AS MY LAST ACT OF THE WORKDAY, I PICKED UP THE COMPUTER LIST of applicants’ names and noted with grim satisfaction that I had approved more applicants—for the lowest security level, at least—than I had rejected. For a while I had wondered if the change of culture had blurred my perceptions, causing me to see miscreants and goblins in the faces of ordinary working people. I ran my finger down the page, mentally summoning an image to match each entry, then paused as my fingertip touched Asher Genzano’s name.
What should I do about him? Concerned about his uncertain past, I had called Signora Casale after the interview. She reported that Genzano hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he spoke several tongues like a native; he spoke more languages than she could adequately test. She seemed surprised that I hadn’t immediately approved him, so I quickly assured her I hadn’t rejected him, either. I just needed more time. It was an important position, after all, because the interpreter would be traveling with Il Presidente and delivering his words to millions of people.
I hung up and fretted over his application. Signora Casale seemed to think I was some kind of mind reader who could see through people in an instant, but some individuals can’t be read properly in a brief interview. Sometimes people who won’t meet your eye in a conversation aren’t deceitful or secretive—they’re just terribly shy.
One juror in a California case refused to look Elaine Dawson in the eye during three days of voir dire. The juror consistently sat with her body turned to the right and usually propped her head on her hand as though we were inconveniencing her by keeping her awake. Watching from the gallery, I had mentally categorized her as lazy, disinterested, and a lousy juror, but during a recess I met her in the ladies’ room and noticed that a bright red birthmark marred her cheek, extending from just below the corner of her eye up into her hairline. She was none of the things I had supposed—just terribly self-conscious about a birthmark she couldn’t conceal.
A woman I once pegged as a liar because she consistently rubbed her nose proved to have allergies . . . and a man who talked like Thurston Howell III on Gilligan’s Island impressed me as a pretentious snob until I caught him studying a script during a coffee break. At that point I learned he was rehearsing for a play and had vowed to spend an entire week in character.
Though Asher Genzano had none of the particular markers that would ordinarily indicate a false, malicious, or perverse nature, something about his peculiar responses rang my alarm bells. I found myself wishing I had taped our conversation. My memory wasn’t exactly clear, but I was certain I had asked a question that he answered with another question—a definite warning sign. Answering a question with a question didn’t always signal evasiveness; the individual could be insecure, embarrassed, eager to please, or in need of clarification.
In a short burst of disconnected thoughts, I remembered that Kurt was prone to answer questions with another question. I supposed he often used that technique when dealing with his patients—after all, psychologists are notorious for never giving a straight answer. The question-and-question-again approach forces patients to think about things from another perspective. It sometimes annoyed me, though, when Kurt’s psychological technique bled over into our daily lives. “Where do you want to eat?” I’d ask, and he’d respond, “What do you feel like eating?” On and on we’d go, around and around, until I gave up and just pointed to the closest restaurant on the street.
Asher Genzano hadn’t been quite as infuriating, but he had definitely evaded a couple of simple questions. That business about how many languages he spoke, for instance. Most polyglots would be proud to rattle off the name and number of tongues they had mastered. One of Kurt’s friends spoke four languages, and we couldn’t eat in any ethnic restaurant without his reminding us that we could travel to several different countries in his company without ever having to buy a phrase book. Yet Asher Genzano had never given me a number . . . why not? Did his silence indicate humility or false modesty?
I couldn’t tell, and I knew I wouldn’t find any answers in my office. I shook my head to clear it of frustrating thoughts, then swiveled my chair and scanned my computer mailbox for any late-arriving messages from New York. The huge computer seemed extravagant for a temporary employee; I used it only for word processing and e-mail. I could have managed with my laptop, but Reverend Synn insisted that I use a desktop linked into Global Union’s intranet so I could access the organization’s databases, Web pages, and interoffice e-mail.
Rory had shown me how to use the Internet to link my laptop with the Global Union computers as well as his desktop in New York. “Whatever you do, don’t send personal information through the intranet,” he warned. “Anyone with a master password to the server will be able to read your mail.”
I had laughed. “Oh, yeah, like I care if Santos Justus hears about Kirsten’s cravings for anchovies and peaches.”
There were two messages in my mailbox now—a quick hello from Kirsten and a note from Rory. Kirsten’s rambling letter could wait, but Rory reported that our office had received a call from the Boston mayor’s office—Mr. Mayor was facing a possible indictment on racketeering charges. Would we be interested in his case?
I typed in a quick reply.
Tell them we’re not available until after March 1; see if you can stall. If not, let it go but send our regrets. Thanks, Rory.
I clicked the send button, then stood and slipped into my jacket. A glance out the window told me that the wind had picked up, so I hoped the brisk walk back to my apartment would clear my head. I gathered my purse and briefcase, then flipped the light switch and left my office in darkness.
Downstairs, I smiled farewell to the security guard, then zipped my official ID card through the electronic gizmo at the entrance gate. Only then did the deadbolt release and allow me to exit through the glass doors.
