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 him 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.”
“I was born in Rome,” he began, his voice low and smooth, “and I have traveled for many years, to a great many countries in the Middle East, Asia, Africa, and America. I have spent a good deal of time in Europe, and as a result of my travels I have mastered several languages.”
“How many?” I asked politely. I picked up my pencil to jot down a few notes, though I was actually more interested in how he spoke than what he said. He certainly dressed well; the suit he wore was beautifully cut and looked expensive. His leather shoes gleamed with polish, and he wore his hair in a neat style that would be equally suited for the boardroom or the soccer field.
Propping his elbow on the chair’s armrest, he leaned toward me and rested his chin on his hand—a gesture of confidence—as a relaxed smile crossed his face. “How many languages do you need?”
I glanced down at the file as if I could find an answer there. “I know Il Presidente will require an interpreter who speaks French—”
“I do.”
“—and German and Dutch and English, of course.”
“I don’t do everything well, but I do I speak those languages fluently.” I glanced up again, a little perplexed. The man sitting before me had all the charm and confidence of James Bond, yet I didn’t see any of the typical markers of egotism in his manner. He did not preen, gesture flamboyantly, or attempt to center the conversation on himself. Instead, he seemed to be focusing on me—unusual for any nervous applicant— and he had exhibited self-deprecating humor, unusual in one so certain of his abilities.
“Forgive me for asking, but how old are you, Signor Genzano?” I flipped through his file, searching for a date. He appeared to be in his midthirties, but appearances could be deceiving. Common sense assured me, however, that it would take years of concentrated study to master the four languages he had mentioned.
“I’m not exactly certain of my age. There is no record of my birth date.”
I glanced up, searching for any physical gesture that might indicate lying, but he sat as still as before. I thought I saw a faint flicker of unease in the depths of his dark eyes, but that could have been the light . . .
“No records? I find that hard to believe.”
“I was born in a small and primitive village. My parents died when I was young, and I was not formally educated until much later in life.”
I stared at him, baffled. “Surely you can obtain some sort of record. At a hospital, perhaps, or a church. Most churches keep records of infant baptisms, so if your parents were Catholic your name is surely recorded somewhere—”
“They weren’t Catholic.”
I lifted a brow. “Protestant?”
“Pagan.”
He wasn’t joking, for he sat perfectly still and his expression did not change. His gaze remained locked with mine; his body did absolutely nothing to betray him . . . if he was lying.
I propped my elbow on the desk and placed my chin against my palm, mirroring his posture while I puzzled through the mismatch of behavior and answers. Liars were always difficult to spot, but there were common telltale signs: restricted hand movements or hidden hands, touches to the face, or neck scratches. Collar pulls usually indicated an increased state of tension often due to lying. I once interviewed a potential witness who lied under oath and consistently revealed his deception by rubbing his nose; the more outrageous his lie, the harder he rubbed.
But Asher Genzano sat perfectly still with a relaxed, simple smile on his face. His chin was still cupped in his palm, so both hands remained plainly in view—there was no subconscious desire to hide them away.
Could he be telling the truth? I would be presumptuous to assume that Italy was so like America that every male over the age of two had a number registered with the Italian version of the IRS. I knew primitive villages still existed in Italy, and perhaps it was possible that thirty years ago a young orphan boy could have grown up without an official record of his birth . . .
I made a mental note to ask Maura Casale how I should handle the situation, then pretended to study the file again. “Do you have family, signore?” I smiled politely. “A wife?”
“I am a widower.” He spoke the words in a grave and solemn tone, yet I detected no crinkling of his eyes, no furrowing of his brow. The grief could not be recent, yet he was a relatively young man. So either he had married while practically still in adolescence, or he had felt nothing for the woman he wed.
I lowered my voice to a more sympathetic note. “I am sorry. Were you married long?”
He looked away and pursed his lips slightly; the gesture set alarm bells ringing in my brain. He knew the answer, he could count the years, but he did not want to tell me. Why not?
“A very long time,” he said finally, meeting my gaze again. “Lifetimes ago.”
Poetic hyperbole. I glanced at the file and resisted the urge to roll my eyes. The man was a romantic, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t make a good interpreter. I scanned his application, looking for any word or phrase that might clarify his situation, but found nothing.
What could I do? The man was apparently gifted, and Global Union desperately needed a skilled interpreter. I needed an interpreter, and if this man was really good, I might beg to borrow him for these interviews. But what could his reticence mean? The man was an enigma, and that did not bode well for his chances of earning a top security clearance.
After a moment of consideration, I closed his file and slid it across the desk. “The position of interpreter is an important one, and there are certainly security issues that must be addressed,” I told him. “I cannot make a quick decision. I understand you have other tests involved in the concorso?”
My words displeased him; I saw clear evidence of that in his frown, but he nodded without any obvious signs of hostility.
“I would like to consider your application further, Signor Genzano. We must meet again before I can approve it.”
He rubbed a hand across his face, then exhaled slowly and stood. I stood as well, extending my hand, which he took in a warm, solid grasp. “Grazie, I appreciate your time,” he said simply, looking at me with some barely perceptible emotion stirring in his dark eyes. “I will look forward to our next visit. Until then, good-bye.”
“Ciao,” I called as he turned to leave.
He stopped in midstride, then looked back over his shoulder and waggled a finger in my direction. “No, signorina,” he said. “Ciao is how you would bid farewell to good friends. In a business situation such as this, you must say arrivederci.”
My face grew hot with embarrassment, but I bowed my head in apology. “Thank you for the lesson. I will try to remember.”
“You will learn a lot . . . in time.” He gave me a gentle smile, and something in it reminded me of the way my grandfather had looked at me when he forgave me for playing with my grandmother’s false teeth.
“Arrivederci,” he said, moving through the doorway.
I waited until he disappeared around the corner, then I sat down and circled his name on my appointment sheet. I would not have to test his language skills; Signora Casale would make certain he was qualified for the job he sought. My responsibility was to judge his character, and I was nearly certain Asher Genzano would prove to be an honest, humble, and honorable man.
So why couldn’t I sign his application? His explanation for his lack of birth records was reasonable enough. His avoidance of my questions about his late wife might have indicated that he was uncomfortable discussing what could have been an arranged marriage that failed for some reason. And the fact that he spoke five languages fluently could mean only that he had studied hard and had an ear for intonation—he had said he had “a particular gift.”
I opened my necklace pocket watch and sighed in relief when I noticed the time. Nearly four o’clock. I was tired, worn out from a hard day’s work and the struggle to acclimate myself to a different time and culture.
Things would make more sense tomorrow.