The Broker

by Grisham, John

  And what about himself? He had a brain, cervello. He touched a hand, mano; an arm, braccio; a leg, gamba. He had to breathe, respirare; see, vedere; touch, toccare; hear, sentire; sleep, dormire; dream, sognare. He was digressing now, and he caught himself. Tomorrow Ermanno would begin with lesson one, the first blast of vocabulary with emphasis on the basics: greetings and salutations, polite talk, numbers one through a hundred, the days of the week, the months of the year, even the alphabet. The verbs to be (essere) and to have (avere) were both conjugated in the present, simple past, and future.

  When it was time for dinner, Marco had memorized all of the first lesson and had listened to the tape of it a dozen times. He stepped into the very cool night and walked happily in the general direction of Trattoria del Monte, where he knew Luigi would be waiting with a choice table and some excellent suggestions from the menu. On the street, and still reeling from several hours of rote memorization, he noticed a scooter, a bike, a dog, a set of twin girls, and he was hit hard with the reality that he knew none of those words in his new language.

  All of it had been left in his hotel room.

  With food waiting, though, he plowed ahead, undaunted and still confident that he, Marco, could become a somewhat respectable Italian. At a table in the corner, he greeted Luigi with a flourish. “Buona sera, signore, come sta?”

  “Sto bene, grazie, e to?” Luigi said with an approving smile. Fine, thanks, and you?

  “Molto bene, grazie,” Marco said. Very well, thank you.

  “So you've been studying?” Luigi said.

  “Yes, there's nothing else to do.”

  Before Marco could unwrap his napkin, a waiter stopped by with a straw-covered flask of the house red. He quickly poured two glasses and then disappeared. “Ermanno is a very good teacher,'” Luigi was saying.

  “You've used him before?” Marco asked casually.

  “Yes.”

  “So how often do you bring in someone like me and turn him into an Italian?”

  Luigi gave a smile and said, “From time to time.”

  “That's hard to believe.”

  “Believe what you want, Marco. It's all fiction.”

  “You talk like a spy.”

  A shrug, no real response.

  “Who do you work for, Luigi?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “You're part of the alphabet-CIA, FBI, NSA. Maybe some obscure branch of military intelligence.”

  “Do you enjoy meeting me in these nice little restaurants?” Luigi asked.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Yes. If you keep asking these questions, then we'll stop meeting. And when we stop meeting, your life, shaky as it is, will become even more fragile.”

  “I thought your job was to keep me alive.”

  “It is. So stop asking questions about me. I assure you there are no answers.”

  As if he were on the payroll, the waiter appeared with perfect timing and dropped two large menus between them, effectively changing whatever course the conversation was taking. Marco frowned at the list of dishes and was once again reminded of how far his Italian had to go. At the bottom he recognized the words caffe, vino, and birra.

  “What looks good?” he asked.

  “The chef is from Siena, so he likes Tuscan dishes. The risotto with porcini mushrooms is great for a first course. I've had the steak florentine, outstanding.”

  Marco closed his menu and savored the aroma from the kitchen. Til take both."

  Luigi closed his too and waved at the waiter. After he ordered, they sipped the wine for a few minutes in silence. UA few years ago,“ Luigi began, ”I woke up one morning in a small hotel room in Istanbul. Alone, with about five hundred dollars in my pocket. And a fake passport. I didn't speak a single word of Turkish. My handler was in the city, but if I contacted him then I would be forced to find a new career. In exactly ten months I was supposed to return to the same hotel to meet a friend who would take me out of the country."

  “Sounds like basic CIA training.”

  “Wrong part of the alphabet,” he said, then paused, took a sip,

  and continued. “Since I enjoy eating, I learned to survive. I absorbed the language, the culture, everything around me. I managed quite nicely, blended in with the surroundings, and ten months later when I met my friend I had more than a thousand dollars.”

  “Italian, English, French, Spanish, Turkish-what else?”

  “Russian. They dropped me in Stalingrad for a year.”

