fit in this room.”
“I’ve seen the file.”
“Okay, how long did Jacy Hubbard serve in the U.S. 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 café, 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 canalso 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. “Armani,” 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 $3,000 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
“I’ve seen the file.”
“Okay, how long did Jacy Hubbard serve in the U.S. 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 café, 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 canalso 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. “Armani,” 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 $3,000 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
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