The Broker

by Grisham, John

  Contrary to previous plans, Joel Backman would not die behind

  bars at Rudley. He would not wither away in mind and body and spirit. He had cheated his tormentors out of fourteen years, and now he sat unshackled in a quaint cafe an hour from Venice.

  Why was he thinking of prison? Because you can't just walk away from six years of anything without the aftershocks. You carry some of the past with you, regardless of how unpleasant it was. The horror of prison made his sudden release so sweet. It would take time, and he promised himself to focus on the present. Don't even think about the future.

  Listen to the sounds, the rapid chatter of friends, the laughter, the guy over there whispering into a cell phone, the pretty waitress calling into the kitchen. Take in the smells-the cigarette smoke, the rich coffee, the fresh pastries, the warmth of an ancient little room where locals had been meeting for centuries.

  And he asked himself for the hundredth time, Why, exactly, was he here? Why had he been whisked away from prison, then out of the country? A pardon is one thing, but why a full-blown international getaway? Why not hand him his walking papers, let him say so long to dear ol' Rudley and live his life, same as all the other freshly pardoned criminals?

  He had a hunch. He could venture a fairly accurate guess.

  And it terrified him.

  Luigi appeared from nowhere.

  LuiGI WAS IN HIS EARLY THIRTIES, WITH DARK SAD EYES AND DARK

  hair half covering his ears, and at least four days' worth of stubble on his face. He was bundled in some type of heavy barn jacket that, along with the unshaven face, gave him a handsome peasant look. He ordered an espresso and smiled a lot. Joel immediately noticed that his hands and nails were clean, his teeth were straight. The barn jacket and whiskers were part of the act. Luigi had probably gone to Harvard.

  His perfect English was accented just enough to convince anyone that he was really an Italian. He said he was from Milan. His Italian father was a diplomat who took his American wife and their two children around the world in sendee to his country. Joel was assuming Luigi knew plenty about him, so he prodded to learn what he could about his new handler.

  He didn't learn much. Marriage-none. College-Bologna. Studies in the United States-yes, somewhere in the Midwest. Job-government. Which government-couldn't say. He had an easy smile that he used to deflect questions he didn't want to answer. Joel was dealing with a professional, and he knew it.

  “I take it you know a thing or two about me,” Joel said.

  The smile, the perfect teeth. The sad eyes almost closed when he smiled. The ladies were all over this guy. “I've seen the file.”

  “The file? The file on me wouldn't fit in this room.”

  “I've seen the file.”

  “Okay, how long did Jacy Hubbard serve in the US. Senate?”

  “Too long, I'd say. Look, Marco, we're not going to relive the past. We have too much to do now.”

  “Can I have another name? I'm not crazy about Marco.”

  “It wasn't my choice.”

  “Well, who picked Marco?”

  “I don't know. It wasn't me. You ask a lot of useless questions.”

  “I was a lawyer for twenty-five years. It's an old habit.”

  Luigi drained what was left of his espresso and placed some euros on the table. “Let's go for a walk,” he said, standing. Joel lifted his canvas bag and followed his handler out of the cafe, onto the sidewalk, and down a side street with less traffic. They had walked only a few steps when Luigi stopped in front of the Albergo Campeol. “This is your first stop,” he said.

  “What is it?” Joel asked. It was a four-story stucco building wedged between two others. Colorful flags hung above the portico.

  “A nice little hotel. Albergo' means hotel. You can also use the word 'hotel' if you want, but in the smaller cities they like to say albergo.”

  “So it's an easy language.” Joel was looking up and down the cramped street-evidently his new neighborhood.

  “Easier than English.”

  “We'll see. How many do you speak?”

  “Five or six.”

  They entered and walked through the small foyer. Luigi nodded knowingly at the clerk behind the front desk. Joel managed a passable “Buon giorno” but kept walking, hoping to avoid a more involved reply. They climbed three flights of stairs and walked to the end of a narrow hallway. Luigi had the key to room 30, a simple but nicely appointed suite with windows on three sides and a view of a canal below.

