The Broker by John Grisham Page B

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, andthey 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 werecrammed 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 café, 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, “Sì,” 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 thecounter 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