  Marco almost asked who “they” might be, but he let it pass. There would be no answer; besides, he thought he knew.

  “So I've been dropped here?” Marco asked.

  The waiter plunked down a basket of mixed breads and a small bowl of olive oil. Luigi began dipping and eating, and the question was either forgotten or ignored. More food followed, a small tray of ham and salami with olives, and the conversation lagged. Luigi was a spy, or a counterspy, or an operative, or an agent of some strain, or simply a handler or a contact, or maybe a stringer, but he was first and foremost an Italian. All the training possible could not divert his attention from the challenge at hand when the table was covered.

  As he ate, he changed subjects. He explained the rigors of a proper Italian dinner. First, the anitpasti-usually a plate of mixed meats, such as they had before them. Then the first course, primi, which is usually a reasonably sized serving of pasta, rice, soup, or polenta, the purpose of which is to sort of limber up the stomach in preparation for the main course, the secondi-a hearty dish of meat, fish, pork, chicken, or lamb. Be careful with desserts, he warned ominously, glancing around to make sure the waiter wasn't listening. He shook his head sadly as he explained that many good restaurants now buy them off premises, and they're loaded with so much sugar or cheap liqueur that they practically rot your teeth out.

  Marco managed to appear sufficiently shocked at this national scandal.

  “Learn the word 'gelato,' ” he said, his eyes glowing again.

  “Ice cream,” Marco said.

  “Bravo. The best in the world. There's a gelateria down the street. We'll go there after dinner.”

  Room service terminated at midnight. At 11:55, Marco slowly picked up the phone and punched number four twice. He swallowed

  deeply, then held his breath. He'd been practicing the dialogue for thirty minutes.

  After a few lazy rings, during which time he almost hung up twice, a sleepy voice answered and said, l'Buona sera."

  Marco closed his eyes and plunged ahead. “Buona sera. Vbrrei un caffe, per favore. Un espresso doppio.”

  “Si, latte e zucchero?” Milk and sugar?

  “No, senza latte e zucchero.”

  “Si, cinque minuti.”

  “Grazie.” Marco quickly hung up before risking further dialogue, though given the enthusiasm on the other end he doubted it seriously. He jumped to his feet, pumped a fist in the air, and patted himself on the back for completing his first conversation in Italian. No hitches whatsoever. Both parties understood all of what the other said.

  At 1:00 a.m., he was still sipping his double espresso, savoring it even though it was no longer warm. He was in the middle of lesson three, and with sleep not even a distant thought, he was thinking of maybe devouring the entire textbook for his first session with Ermanno.

  He knocked on the apartment door ten minutes early. It was a control thing. Though he tried to resist it, he found himself impulsively reverting to his old ways. He preferred to be the one who decided when the lesson would begin. Ten minutes early or twenty minutes late, the time was not important. As he waited in the dingy hallway he flashed back to a high-level meeting he'd once hosted in his enormous conference room. It was packed with corporate executives and honchos from several federal agencies, all summoned there by the broker. Though the conference room was fifty steps down the hall from his own office, he made his entrance twenty minutes late, apologizing and explaining that he'd been on the phone with the office of
the prime minister of some minor country.

  Petty, petty, petty. The games he played.

  Ermanno was seemingly unimpressed. He made his student wait at least five minutes before he opened the door with a timid smile and a friendly “Buon giorno, Signor Lazzeri.”

  “Buon giorno, Ermanno. Come stair”

  “Molto bene, grazie, e to?”

  “Molto bene, grazie.”

  Ermanno opened the door wider, and with the sweep of a hand said, “Prego.” Please come in.

  Marco stepped inside and was once again struck by how sparse and temporary everything looked. He placed his books on the small table in the center of the front room and decided to keep his coat on. The temperature was about forty outside and not much warmer in this tiny apartment.

  “Vorrebbe un caffe?” Ermanno asked. Would you like a coffee?

