The Broker by John Grisham Page A

Marco read the first dialogue in Italian, Ermanno gently made corrections, though he was quite impressed with his student’s 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. “No.” They turned to lesson two, with another page of vocabulary that Marco had already mastered and more dialogue that he delivered quite impressively.
    “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 onthe 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 intenso.” Very intense.
    “Vorrei 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.

9
    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