  “This is the nicest one,” Luigi said. “Nothing fancy, but adequate.”

  “You should've seen my last room.” Joel tossed his bag on the bed and began opening curtains.

  Luigi opened the door to the very small closet. “Look here. You have four shirts, four slacks, two jackets, two pairs of shoes, all in your size. Plus a heavy wool overcoat-it gets quite cold here in Treviso.” Joel stared at his new wardrobe. The clothes were hanging perfectly, all pressed and ready to wear. The colors were subdued, tasteful, and every shirt could be worn with every jacket and pair of slacks. He finally shrugged and said, “Thanks.”

  “In the drawer over there you'll find a belt, socks, underwear, everything you'll need. In the bathroom you'll find all the necessary toiletries.”

  “What can I say?”

  “And here on the desk are two sets of glasses.” Luigi picked up a pair of glasses and held them to the light. The small rectangular lenses were secured by thin black metal, very European frames. "arm ani,'' Luigi said, with a trace of pride.

  “Reading glasses?”

  “Yes, and no. I suggest you wear them every moment you're outside this room. Part of the disguise, Marco. Part of the new you.”

  “You should've met the old one.”

  “No thanks. Appearance is very important to Italians, especially those of us from here in the north. Your attire, your glasses, your haircut, everything must be put together properly or you will get noticed.”

  Joel was suddenly self-conscious, but, then, what the hell. He'd been wearing prison garb for longer than he cared to remember. Back in the glory days he routinely dropped 83,000 for a finely tailored suit.

  Luigi was still lecturing. “No shorts, no black socks and white sneakers, no polyester slacks, no golf shirts, and please don't start getting fat.”

  “How do you say 'Kiss my ass' in Italian?”

  “We'll get to that later. Habits and customs are important. They're easy to learn and quite enjoyable. For example, never order cappuccino after ten-thirty in the morning. But an espresso can be ordered at any hour of the day. Did you know that?”

  “I did not.”

  “Only tourists order cappuccino after lunch or dinner. A disgrace. All that milk on a full stomach.” For a moment Luigi frowned as if he might just vomit for good measure.

  Joel raised his right hand and said, “I swear I'll never do it.”

  “Have a seat,” Luigi said, waving at the small desk and its two chairs. They sat down and tried to get comfortable. He continued: “First, the room. It's in my name, but the staff thinks that a Canadian businessman will be staying here for a couple of weeks.”

  “A couple of weeks?”

  “Yes, then you'll move to another location.” Luigi said this as ominously as possible, as if squads of assassins were already in Treviso, looking for Joel Backman. “From this moment on, you will be leaving a trail. Keep that in mind: everything you do, everyone you meet- they're all part of your trail. The secret of survival is to leave behind as few tracks as possible. Speak to very few people, including the clerk at the front desk and the housekeeper. Hotel personnel watch their guests, and they have good memories. Six months from now someone might come to this very hotel and start asking questions about you. He might have a photograph. He might offer bribes. And the clerk might suddenly remember you, and the fact that you spoke almost no Italian.”

  “I have a question.”

  “I have very few answers.”

  “Why h
ere? Why a country where I cannot speak the language? Why not England or Australia, someplace where I could blend in easier?”

  “That decision was made by someone else, Marco. Not me.”

  “That's what I figured.”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  “I don't know. Can I apply for a transfer?”

  “Another useless question.”

  “A bad joke, not a bad question.”

  “Can we continue?”

  'Tes."

  “For the first few days I will take you to lunch and dinner. We'll move around, always going to different places. Treviso is a nice city with lots of cafes and we'll try them all. You must start thinking of the day when I will not be here. Be careful who you meet.”

  “I have another question.”

  “Yes, Marco.”

  "Its about money. I really don't like being broke. Are you guys

  planning to give me an allowance or something? I'll wash your car and do other chores."

  “What is allowance?”

  “Cash, okay? Money in my pocket.”

  “Don't worry about money. For now, I take care of the bills. You will not be hungry.”

  “All right.”