  “Si, grazie.” He'd slept about two hours, from four to six, then he'd showered, dressed, and ventured into the streets of Treviso, where he'd found an early bar where the old gentlemen gathered and had their espressos and all talked at once. He wanted more coffee, but what he really needed was a bite to eat. A croissant or a muffin or something of that variety, something he had not yet learned the name of. He decided he could hold off hunger until noon, when he would once again meet Luigi for another foray into Italian cuisine.

  “You are a student, right?” he asked when Ermanno returned from the kitchen with two small cups.

  “Non inglese, Marco, non inglese.”

  And that was the end of English. An abrupt end; a harsh, final farewell to the mother tongue. Ermanno sat on one side of the table, Marco on the other, and at exactly eight-thirty they, together, turned to page one of lesson one. Marco read the first dialogue in Italian, Ermanno gently made corrections, though he was quite impressed with his student his preparation. The vocabulary was thoroughly memorized, but the accent needed work. An hour later, Ermanno began pointing at various objects around the room-rug, book, magazine, chair, quilt, curtains, radio, floor, wall, backpack-and Marco responded with ease. With an improving accent, he rattled off the entire list of polite expressions-good day, how are you, fine thanks, please, see you later, goodbye, good night-and thirty others. He rattled off the days of the week and the months of the year. Lesson one was completed after only two hours and Ermanno asked if they needed a break. 'lNo." They turned to lesson two, with another page of vocabulary that Marco had already mastered and more dialogue that he delivered quite impressivelv.

  “You've been studying,” Ermanno mumbled in English.

  “Non inglese, Ermanno, non inglese,” Marco corrected him. The game was on-who could show more intensity. By noon, the teacher was exhausted and ready for a break, and they were both relieved to hear the knock on the door and the voice of Luigi outside in the hallway. He entered and saw the two of them squared off across the small, littered table, as if they'd been arm wrestling for several hours.

  “Come va?” Luigi asked. How's it going?

  Ermanno gave him a weary look and said, “Molto intense” Very intense.

  “Vbrrei pranzare,” Marco announced, slowly rising to his feet. I'd like some lunch.

  Marco was hoping for a nice lunch with some English thrown in to make things easier and perhaps relieve the mental strain of trying to translate every word he heard. However, after Ermanno's glowing summary of the morning session, Luigi was inspired to continue the immersion through the meal, or at least the first part of it. The menu contained not a word of English, and after Luigi explained each dish in incomprehensible Italian, Marco threw up his hands and said, “That's it. I'm not speaking or listening to Italian for the next hour.”

  “What about your lunch?”

  “I'll eat yours.” He gulped the red wine and tried to relax.

  “Okay then. I suppose we can do English for one hour.”

  “Grazie,” Marco said before he caught himself.

  Midway through the morning session the following day,

  Marco abruptly changed direction. In the middle of a particularly tedious piece of dialogue he ditched the Italian and said, “You're not a student.”

  Ermanno looked up from the study guide, paused for a moment, then said, “Non inglese, Marco. Soltanto Italiano.” Only Italian.

  “I'm tired of Italian right now, okay? You're not a student.”

  Deceit was difficult for Ermanno, and he paused a bit too long. “I am,” he said, without much conviction.

  “No, I don't think so. You're obviously not taking classes, otherwise you wouldn't be able to spend all day teaching me.”

  “Maybe I have classes at night. Why does it matter?”

  “You're not taking classes anywhere. There are no books here, no student newspaper, none of the usual crap that students leave lying around everywhere.”

  "Perhaps it's in the other room.'

  “Let me see.”

  “Why? Why is it important?”

  “Because I think you work for the same people Luigi works for.”

  “And what if I do?”

  “I want to know who they are.”

  “Suppose I don't know? Why should you be concerned? Your task is to learn the language.”

  “How long have you lived here, in this apartment?”

  “I don't have to answer your questions.”

  “See, I think you got here last week; that this is a safe house of some sort; that you're not really who you say you are.”