Outside, the sun balanced on the western horizon, gilding the high walls of the Vatican and the magnificent dome of St. Peter’s. A light shower had fallen in the afternoon, and a cool wind blew remnants of rain from the plane trees lining the street. Eager to reach the warmth of home and family, my fellow pedestrians hunched beneath umbrellas and raincoats and scurried like rodents along the sidewalk. I had neither family nor friends waiting at my residenza, but as I negotiated the wet stairs leading to the street I consoled myself with the thought of calling Kurt. If I reached my apartment by six-thirty, Kurt would be in the middle of lunch in New York. His secretary could forward my call to his cell phone.
I shivered, chilled and wet and suddenly overcome by the need to hear a familiar voice. I had spent all day talking to people, but none of them were friends. Even now, as I prepared to enter the stream of pedestrians on the sidewalk, no one would welcome me. But I would be OK if I could just get back to my room and hear Kurt’s voice . . .
I lowered my head and set out in the direction of my residenza, lengthening my stride as the shadows stretched and the sun sank behind the Vatican. Though my apartment was located in a comparatively “safe” neighborhood, I didn’t relish the thought of being accosted by a beggar or Gypsy. In New York, I met the hard luck stories with a quiet “sorry” and moved on, but here I felt as helpless as an infant left out in a cold and unfamiliar world. How could I gracefully escape from an Italian beggar when I couldn’t speak the language? I made a mental note to ask Maura Casale how to say “sorry” in Italian.
“Excuse me, Miss Fischer?”
I glanced up, startled to be called by name. Asher Genzano stood beside me, darker and fuller in the lengthening shadows than he had been in my office. I stared at him, my gaze moving up and down his frame, as the muscles of my throat moved in a convulsive swallow.
What was he doing here? I suppressed a groan as my thoughts leaped from one assumption to another. He knew the interview hadn’t gone well, and he had waited here to confront me, perhaps even to threaten me into giving him a position. Maura Casale told me unemployment was high in Italy, and Asher Genzano might be a desperate man . . .
I injected a note of iron into my voice. “What are you doing here, Signor Genzano?”
I stepped back as he lifted his hand, then I saw that his hand was empty—no gun, no tire iron, no knife. “Please,” he said, his voice choked with sincerity. “Don’t be afraid.”
The gesture of openness eased my anxiety somewhat. I took a deep breath to quell the leaping pulse beneath my ribs, then met his gaze. “How can I help you, signore?”
A smile found its way through the mask of uncertainty on his face. “Excuse my forwardness, but I thought I might offer to walk you home. The streets in this part of town can be . . . intimidating after dark. As you see, the sun sets quickly here.”
I glanced behind him and saw that he was right. The sun had already dropped behind the dome of St. Peter’s, bathing the Vatican walls in a rosy glow. Soon there would be no light but that from the occasional street lamp.
But did I want this man to know where I lived? I did not understand him at all, and this encounter had done nothing but increase my concerns about his character. Professional liars are difficult to detect, and psychopaths blend effortlessly into society . . . until they decide to act upon their buried hatreds. Ted Bundy charmed people in Colorado, Washington, and Utah before he was ever identified as a cold-blooded serial killer.
“Thank you, signor, but I prefer to walk alone.” I forced my lips to part in a curved, still smile. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but it would not be appropriate for me to see you outside the offices of Global Union. It would not be fair to the other applicants.”
“And you wouldn’t feel safe.”
The words alone would have sent a chill up my spine, but when I searched his face I saw nothing but sympathy in his eyes. He gestured toward an espresso shop across the street. “I understand, of course, but the night is cold and damp. Perhaps you would like a cup of coffee before you return to your pensione?”
I wasn’t exactly sure what a pensione was, but the coffee shop did look inviting. At least a dozen people lounged at the tables both inside and outside the well-lit shop, and a tantalizing aroma wafted out from the place. I suddenly realized I could use a jolt of caffeine. The day had been a long one, and, aside from calling Kurt, I had no plans for the long, empty evening. Besides, I did need another interview with Asher Genzano. So why not have a cup of espresso with him?
“Now, that’s a good idea.” I had just stepped off the curb and taken a step toward the espresso shop when Genzano’s arm abruptly blocked my path. I opened my mouth, about to protest, as a whining motor scooter sans headlights buzzed up out of the thickening gloom and passed us in a blur.
“One must be careful in the streets of Rome,” Genzano said, lowering his arm. “The mopeds and scooters and motorcycles are not fond of obeying the traffic laws. The vespistas do not regard pedestrians. They have even been known to come up behind people on the sidewalks.”
Grateful for the warning, I nodded, but as we crossed the street I wondered if I’d made a wise decision. In New York I would have considered having coffee with a potential juror as a conflict of interest, but since the Italians did not mix business and pleasure, Asher Genzano would almost certainly refrain from discussing his pending position at Global Union. I, meanwhile, could use the time to study him. And perhaps in this relaxed environment he would share things I could not pick up in the more strained atmosphere of the office.
