The Broker

Marco was struggling under the labor of looking, acting, and sounding Italian. He’d had no time to even think about putting on Canadian airs. How, exactly, does one sound Canadian? He took another bite, a huge one, and through his food said, "Can’t help that. How did you get here from Austin?"

"A long story."

Marco shrugged as if he had plenty of time.

"I was once a young professor at the University of Texas law school. When they found out I was a Communist they began pressuring me to leave. I fought them. They fought back. I got louder, especially in the classroom. Communists didn’t fare too well in Texas in the early seventies, doubt if much has changed. They denied me tenure, ran me out of town, so I came here to Bologna, the heart of Italian communism."

"What do you teach here?"

"Jurisprudence. Law. Radical left-wing legal theories."

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.1′

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 US. 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 cafe, 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 cafe 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 cafe, 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," Vbrrei vedere l’universita." 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.

"Si. 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?

"E 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 e 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 e quelio?" 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 cafe, 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 Universita 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.