred fresh euros in his pocket, he swallowed hard, told himself he had no choice but to go in and survive his first real shopping experience in Italian. He’d memorized words and phrases until he fell asleep, but as the door closed behind him he prayed for a nice young clerk who spoke perfect English.

Not a word. It was an older gentleman with a warm smile. In less than fifteen minutes, Marco had pointed and stuttered and, at times, done quite nicely when asking sizes and prices. He left with a pair of modestly priced and youthful-looking hiking boots, the style he’d seen occasionally around the university when the weather was bad, and a black waterproof parka with a hood that rolled up in the collar. And he left with almost three hundred euros in his pocket. Hoarding cash was his newest priority.

He hustled back to his apartment, changed into the boots and the parka, then left again. The thirty-minute walk to Bologna Centrale took almost an hour with the
snaking and circuitous route he used. He never looked behind him, but instead would duck into a café and study the foot traffic, or suddenly stop at a pastry shop and admire the delicacies while watching the reflections in the glass. If they were following, he didn’t want them to know he was suspicious. And the practice was important. Luigi had told him more than once that soon he would be gone, and Marco Lazzeri would be left alone in the world.

The question was, how much could he trust Luigi? Neither Marco Lazzeri nor Joel Backman trusted anyone.

There was a moment of anxiety at the train station when he walked inside, saw the crowd, studied the overhead schedules of arrivals and departures, and looked about desperately for the ticket window. By habit, he also searched for anything in English. But he was learning to shove the anxiety aside and push on. He waited in line and when a window was open he stepped up quickly, smiled at the little lady on the other side of the glass, offered a pleasant “Buon giorno,” and said, “Vado a Milano.” I’m going to Milan.

She was already nodding.

“Alle tredici e venti,” he said. At 1:20.

“Sì, cinquanta euro,” she said. Fifty euros.

He gave her a one-hundred-euro bill because he wanted the change, then walked away clutching his ticket and patting himself on the back. With an hour to kill, he left the station and wandered down Via Boldrini two blocks until he found a café. He had a panino and a beer and enjoyed both while watching the sidewalk, expecting to see no one of any interest.

The Eurostar arrived precisely on schedule, and Marco followed the crowd as it hurried on board. It was
his first train ride in Europe and he wasn’t exactly sure of the protocol. He’d studied his ticket over lunch and saw nothing to indicate a seat assignment. Selection appeared to be random and haphazard and he grabbed the first available window seat. His car was less than half full when the train began moving, at exactly 1:20.

They were soon out of Bologna and the countryside was flying by. The rail track followed M4, the main auto route from Milano to Parma, Bologna, Ancona, and the entire eastern coast of Italy. After half an hour, Marco was disappointed in the scenery. It was hard to appreciate when zipping along at one hundred miles an hour; things were rather blurry and a handsome landscape was gone in a flash. And there were too many factories bunched along the line, near the transportation routes.

He soon realized why he was the only person in his car who was remotely interested in things outside. Those above the age of thirty were lost in newspapers and magazines and looked completely at ease, even bored. The younger ones were sound asleep. After a while Marco nodded off too.

The conductor woke him, saying something completely incomprehensible in Italian. He caught the word “biglietto” on the second or third try and quickly handed over his ticket. The conductor scowled at it as if he might toss poor Marco off at the next bridge, then abruptly marked it with a punch and gave it back with a wide toothy grin.

An hour later a rush of gibberish over the loudspeaker announced something to do with Milano, and the scenery began to change dramatically. The sprawling city soon engulfed them as the train slowed, then stopped,
then moved again. It passed block after block of postwar apartment buildings packed tightly together, with wide avenues separating them. Ermanno’s guidebook gave the population of Milano at four million; an important city, the unofficial capital of northern Italy, the country’s center for finance, fashion, publishing, and industry. A hardworking industrial city with, of course, a beautiful center and a cathedral worth the visit.

The tracks multiplied and fanned out as they entered the sprawling rail yards of Milano Centrale. They came to a stop under the vast dome of the station, and when Marco stepped onto the platform he was startled at the sheer size of the place. As he walked along the platform he counted at least a dozen other tracks lined in perfect rows, most with trains waiting patiently for their passengers. He stopped at the end, in the frenzy of thousands of people coming and going, and studied the departures: Stuttgart, Rome, Florence, Madrid, Paris, Berlin, Geneva.

All of Europe was within his reach, just a few hours away.

He followed the signs down to the front entrance and found the taxi stand, where he waited in line briefly before he hopped in the backseat of a small white Renault. “Aeroporto Malpensa,” he said to the driver. They crawled through heavy Milano traffic until they reached the perimeter. Twenty minutes later they left the autostrada for the airport. “Quale compagnia aerea?” the driver said over his shoulder. Which airline?

“Lufthansa,” Marco said. At Terminal 2 the cab found a spot at the curb, and Marco turned loose another forty euros. The automatic doors opened to a mass
of people, and he was thankful he had no plane to catch. He checked the departures and found what he wanted—a direct flight to Dulles. He circled around the terminal until he found the Lufthansa check-in desk. A long line was waiting, but with typical German efficiency things were moving quickly.

The first prospect was an attractive redhead of about twenty-five who appeared to be traveling alone, which was something he preferred. Anyone with a partner might be tempted to talk about the strange man back at the airport with his rather odd request. She was second in line at the business-class desk. As he watched her he also spotted prospect number two: a denim-clad student with long scruffy hair, unshaven face, well-worn backpack, and a University of Toledo sweatshirt—the perfect fit. He was well back in the line, listening to music on bright yellow headphones.

Marco followed the redhead as she left the counter with her boarding card and carry-on bags. The flight was still two hours away, so she drifted through the crowd to the duty-free shop, where she stopped to inspect the latest in Swiss watches. Seeing nothing to buy, she wandered around the corner to a newsstand and bought two fashion magazines. As she was headed to the gate, and the first security checkpoint, Marco sucked in his gut and made his move. “Excuse me, miss, excuse me.” She couldn’t help but turn and look at him, but she was too suspicious to say anything.