The Broker

"We were talking about Francesca," Marco said. "She seems so distracted. Is something wrong with her?"

Luigi dipped some bread in the olive oil and chewed on a large bite while debating how much to tell Marco. "Her husband is not well," he said.

"Does she have children?"

"I don’t think so."

"What’s wrong with her husband?"

"He’s very sick. I think he’s older. I’ve never met him."

II Signore Rossi was back to guide them through the menus, which wasn’t really needed. He explained that the tortellini just happened to be the best in Bologna, and particularly superb that day. Lino would be happy to come out of the kitchen and verify this. After the tortellini, an excellent choice would be the veal filet with truffles.

For more than two hours they followed Franco’s advice, and when they left they pushed their stomachs back down Via dell’ Indipendenza and discussed their siestas.

He found her by accident at the Piazza Maggiore. He was having an espresso at an outdoor table, braving the chill in the bright sunshine, after a vigorous thirty-minute walk, when he saw a small group of fair-haired seniors coming out of the Palazzo Comunale, the city’s town hall. A familiar figure was leading, a thin, slightly built woman who held her shoulders high and straight, her dark hair falling out from under a burgundy beret. He left one euro on the table and headed toward them. At the fountain of Neptune, he eased in behind the group-ten in all-and listened to Francesca at work. She was explaining that the gigantic bronze image of the Roman god of the sea was sculpted by a Frenchman over a three-year period, from 1563 to 1566. It was commissioned by a bishop under an urban beautification program aimed at pleasing the pope. Legend has it that before he began the actual work, the Frenchman was concerned about the ample nudity of the project-Neptune is stark naked-so he sent the design to the pope in Rome for approval. The pope wrote back, "For Bologna, it’s okay."

Francesca was a bit livelier with the real tourists than she was with Marco. Her voice had more energy, her smile came quicker. She was wearing a pair of very stylish eyeglasses that made her look ten years younger. Hiding behind the Australians, he watched and listened for a long time without being noticed.

She explained that the Fontana del Nettuno is now one of the most famous symbols of the city, and perhaps the most popular backdrop for photos. Cameras were pulled from every pocket, and the tourists took their time posing in front of Neptune. At one point, Marco managed to move close enough to make eye contact with Francesca. When she saw him she instinctively smiled, then said a soft "Buon giorno."

"Buon giorno. Mind if I tag along?" he asked in English.

"No. Sorry I had to cancel."

"No problem. How about dinner?"

She glanced around as if she’d done something wrong.

"To study, of course. Nothing more," he said.

"No, I’m sorry," she said. She looked beyond him, across the piazza to the Basilica di San Petronio. "That little cafe over there," she said, "beside the church, at the corner. Meet me there at five and we’ll study for an hour."

"Va bene."

The tour continued a few steps to the west wall of the Palazzo Comunale, where she stopped them in front of three large framed collections of black-and-white photos. The history lesson was that during World War II the heart of the Italian Resistance was in and around Bologna. The Bolognesi hated Mussolini and his fascists and the German occupiers, and worked diligently in the underground. The Nazis retaliated with a vengeance-their well-publicized rule was that they would murder ten Italians for every one German soldier killed by the Resistance. In a series of fifty-five massacres in and around Bologna they murdered thousands of young Italian fighters. Their names and faces were on the wall, forever memorialized.

It was a somber moment, and the elderly Australians inched closer to look at the heroes. Marco moved closer too. He was struck by their youthfulness, by their promise that was forever lost-slaughtered for their bravery.

As Francesca moved on with her group, he stayed behind, staring at the faces that covered much of the long wall. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of them. A pretty female face here and there. Brothers. Fathers and sons. An entire family.

Peasants willing to die for their country and their beliefs. Loyal patriots with nothing to give but their lives. But not Marco. No sir. When forced to choose between loyalty and money, Marco had done what he always did. He’d gone for the money. He’d turned his back on his country.

All for the glory of cash.

She was standing inside the door of the cafe, waiting, not drinking anything but, of course, having a smoke. Marco had decided that her willingness to meet so late for a lesson was further evidence of her need for the work.

"Do you feel like walking?" she said before she said hello.

"Of course." He’d walked several miles with Ermanno before lunch, then for hours after lunch waiting on her. He’d walked enough for one day, but then what else was there to do? After a month of doing several miles a day he was in shape. "Where?"

"It’s a long one," she said.

They wound through narrow streets, heading to the southwest, chatting slowly in Italian, discussing the morning’s lesson with Ermanno. She talked about the Australians, always an easy and amiable group. Near the edge of the old city they approached the Porta Saragozza and Marco realized where he was, and where he was going.

"Up to San Luca," he said.

"Yes. The weather is very clear, the night will be beautiful. Are you okay?"

His feet were killing him but he would never think of declining. "Andiamo," he said. Let’s go.

Sitting almost one thousand feet above the city on the Colle della Guardia, one of the first foothills of the Apennines, the Santuario di San Luca has, for eight centuries, looked over Bologna as its protector and guardian. To get up to it, without getting wet or sun burned, the Bolognesi decided to do what they’d always done best – build a covered sidewalk. Beginning in 1674, and continuing without interruption for sixty-five years, they built arches; 666 arches over a walkway that eventually runs for 3.6 kilometers, the longest porticoed sidewalk in the world.

Though Marco had studied the history, the details were much more interesting when they came from Francesca. The hike up was a steady climb, and they paced themselves accordingly. After a hundred arches, his calves were screaming for relief. She, on the other hand, glided along as if she could climb mountains. He kept waiting for all that cigarette smoking to slow her down.

To finance such a grandiose and extravagant project, Bologna used its considerable wealth. In a rare display of unity among the feuding factions, each arch of the portico was funded by a different group of merchants, artisans, students, churches, and noble families. To record their achievement, and to secure their immortality, they were allowed to hang plaques opposite their arches. Most had disappeared over time.

Francesca stopped for a brief rest at the 170th arch, where one of the few remaining plaques still hung. It was known as "la Madonna grassa," the fat Madonna. There were fifteen chapels en route. They stopped again between the eighth and ninth chapels, where a bridge had been built to straddle a road. Long shadows were falling through the porticoes as they trudged up the steepest part of the incline. "It’s well lighted at night," she assured him. "For the trip down."

Marco wasn’t thinking about the trip down. He was still looking up, still gazing at the church, which at times seemed closer and at other times seemed to be sneaking away from them. His thighs were aching now, his steps growing heavier.