The Broker

"I hate the US. 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 ac tually 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 cafe 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 cafe 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."

Til 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."

Til 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 cafe 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. aA 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.