The Broker

"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 Fd 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."

The shops along Via Rizzoli opened at io:oo 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 cafe and study the foot traffic, or suddenly stop at a pastry shop and admire the deli cacies 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.

"Si, 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 cafe. 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 hard-working industrial city with, of course, a beautiful center and a cathedral worth the visit.