The Broker

"I’m tired of Italian right now, okay? You’re not a student."

Deceit was difficult for Ermanno, and he paused a bit too long. "I am," he said, without much conviction.

"No, I don’t think so. You’re obviously not taking classes, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to spend all day teaching me."

"Maybe I have classes at night. Why does it matter?"

"You’re not taking classes anywhere. There are no books here, no student newspaper, none of the usual crap that students leave lying around everywhere."

"Perhaps it’s in the other room.’

"Let me see."

"Why? Why is it important?"

"Because I think you work for the same people Luigi works for."

"And what if I do?"

"I want to know who they are."

"Suppose I don’t know? Why should you be concerned? Your task is to learn the language."

"How long have you lived here, in this apartment?"

"I don’t have to answer your questions."

"See, I think you got here last week; that this is a safe house of some sort; that you’re not really who you say you are."

"Then that would make two of us." Ermanno suddenly stood and walked through the tiny kitchen to the rear of the apartment. He returned with some papers, which he slid in front of Marco. It was a registration packet from the University of Bologna, with a mailing label listing the name of Ermanno Rosconi, at the address where they were now sitting.

"I resume classes soon," Ermanno said. "Would you like some more coffee?"

Marco was scanning the forms, comprehending just enough to get the message. "Yes, please," he said. It was just paperwork-easily faked. But if it was a forgery, it was a very good one. Ermanno disappeared into the kitchen and began running water.

Marco shoved his chair back and said, "I’m going for a walk around the block. I need to clear my head."

The routine changed at dinner. Luigi met him in front of a tobacco shop facing the Piazza dei Signori, and they strolled along a busy alley as shopkeepers were closing up. It was already dark and very cold, and smartly bundled businessmen hurried home, their heads covered with hats and scarves.

Luigi had his gloved hands buried deep in the wool pockets of his knee-length rough fabric duster, one that could’ve been handed down by his grandfather or purchased last week in Milan at some hideously expensive designer shop. Regardless, he wore it stylishly, and once again Marco was envious of the casual elegance of his handler.

Luigi was in no hurry and seemed to enjoy the cold. He offered a few comments in Italian, but Marco refused to play along. "English, Luigi," he said twice. "I need English."

"All right. How was your second day of class?"

"Good. Ermanno’s okay. No sense of humor, but an adequate teacher."

"You’re making progress?"

"How could I not make progress?"

"Ermanno tells me you have an ear for the language."

"Ermanno is a bad con man and you know it. I’m working hard because a lot depends on it. I’m drilled by him six hours a day, then I spend three hours at night cramming. Progress is inevitable/’ "You work very hard,’ Luigi repeated. He suddenly stopped and looked at what appeared to be a small deli. "This, Marco, is dinner."

Marco stared with disapproval. The storefront was no more than fifteen feet across. Three tables were crammed in the window and the place appeared to be packed. "Are you sure?" Marco asked.

"Yes, it’s very good. Lighter food, sandwiches and stuff. You’re eating by yourself. I’m not going in."

Marco looked at him and started to protest, then he caught himself and smiled as if he gladly accepted the challenge.

"The menu is on a chalkboard above the cashier, no English. Order first, pay, then pick up your food at the far end of the counter, which is not a bad to place to sit if you can get a stool. Tip is included."

Marco asked, "What’s the specialty of the house?"

"The ham and artichoke pizza is delicious. So are the panini. I’ll meet you over there, by the fountain, in one hour."

Marco gritted his teeth and entered the cafe, very alone. As he waited behind two young ladies he desperately searched the chalkboard for something he could pronounce. Forget taste. What was important was the ordering and paying. Fortunately, the cashier was a middle-aged lady who enjoyed smiling. Marco gave her a friendly "Buona sera," and before she could shoot something back he ordered a "panino prosciutto e formaggio"-ham and cheese sandwich-and a Coca-Cola.

Good ol’ Coca-Cola. The same in any language.

The register rattled and she offered a blur of words that he did not understand. But he kept smiling and said, "Si," then handed over a twenty-euro bill, certainly enough to cover things and bring back some change. It worked. With the change was a ticket. "Numero sessantasette," she said. Number sixty-seven.

He held the ticket and moved slowly along the counter toward the kitchen. No one gawked at him, no one seemed to notice. Was he actually passing himself off as an Italian, a real local? Or was it so obvious that he was an alien that the locals didn’t bother to look? He had quickly developed the habit of evaluating how other men were dressed, and he judged himself to be in the game. As Luigi had told him, the men of northern Italy were much more concerned with style and appearance than Americans. There were more jackets and tailored slacks, more sweaters and ties. Much less denim, and virtually no sweatshirts or other signs of indifference to appearance.

Luigi, or whoever had put together his wardrobe, one no doubt paid for by the American taxpayers, had done a fine job. For a man who’d worn the same prison garb for six years, Marco was quickly adjusting to things Italian.

He watched the plates of food as they popped up along the counter near the grill. After about ten minutes, a thick sandwich appeared. A server grabbed it, snatched off a ticket, and yelled, "Numero sessantasette." Marco stepped forward without a word and produced his ticket. The soft drink came next. He found a seat at a small corner table and thoroughly enjoyed the solitude of his dinner. The deli was loud and crowded, a neighborhood place where many of the customers knew each other. Their greetings involved hugs and kisses and long hellos, even longer goodbyes. Waiting in line to order caused no problems, though the Italians seemed to struggle with the basic concept of one standing behind the other. Back home there would’ve been sharp words from the customers and perhaps swearing from the cashier.

In a country where a three-hundred-year-old house is considered new, time has a different meaning. Food is to be enjoyed, even in a small deli with few tables. Those seated close to Joel seemed poised to take hours to digest their pizza and sandwiches. There was simply too much talking to do!

The brain-dead pace of prison life had flattened all his edges. He’d kept his sanity by reading eight books a week, but even that exercise had been for escape and not necessarily for learning. Two days of intensive memorizing, conjugating, pronouncing, and listening like he’d never listened before left him mentally exhausted.

So he absorbed the roar of Italian without trying to understand any of it. He enjoyed its rhythm and cadence and laughter. He caught a word every now and then, especially in the greetings and farewells, and considered this to be progress of some sort. Watching the families and friends made him lonely, though he refused to dwell on it. Loneliness was twenty-three hours a day in a small cell with little mail and nothing but a cheap paperback to keep him company. He’d seen loneliness; this was a day at the beach.