Though I was more than a little intrigued by the idea of working with Santos Justus in the international arena, I resolved to focus first on the work he had hired me to do. To that end, I allotted several hours each morning for meeting and reviewing the present employees of Global Union. I promised Signora Casale that I’d spend my afternoons interviewing prospective employees from her list of recommended candidates.
On Thursday afternoon, my second day on the job, Maura Casale stopped by my office with several key staff members. Speaking Italian for their benefit, she referred to me in a string of syllables that seemed a haphazard mixture of “o’s” and “ini’s,” then quietly bid me good afternoon and left me blinking in confusion. Though I think my technical title was “resource officer of the Global Union,” I later learned that the employees of Global Union did not refer to me as ufficiale delle risorse del Unione Globale, but as l’Americana. Sometimes when I heard my title whispered in the cafeteria line, I doubted that the phrase was intended as a compliment. Who could blame them? I had been hired, in part, to watch them even in unguarded moments and search for signs of disloyalty. No wonder the senior staff members left my office so quickly.
Before concentrating on individuals, though, I had to learn about the Roman approach to business. I quickly discovered that no work ever transpired between the hours of noon and two o’clock (fourteen o’clock to the Romans). The average employee in our headquarters typically drank his or her breakfast (a cup of espresso) on the run, washed down a croissant (a cornetto) with another cup of espresso at eleven, then dawdled over a two-hour pasta lunch. They were earnest workers as long as they remained in their office environment, but apparently an invisible force field stood somewhere near the doorways of those offices and cubicles. When a Roman employee crossed through the force field, work ceased to exist or matter. Mealtimes were for relaxation and refreshment; walks in the park were inspiration for the soul. Business was not mixed with pleasure.
I learned this the hard way—on Thursday I joined a group of women employees in the cafeteria for lunch and casually brought up the long line of job applicants I’d seen in the lobby that morning. The women fell silent as a little flutter of indignation spread through the group. I had offended them, and later, when the conversation resumed its normal pace, I began to understand why.
The prohibition against business talk at mealtimes was actually a benefit in disguise. When people are relaxed, they reveal more of their authentic selves. So when I joined the employees of Global Union for the cornetto and espresso break at eleven, I found the cafeteria an ideal place to fulfill the first part of my responsibilities—reading the organization’s present employees. Knowing that I was working while I sat and talked with the other employees helped ease the burden of guilt imposed by my American work ethic.
I learned more about Italians in my first few days on the job than I could ever have picked up from a book. I learned, for instance, that the American concept of personal space did not exist in Italy. Touches were freely given and feelings openly expressed. Complete strangers felt completely comfortable leaning close and touching my arm as we spoke; women thought it sweet, not strange, to stroke a friend’s arm while they shared a confidence or talked about the weather. One afternoon while I sat alone at a table in the empty cafeteria, a man I had never met came in, served himself from the espresso machine, and sat in the empty chair right next to me. He didn’t want to talk to me and he didn’t know me; he just wanted to sit in that seat. Though his nearness made me uncomfortable, I soon realized that the Italians meant no offense by what most Americans would consider an invasion of personal territory.
On the first Monday of my second week, with Signora Casale’s blessing I took a tour of the Global Union headquarters to get a feel for my surroundings. The security and employment offices filled the first floor; the cafeteria and employees’ lounge took up most of the space on the third. I already knew that the Communists’ former love nest on the seventh floor served as Santos Justus’s personal offices.
On the second floor I found a mammoth library. The caretakers of this cluttered space, a man and a woman, looked up as I came out of the elevator. From their startled expressions I surmised that the library didn’t receive many visitors.
Stepping forward, I met the Doctors Curvier—Millard and Patrice, husband and wife. Dr. Patrice greeted me with a distracted smile. She was a medium-sized woman with red hair too bright to have come from human DNA. Her green eyes flickered over my form from head to toe, then she gave me a flitting, close-lipped smile, said, “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” and returned her attention to her work.