  Luigi reached deep in the barn jacket and pulled out a cell phone. “This is for you.”

  “And who, exactly, am I going to call?”

  “Me, if you need something. My number is on the back.”

  Joel took the phone and laid it on the desk. “I'm hungry. I've been dreaming of a long lunch with pasta and wine and dessert, and of course espresso, certainly not cappuccino at this hour, then perhaps the required siesta. I've been in Italy for four days now, and I've had nothing but corn chips and sandwiches. What do you say?”

  Luigi glanced at his watch. “I know just the place, but first some more business. You speak no Italian, right?”

  Joel rolled his eyes and exhaled mightily in frustration. Then he tried to smile and said, “No, I've never had the occasion to learn Italian, or French, or German, or anything else. I'm an American, okay, Luigi? My country is larger than all of Europe combined. All you need is English over there.”

  “You're Canadian, remember?”

  “Okay, whatever, but we're isolated. Just us and the Americans.”

  “My job is to keep you safe.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And to help us do that, you need to learn a lot of Italian as quickly as possible.”

  “I understand.”

  “You will have a tutor, a young student by the name of Ermanno. You will study with him in the morning and again in the afternoon. The work will be difficult.”

  “For how long?”

  “As long as it takes. That depends on you. If you work hard, then in three or four months you should be on your own.”

  “How long did it take you to learn English?”

  “My mother is American. We spoke English at home, Italian everywhere else.”

  “That's cheating. What else do you speak?”

  “Spanish, French, a few more. Ermanno is an excellent teacher. The classroom is just down the street.”

  “Not here, in the hotel?”

  “No, no, Marco. You must think about your trail. What would the bellboy or the housekeeper say if a young man spent four hours a day in this room with you?”

  “God forbid.”

  “The housekeeper would listen at the door and hear your lessons. She would whisper to her supervisor. Within a day or two the entire staff would know that the Canadian businessman is studying intensely. Four hours a day!”

  “Gotcha. Now about lunch.”

  Leaving the hotel, Joel managed to smile at the clerk, a janitor, and the bell captain without uttering a word. They walked one block to the center of Treviso, the Piazza dei Signori, the main square lined with arcades and cafes. It was noon and the foot traffic was heavier as the locals hurried about for lunch. The air was getting colder, though Joel was quite comfortable tucked inside his new wool overcoat. He tried his best to look Italian.

  “Inside or outside?” Luigi asked.

  “Inside,” Joel said, and they ducked into the Caffe Beltrame, overlooking the piazza. A brick oven near the front was heating the place, and the aroma of the daily feast was steaming from the rear. Luigi and the headwaiter both spoke at the same time, then they laughed, then a table was found by a front window.

  “We're in luck,” Luigi said as they took off their coats and sat down. “The special today is faraona con polenta.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Guinea fowl with polenta.”

  “What else?”

  Luigi was studying one of the blackboards hanging from a rough-hewn crossbeam. “Panzerotti di funghi al burro-fried mushroom pastries. Conchiglie con cavalfiori-pasta shells with cauliflower. Spiedino di carne misto alia griglia-grilled shish kabob of mixed meats.”

  Til have it all."

  “Their house wine is pretty good.”

  “I prefer red.”

  Within minutes the cafe was crowded with locals, all of whom seemed to know each other. A jolly little man with a dirty white apron sped by the table, slowed just long enough to make eye contact with Joel, and wrote down nothing as Luigi spat out a long list of what they wanted to eat. A jug of house wine arrived with a bowl of warm olive oil and a platter of sliced focaccia, and Joel began eating. Luigi was busy explaining the complexities of lunch and breakfast, the customs and traditions and mistakes made by tourists trying to pass themselves off as authentic Italians.

  The Broker

  With Luigi, everything would be a learning experience.

  Though Joel sipped and savored the first glass of wine, the alcohol went straight to his brain. A wonderful warmth and numbness embraced his body. He was free, many years ahead of schedule, and sitting in a rustic little cafe in an Italian town he'd never heard of, drinking a nice local wine, and inhaling the smells of a delicious feast. He smiled at Luigi as the explanations continued, but at some point Joel drifted into another world.