  “Then that would make two of us.” Ermanno suddenly stood and walked through the tiny kitchen to the rear of the apartment. He returned with some papers, which he slid in front of Marco. It was a registration packet from the University of Bologna, with a mailing label listing the name of Ermanno Rosconi, at the address where they were now sitting.

  “I resume classes soon,” Ermanno said. “Would you like some more coffee?”

  Marco was scanning the forms, comprehending just enough to get the message. “Yes, please,” he said. It was just paperwork-easily faked. But if it was a forgery, it was a very good one. Ermanno disappeared into the kitchen and began running water.

  Marco shoved his chair back and said, “I'm going for a walk around the block. I need to clear my head.”

  The routine changed at dinner. Luigi met him in front of a tobacco shop facing the Piazza dei Signori, and they strolled along a busy alley as shopkeepers were closing up. It was already dark and very cold, and smartly bundled businessmen hurried home, their heads covered with hats and scarves.

  Luigi had his gloved hands buried deep in the wool pockets of his knee-length rough fabric duster, one that could've been handed down by his grandfather or purchased last week in Milan at some hideously expensive designer shop. Regardless, he wore it stylishly, and once again Marco was envious of the casual elegance of his handler.

  Luigi was in no hurry and seemed to enjoy the cold. He offered a few comments in Italian, but Marco refused to play along. “English, Luigi,” he said twice. “I need English.”

  “All right. How was your second day of class?”

  “Good. Ermanno's okay. No sense of humor, but an adequate teacher.”

  “You're making progress?”

  “How could I not make progress?”

  “Ermanno tells me you have an ear for the language.”

  "Ermanno is a bad con man and you know it. I'm working hard because a lot depends on it. I'm drilled by him six hours a day, then I spend three hours at night cramming. Progress is inevitable/'

  “You work very hard,' Luigi repeated. He suddenly stopped and looked at what appeared to be a small deli. ”This, Marco, is dinner."

  Marco stared with disapproval. The storefront was no more than fifteen feet across. Three tables were crammed in the window and the place appeared to be packed. “Are you sure?” Marco asked.

  “Yes, it's very good. Lighter food, sandwiches and stuff. You're eating by yourself. I'm not going in.”

  Marco looked at him and started to protest, then he
caught himself and smiled as if he gladly accepted the challenge.

  “The menu is on a chalkboard above the cashier, no English. Order first, pay, then pick up your food at the far end of the counter, which is not a bad to place to sit if you can get a stool. Tip is included.”

  Marco asked, “What's the specialty of the house?”

  “The ham and artichoke pizza is delicious. So are the panini. I'll meet you over there, by the fountain, in one hour.”

  Marco gritted his teeth and entered the cafe, very alone. As he waited behind two young ladies he desperately searched the chalkboard for something he could pronounce. Forget taste. What was important was the ordering and paying. Fortunately, the cashier was a middle-aged lady who enjoyed smiling. Marco gave her a friendly “Buona sera,” and before she could shoot something back he ordered a “panino prosciutto e formaggio”-ham and cheese sandwich-and a Coca-Cola.

  Good ol' Coca-Cola. The same in any language.

  The register rattled and she offered a blur of words that he did not understand. But he kept smiling and said, “Si,” then handed over a twenty-euro bill, certainly enough to cover things and bring back some change. It worked. With the change was a ticket. “Numero sessantasette,” she said. Number sixty-seven.

  He held the ticket and moved slowly along the counter toward

  the kitchen. No one gawked at him, no one seemed to notice. Was he actually passing himself off as an Italian, a real local? Or was it so obvious that he was an alien that the locals didn't bother to look? He had quickly developed the habit of evaluating how other men were dressed, and he judged himself to be in the game. As Luigi had told him, the men of northern Italy were much more concerned with style and appearance than Americans. There were more jackets and tailored slacks, more sweaters and ties. Much less denim, and virtually no sweatshirts or other signs of indifference to appearance.

  Luigi, or whoever had put together his wardrobe, one no doubt paid for by the American taxpayers, had done a fine job. For a man who'd worn the same prison garb for six years, Marco was quickly adjusting to things Italian.