“Bonjour, Madame and Monsieur Doctor Curvier,” I said, giving the historians the brightest smile I could manage in this dismal and dusty place. “Signora Casale said I should stop by and introduce myself. I am Claudia Fischer, the resource officer who will be working with Il Presidente for the next few months.”
The woman pulled her glasses to the end of her nose and looked up from the document she had been reading. “A pleasure to meet you, my dear,” she said, her voice heavy with a French accent. She reached out and tugged on her husband’s sleeve, then proceeded to speak to him— about me, I think—in sign language.
Monsieur Doctor Curvier was obviously deaf, and though he answered his wife in fluent signs, I had no idea whether he signed in American Sign Language, European, or whatever. After watching the Doctors Curvier converse with one another, I began to suspect they had devised a language all their own.
“My husband and I are pleased to meet you,” Madame Curvier said, turning to me after exchanging a series of flurried gestures with her husband. “What can we do to help you?”
I crossed my arms, mentally noting the gesture as a sign of my own defensiveness. “I just wanted to get a sense of all work Global Union employees are doing. I know you are sorting through stacks of old records—”
The lady made an abrupt tsking sound. “That is my husband’s job. I don’t bother with it. The dust makes me sneeze.” She crinkled her nose, and I noted a gleam of amusement in her green eyes. “I am working on a different project for Il Presidente—a collection of biographies.”
“Really?” I stepped forward and peered over her shoulder. “Who are you studying now?”
She waved her hand. “Many different people. Il Presidente wants to write a speech on the great peacemakers of the world, so I am pulling together facts about Edward VII of England, John of Gaunt, Jesus, Saint Casimir of Poland, Pope Clement VI . . .” Her voice drifted off as she idly touched her hair, then her gaze flew toward me. “Have you any suggestions? Can you think of any peace-loving Americans we should include?”
I bit my lip. “Um . . . Ronald Reagan? They say he brought about the end of the Cold War.”
She tilted her head, considering my suggestion, then frowned. “Too controversial, too current. Il Presidente will be safer referring to men of ages past.”
I smothered a smile, thanked her for her time, and walked back to the elevator, only too happy to leave the stuffy room. The Curviers were unusual people, but I saw no signs of treachery or hostility in them. They were bookish introverts, very French, and very intelligent. I’d bet my wisdom teeth that they were also very boring at parties.
I skipped the third floor and the cafeteria, then stepped off at the fourth floor. This area, designed to house the Editorial and Publications Departments, was still largely unfurnished. A jumble of desks and office chairs filled the lobby, and painters and carpet layers occupied several offices. I quickly excused myself and took the elevator to the sixth floor, skipping the fifth. The only offices on the fifth floor thus far were mine and Rico Triccoli’s, the man hired to oversee international chapters of Global Union. Rico traveled a great deal, and I had not had a chance to meet him.
The sixth floor revealed nothing unusual—only Reverend Synn’s office, a data entry pool of nearly a dozen women, and the financial office, which stood behind locked double doors. I took the hint an
d moved on, smiling at the data entry operators as I walked past the half-wall that defined their space. As I rounded the corner, I heard whispers about l’Americana. Part of me wished there’d been time to take a basic course in Italian before leaving New York.
I stepped back into the elevator and pressed five, ready to return to my corner of the complex. And as the polished brass doors silently slid shut, I realized that Justus’s personnel director had done a very good job of hiring faithful people thus far . . . without my help.
“So why were they so eager to hire me?”
The question hung in the air, shimmering like my reflection in the elevator’s brass doors.
ELEVEN
A SHER TOSSED THE DAMP TOWEL OVER THE EDGE OF THE TUB, THEN checked his face in the mirror. Every hint of stubble had been whisked away, and the haircut looked good, not too severe. It wouldn’t be wise to enter Unione Globale headquarters looking too eager.