  Ermanno claimed to be twenty-three years old but looked no more than sixteen. He was tall and painfully thin, and with sandy hair and hazel eyes he looked more German than Italian. He was also very shy and quite nervous, and Joel did not like the first impression.

  They met Ermanno at his tiny apartment, on the third floor of an ill-kept building six blocks or so from Joel's hotel. There were three small rooms-kitchen, bedroom, living area-all sparsely furnished, but then Ermanno was a student so such surroundings were not unexpected. But the place looked as though he had just moved in and might be moving out at any minute.

  They sat around a small desk in the center of the living room. There was no television. The room was cold and dimly lit, and Joel couldn't help but feel as if he had been placed in some underground highway where fugitives are kept alive and moved about in secret. The warmth of a two-hour lunch was fading quickly.

  His tutor's nervousness didn't help matters.

  When Ermanno was unable to take control of the meeting, Luigi quickly stepped in and kicked things off. He suggested that they study each morning from 9:00 a.m. to 11:00 a.m., break for two hours, then resume around 1:30 and study until they were tired. This seemed to suit Ermanno and Joel, who thought about asking the obvious: If my new guy here is a student, how does he have the time to teach me all day long? But he let it pass. He'd pursue it later.

  Oh, the questions he was accumulating.

  Ermanno eventually relaxed and described the language course. When he spoke slowly, his accent was not intrusive. But when he rushed things, as he was prone to do, his English might as well have been Italian. Once Luigi interrupted and said, “Ermanno, it's important to speak very slowly, at least in the first few days.”

  “Thank you,” Joel said, like a true smartass.

  Ermanno's cheeks actually reddened and he offered a very timid “Sorry.”

  He handed over the first batch of study aids-course book number one, a
long with a small tape player and two cassettes. “The tapes follow the book,” he said, very slowly. “Tonight, you should study chapter one and listen to each tape several times. Tomorrow we'll begin there.”

  “It will be very intense,” Luigi added, applying more pressure, as if more was needed.

  “Where did you learn English?” Joel asked.

  “At the university,” Ermanno said. “In Bologna.”

  “So you haven't studied in the United States?”

  “Yes, I have,” he said, shooting a quick nervous glance at Luigi, as if whatever happened in the States was something he preferred not to talk about. Unlike Luigi, Ermanno was an easy read, obviously not a professional.

  “Where?” Joel asked, probing, seeing how much he could get.

  “Furman,” Ermanno said. UA small school in South Carolina."

  “When were you there?”

  Luigi came to the rescue, clearing his throat. "You will have plenty of time for this small talk later. It is important for you to forget English, Marco. From this day forward, you will live in a world of Italian. Everything you touch has an Italian name for it. Every thought must be translated. In one week you'll be ordering in restaurants. In

  two weeks you'll be dreaming in Italian. It's total, absolute immersion in the language and culture, and there's no turning back."

  “Can we start at eight in the morning?” Joel asked.

  Ermanno glanced and fidgeted, finally said, “Perhaps eight- thirty.”

  "Good, I'll be here at eight-thirty.'

  They left the apartment and strolled back to the Piazza dei Signori. It was mid-afternoon, traffic was noticeably quieter, the sidewalks almost deserted. Luigi stopped in front of the Trattoria del Monte. He nodded at the door, said, “I'll meet you here at eight for dinner, okay?”

  “Yes, okay.”

  “You know where your hotel is?”

  “Yes, the albergo.”

  “And you have a map of the city?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. You're on your own, Marco.” And with that Luigi ducked into an alley and disappeared. Joel watched him for a second, then continued his walk to the main square.

  He felt very much alone. Four days after leaving Rudley, he was finally free and unaccompanied, perhaps unobserved, though he doubted it. He decided immediately that he would move around the city, go about his business, as if no one was watching him. And he further decided, as he pretended to examine the items in the window of a small leather shop, that he would not live the rest of his life glancing over his shoulder.