The Broker

"Ah, what a beautiful city."

They talked about Florence for a while, with Marco rambling on about the sites and art and history of a place he knew only from a cheap guidebook Erma

The tables grew crowded and the latecomers packed around the bar. Luigi had explained to him early on that in Europe when you get a table, it's yours for the day. No one is rushed out the door so someone can be seated. A cup of coffee, a newspaper, something to smoke, and it doesn't matter how long you hold a table while others come and go.

They ordered another round and Rudolph repacked his pipe. For the first time Marco noticed tobacco stains on the wild whiskers closest to his mouth. On the table were three morning newspapers, all Italian.

"Is there a good English newspaper here in Bologna?" Marco asked.

"Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I don't know. Sometimes I'd like to know what's happening across the ocean."

"I'll pick up the Herald Tribune occasionally. It makes me so happy that I live here, away from all the crime and traffic and pollution and politicians and scandals. US. society is so rotten. And the government is the height of hypocrisy-the world's brightest democracy. Hah! Congress is bought and paid for by the rich."

When he looked as though he wanted to spit, Rudolph suddenly sucked on his pipe and began grinding away on the stem. Marco held his breath, waiting for another venomous assault on the United States. A moment passed; they both sipped coffee.

"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 pla

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 perso

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 Erma

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 Erma

"I am not a teacher."

"Then please find someone else. Erma

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."