He turned to the bed and picked up the shirt he had purchased with the designer suit in an exclusive men’s store. The purchases would barely cause a ripple in his bank account, but the thought that he had spent the equivalent of an average Roman’s two-month salary galled him. He hated spending money on clothes, but intuition told him the investment would reap rewards.
He shrugged his way into the shirt, fastened the buttons, slid a pair of gold cuff links into the holes at his sleeves. The suit fit him perfectly, as well it should, and the silky cotton shirt felt wonderful against his skin.
One corner of his mouth quirked downward when he caught his reflection in the mirror. Fabrics had vastly improved over the past generation, but what fabrics gained in texture, tailors lost in craftsmanship. With regular wear, this suit would last maybe five years, while others in his closet six times that age still looked as good as when he bought them. They were outdated, of course, but they just might last forever . . .
He slipped into his shoes, knotted a silk tie at his neck, and took a moment to rake his fingers through his close-clipped hair. He wore it shorter than he had a generation ago, and he preferred the shorter look. Longer hair meant freedom from frequent barber visits, but he had never liked his hair bristling out over the tops of his ears. Perhaps his fondness for neatness stemmed from his youth—after all, the Romans of antiquity had clipped their heads, wisely recognizing that long hair could be dangerous in battle.
Asher straightened, flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulders, then flashed a practice smile at the mirror. He had to appear earnest, intelligent, and quick. More than anything, he had to appear supportive.
Only one more ritual to observe. Girding himself with resolve, he moved to the desk in his sitting room, pulled the leather journal toward him, then lifted his fountain pen from its holder. After uncapping it, he hesitated for a moment, then began to write:
Today, Lord, I begin a new approach. I pray I will act while there is yet time to attain my goal. I have never felt as certain as I do today, I have never seen so many signs pointing to a single man, and yet I wonder if this is the path you would have me seek. If it is not, O God, show me another way. But if it is the path I am to tread, help me reach the soul of the wayward one before the enemy claims another victory.
If Santos Justus is the man, lead me to him and open the door for a personal confrontation, Holy God. Clear my path. Give me strength and cunning and wisdom to defeat all those who would stand in my way—and I know there will be many. Give me the courage I will need to complete the task before me.
I ask these things in the Name above all Names, in the Power That Fails Not. As you have cursed me, so send me forward to do your will. I am your penitent servant, Holy God, to use as you see fit.
He paused for a moment to murmur his words aloud as a prayer, then put both pen and journal aside.
Squaring his shoulders like a Roman soldier under Tiberius Caesar’s command, he stood and lifted his chin, then moved toward the door.
TWELVE
BY WEDNESDAY OF MY SECOND WEEK, MAURA CASALE AND I HAD established a routine. I spent the mornings making notes on each of Global Union’s present employees, visiting them if necessary. After lunch, the parade of job applicants began to move through my office at precisely half-past fourteen o’clock. Each hopeful applicant entered with his application and a colored badge in hand. The application was in Italian and virtually impossible for me to read, but the color-coded badges, Signora Casale had explained, were all I really needed to note. Blue badges indicated that the applicant was being considered for a minimum-security position. Orange badges represented jobs that would place employees in contact with classified materials, and red badges signified that the applicant was applying for a job that would place him or her in direct contact with Santos Justus. These applicants were to be carefully interviewed, for hours if necessary. We could not risk Santos Justus’s life.
These interviews were more difficult than any I had endured thus far, for few of the new applicants spoke English as well as the other employees of Global Union. Furthermore, this wave of new applicants reflected Rome’s international diversity.
The first applicant was a woman from Japan who carried a blue badge and spoke very little English or Italian. She was applying for a secretarial job in the financial office, not a high security risk, but certainly a position requiring discretion. We stumbled around a few comments and smiled a lot, but through all the confusion I picked up several positive impressions. Her clothing was conservative rather than flamboyant, which spoke of caution and tact, and her only jewelry was a wedding band and a simple gold watch, so she was practical rather than extravagant. She met my gaze without hesitation, which indicated a certain honesty and directness, and she evidenced the singular Asian custom of covering her mouth when she laughed—an indication of ingrained modesty. I signed her application and sent her out the door wearing a smile.