He pulled out a chair for me at an empty table in the courtyard outside the shop, then stepped away to the counter. The marble tabletop bore the circular stains from at least a dozen previous espresso drinkers, and I used a rumpled napkin from the dispenser to try to rub away the marks. The Romans seemed more relaxed about cleanliness than Americans, and while I didn’t expect the place to be as spotless as Disney World, I had hoped to find conditions a little cleaner.
Asher returned a moment later with two steaming cups of the rich, potent coffee Italians loved. I dropped two sugar cubes in mine, then poured in a stream of milk. When the smooth liquid lightened to the color of my favorite tan handbag, I felt it was safe to drink.
“Is the coffee to your liking?” Asher asked, his eyes coming up to study my face.
“Yes.” I gave him a brief glance, then looked away. The piazza where we sat teemed with life. Next to us, an African woman struggled to hold a rambunctious little boy on her lap. The child kept trying to wriggle out of her arms, but I knew she would not want to release him in the crowd.
“Signor Genzano,” I began turning my attention back to my host, “where do you live?”
He pointed vaguely down the street. “In a very old hotel.” He paused to sip from his coffee cup. “I have lived there many years.”
I nodded, thinking of the seedy Manhattan hotels that often rent rooms by the week or month. Asher Genzano didn’t look like the typical transient; on the other hand, he was looking for work. The expensive suit could be the only decent outfit he had. “And what work did you do before?”
He lifted a brow. “Before?”
I knew I was teetering on the wall separating business and pleasure, but I couldn’t help myself. “Before applying at Global Union.”
“Ah.” He pulled his coffee cup to him and wrapped both hands around it. “I have done many things in the past. I once worked in government. It was not an exalted position, but I served a Roman official, so I enjoyed a few advantages. Since that time I have held many jobs, but mostly I have worked as an interpreter. It seemed a natural choice, given my many travels.”
“Did you travel much in your government job?”
A secretive smile softened his mouth. “We were assigned to Jerusalem for ten years.”
I searched my memory for some recollection of news about Italian diplomats in Israel but found nothing. Then again, until now my work had never involved international politics.
At the table next to us, the wriggly little boy had managed to slip from his mother’s arms. He obediently stood by her table just long enough for her to relax and pick up a magazine, then he began trotting through the crowd on chubby legs. The panicked mother dropped her magazine and rose to follow him, but Asher was quicker. He stood and caught up with the boy in three long strides, then scooped the toddler up just as the little imp was about to step into the streaming traffic. Genzano settled the protesting child on his hip, then waved at the mother and made his way back to us.
As she accepted her child, the grateful mother babbled her thanks in a language I had never heard. I stared, dumbfounded, when Genzano answered in the same tongue. The woman’s eyes filled with wetness as he soothed her, then she took the toddler by the hand and moved away into the night.
Like Clark Kent back at the Daily Planet, Asher Genzano settled back in his chair and took another sip of his coffee. Superman’s work was done.
“That woman”—I pointed toward the retreating figure—“what language did she speak?”
“Somali.” His tone was utterly matter-of-fact.
“You’ve traveled in Somalia too?”
“I doubt you could name a country I’ve not visited.”
As I wondered whether this remark sprang from conceit or confidence, an Asian woman called out Asher’s name. She came to our table, warmly greeted him in another language I had never heard, then nodded and left us alone.
“A friend?” I asked.
“A housekeeper at the hotel,” Asher explained. “Many Filipinos work as domestics in Rome. They are well educated but can’t find jobs in the Philippines for which they are qualified. They are well paid here, however, and are able to send money to the families they have left behind.”
I struggled to remember the language of the Philippines but couldn’t recall it. “And she speaks—”
“A little Italian, but mostly Tagalog. Rome is a city of many nationalities.” He coughed out a short laugh. “I suppose I could have learned to speak many languages without ever leaving home.”
“I see.” I drank the last of my coffee, then sat quietly, clutching my empty cup. I had not learned much about Asher Genzano on a subliminal level, but I had observed many obvious things—he was gentle with children, attentive to women, and possessed a truly extraordinary command of language. Perhaps he did have a gift. Then again, perhaps he had staged this entire evening for my benefit. He could have had both women appear here, just to demonstrate his linguistic skill . . . if that’s really what it was. They could have been speaking pig Latin for all I knew.
My smile stiffened at the thought. “Thank you for the espresso,” I said.
“You really should learn to speak a bit of Italian, Miss Fischer.” His smile was easy, but his eyes were serious. “You will enjoy your stay in Rome much more if you do. You will find that people will be more eager to help if they feel you are making an effort to understand them.”
I shrugged, realizing this bit of pop psychology was probably right on target. Not being able to communicate was inconvenient at best and terrifying at worst.
“I’ll pick up an Italian phrase book tomorrow,” I promised. “And in the meantime, good night.”
“Buona notte,” he answered.
I turned to leave, then, on impulse, I looked back to him. “Buona notte,” I said, mimicking his accent as best I could. “And grazie . . . for the espresso.”
He did not rise to walk me out, and I’m certain he sensed my reluctance to have him follow me. But I felt the warmth of his answering smile for a long time after I left the crowded piazza.