The Broker

"I haven’t had sex in six years."

She gave him a look that conveyed many questions. "I really don’t want to talk about that."

"You brought it up."

She puffed on the cigarette as the air cleared. "Why haven’t you had sex in six years?"

"Because I was in prison, in solitary confinement."

She flinched slightly and her spine seemed to straighten. "Did you kill someone?"

"No, nothing like that. I’m pretty harmless."

Another pause, another puff. "Why are you here?"

"I really don’t know."

"How long will you stay?"

"Maybe Luigi can answer that."

"Luigi," she said as if she wanted to spit. She turned and began walking. He followed along because he was supposed to. "What are you hiding from?" she asked.

"It’s a very, very long story’, and you really don’t want to know."

"Are you in danger?"

"I think so. I’m not sure how much, but let’s just say that I’m afraid to use my real name and I’m afraid to go home."

"Sounds like danger to me. Where does Luigi fit in?"

"He’s protecting me, I think."

"For how long?"

"I really don’t know."

"Why don’t you simply disappear?"

"That’s what I’m doing now. I’m in the middle of my disappearance. And from here, where would I go? I have no money, no passport, no identification. I don’t officially exist."

"This is very confusing."

"Yes. Why don’t we drop it."

He glanced away for a second and did not see her fall. She was wearing black leather boots with low heels, and the left one twisted violently on a rock in the narrow pathway. She gasped and fell hard onto the walkway, bracing herself at the last second with both hands. Her purse flew forward. She shrieked something in Italian. Marco quickly knelt down to grab her.

"It’s my ankle," she said, grimacing. Her eyes were already moist, her pretty face twisted in pain.

He gently lifted her from the wet pathway and carried her to a nearby bench, then retrieved her purse. "I must’ve tripped," she kept saying. "I’m sorry." She fought the tears but soon gave up.

"It’s okay, it’s okay," Marco said, kneeling in front of her. "Can I touch it?"

She slowly lifted her left leg, but the pain was too great.

"Let’s leave the boot on," Marco said, touching it with great care.

"I think it’s broken," she said. She pulled a tissue from her purse and wiped her eyes. She was breathing heavy and gritting her teeth. "I’m sorry."

"It his okay." Marco looked around; they were very much alone. The bus up to San Luca had been virtually empty, and they had seen no one in the past ten minutes. "I’ll, uh, go inside and find help."

"Yes, please."

"Don’t move. I’ll be right back." He patted her knee and she managed a smile. Then he hustled away, almost falling himself. He ran to the rear of the church and saw no one. Where, exactly, does one find an office in a cathedral? Where is the curator, administrator, head priest? Who’s in charge of this place? Outside, he circled San Luca twice before he saw a custodian emerge from a partially hidden door by the gardens.

"Mi pud aiutare?" he called out. Can you help me?

The custodian stared and said nothing. Marco was certain he had spoken clearly. He walked closer and said, "La mia arnica si e fatta male." My lady friend is hurt.

"Dov’e?" the man grunted. Where?

Marco pointed and said, "Li, dietro alia chiesa." Over there, behind the church.

"Aspetti." Wait. He turned and walked back to the door and opened it.

"Si sbrighi, per favora." Please hurry.

A minute or two dragged by, with Marco waiting nervously, wanting to dash back and check on Francesca. If she’d broken a bone, then shock might set in quickly. A larger door below the baptistery opened, and a gentleman in a suit came rushing out with the custodian behind him.

"La mia arnica e caduta," Marco said. My friend fell.

"Where is she?" asked the gentleman in excellent English. They were cutting across a small brick patio, dodging unmelted snow.

"Around back, by the lower ledge. It’s her ankle; she thinks she broke it. We might need an ambulance."

Over his shoulder the gentleman snapped something at the custodian, who disappeared.

Francesca was sitting on the edge of the bench with as much dignity as possible. She held the tissue at her mouth; the crying had stopped. The gentleman didn’t know her name, but he had obviously seen her before at San Luca. They chatted in Italian, and Marco missed most of it.

Her left boot was still on, and it was agreed that it should remain so, to prevent swelling. The gentleman, Mr. Coletta, seemed to know his first aid. He examined her knees and hands. They were scratched and sore, but there was no bleeding. "It’s just a bad sprain," she said. "I really don’t think it’s broken."

"An ambulance will take forever," the gentleman said. "I’ll drive you to the hospital."

A horn honked nearby. The custodian had fetched a car and pulled up as close as possible.

"I think I can walk," Francesca said gamely, trying to stand.

"No, we’ll help you," Marco said. Each grabbed an elbow and slowly raised her to her feet. She grimaced when she put pressure on the foot, but said, "Its not broken. Just a sprain." She insisted on walking. They half carried her toward the car.

Mr. Coletta took charge and arranged them in the backseat so that her feet were in Marco’s lap, elevated, and her back was resting against the left rear door. When his passengers were properly in place, he jumped behind the wheel and shifted gears. They crawled in reverse along a shrub-lined alley, then onto a narrow paved road. Soon, they were moving down the hill, headed for Bologna.

Francesca put on her sunglasses to cover her eyes. Marco noticed a trickle of blood on her left knee. He took the tissue from her hand and began to dab it. "Thank you," she whispered. "I’m sorry I’ve ruined your day."

"Please stop that," he said with a smile.

It was actually the best day with Francesca. The fall was humbling her and making her seem human. It was evoking, however unwilling, honest emotions. It was allowing sincere physical contact, one person genuinely trying to help another. It was shoving him into her life. Whatever happened next, whether at the hospital or at her home, he would at least be there for a moment. In the emergency, she was needing him, though she certainly didn’t want that.

As he held her feet and stared blankly out the window, Marco realized how desperately he craved a relationship of any kind, with any person.

Any friend would do.

At the foot of the hill, she said to Mr. Coletta, "I would like to go to my apartment."

He looked in the rearview mirror and said, "But I think you should see a doctor."

"Maybe later. I’ll rest for a bit and see how it feels." The decision was made; arguing wouldVe been useless.

Marco had some advice too, but he held it. He wanted to see where she lived.

"Very well," said Mr. Coletta.

"It’s Via Minzoni, near the train station."

Marco smiled to himself, quite proud that he knew the street. He could picture it on a map, at the northern edge of the old city, a nice section but not the high-rent district. He had walked it at least once. In fact, he’d found an early-hours coffee bar at a spot where the street ended at the Piazza dei Martiri. As they zipped along the perimeter, in the mid-afternoon traffic, Marco glanced at every street sign, took in every intersection, and knew exactly where he was at all times.