The second applicant carried a red badge, and my nerves tensed at the sight of it. The young man, an Italian who spoke tolerable English, told me he wanted to be a chauffeur and drive the macchine blu—the fast blue car favored by Italian politicians, including Justus. I asked him a few simple questions in English, noticing while he talked that he wore a wrinkled but clean shirt, cuffed trousers that had gone out of style three years ago, and well-worn leather loafers with a hole in the sole.
I asked for his file, signed it, and sent him out the door, then added his name to a separate list in a black-bordered file folder on my desk. Unfortunately, I could not recommend him for the job. His kind of dowdiness could mean many things, including a lower socioeconomic background (certainly not his fault), but it often signified preoccupation, sloppiness, and/or an “absent-minded professor” mind-set. Any or all of the latter traits would disqualify the young man from a job as Justus’s driver, I wrote, but he might be suited to working with the Doctors Curvier in the records room . . .
The next applicant rapped on the door and entered before I acknowledged his knock. I looked up from my file to see a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a nervous manner lowering himself into the guest chair before my desk. He carried an orange badge and a manila file, which he slid across my desk without so much as a “good afternoon.”
I opened the file and glanced at his application. This fellow, from Florence, was applying for a job as an editor in the Publications Department. Careful not to let my initial misgivings show in my expression, I asked him about his childhood. While he struggled to find the correct English words, I leaned back to watch and listen. He spoke in almost a monotone, unusual in any situation but certainly for an Italian, and frequently glanced down at the floor. He sat with his body turned partially away from me and kept his hands in his pockets as if hiding something.
When he had finished rambling, I launched into a silly story about my own childhood, noting that he kept his lips tightly closed, his eyes averted, and his hands in his pockets—classic signs of a secretive, guarded individual.
Sighing, I signed his file and dismissed h
im with a nod. I would add his name to the list of rejected applicants. If Global Union ever wanted to hire a spy, this man might be a suitable candidate, but I couldn’t recommend him for Publications, where an open and friendly manner would prove invaluable.
Two other prospects followed in quick succession. The first was an Indian woman who wore a broad smile, upper and lower teeth showing, the entire time she sat in my office. A broad smile is nice, but it’s not exactly appropriate in every situation. I added her name to the list of rejected applicants. The second was a young Englishman who chewed his fingernails during our entire interview. His obvious tenseness was bad enough, but when I saw that he was applying to work in the cafeteria, I sent him out the door with a cheery farewell, then rejected him as well. I didn’t want those slimy fingers anywhere near my lunch tray.
The next applicant, another red badge carrier, looked like a typical Italian male, but his greeting caught me by surprise. “Miss Fischer?” he asked.
I gasped in disbelief at the sound of his perfect American accent.
“I am Asher Genzano,” he said, thoughtfully ignoring my wide eyes and open mouth. “I understand you and I must have a little talk.”
I stared in amazement while he placed his folder on my desk.
“May I sit down?”
I shook myself out of my stupefaction. “Please. Excuse me, I was just—” I couldn’t stop a smile from spreading over my face. “You must have grown up in the States. Where—the Midwest?”
He looked down, his long lashes hiding his eyes, and smiled. “Sorry, but I am Roman to the bone. I have a particular gift for languages, that’s all. And I like English. Despite its idiosyncrasies, I find it a very expressive language.” He looked up and caught my eye. “I’m applying for the position of interpreter and translator.”
I glanced at the file he handed across the desk, but Maura Casale’s scrawled Italian notations meant nothing to me. I set the file aside. “Tell me about yourself, Signor Genzano.”
The Immortal Page 10
