spaghetti, caffè latte, bravo, opera, mamma mia. You’ll catch on. The quicker you learnand the better you learn, the safer you’ll be. You’ll have a tutor.”
“I don’t have a dime.”
“That’s what they say. None that they could find, anyway.” He pulled some bills out of his pocket and laid them on the file. “While you were tucked away, Italy abandoned the lira and adopted the euro. There’s a hundred of them. One euro is about a dollar. I’ll be back in an hour with some clothes. In the file is a small dictionary, two hundred of your first words in Italian. I suggest you get busy.”
An hour later Stennett was back with a shirt, slacks, jacket, shoes, and socks, all of the Italian variety. “Buon giorno,” he said.
“Hello to you,” Backman said.
“What’s the word for car?”
“Macchina.”
“Good, Marco. It’s time to get in the macchina.”
Another silent gentleman was behind the wheel of the compact, nondescript Fiat. Joel folded himself into the backseat with a canvas bag that held his net worth. Stennett sat in the front. The air was cold and damp and a thin layer of snow barely covered the ground. When they passed through the gates of the Aviano Air Base, Joel Backman had the first twinge of freedom, though the slight wave of excitement was heavily layered with apprehension.
He watched the road signs carefully; not a word from the front seat. They were on Route 251, a two-lane highway, headed south, he thought. The traffic soon grew heavy as they approached the city of Pordenone.
“What’s the population of Pordenone?” Joel asked, breaking the thick silence.
“Fifty thousand,” Stennett said.
“This is northern Italy, right?”
“Northeast.”
“How far away are the Alps?”
Stennett nodded in the general direction of his right and said, “About forty miles that way. On a clear day, you can see them.”
“Can we stop for a coffee somewhere?” Joel asked.
“No, we, uh, are not authorized to stop.”
So far the driver appeared to be completely deaf.
They skirted around the northern edge of Pordenone and were soon on A28, a four-lane where everyone but the truckers appeared to be very late for work. Small cars whizzed by them while they puttered along at a mere one hundred kilometers per hour. Stennett unfolded an Italian newspaper, La Repubblica , and blocked half the windshield with it.
Joel was very content to ride in silence and gaze at the countryside flying by. The rolling plain appeared to be very fertile, though it was late January and the fields were empty. Occasionally, above a terraced hillside, an ancient villa could be seen.
He’d actually rented one once. A dozen or so years earlier, wife number two had threatened to walk out if he didn’t take her somewhere for a long vacation. Joel was working eighty hours a week with time to spare for even more work. He preferred to live at the office, and judging by the way things were going at home, life would’ve certainly been more peaceful there. A divorce, however, would’ve cost too much money, so Joel announced toeveryone that he and his dear wife would spend a month in Tuscany. He acted as though it had all been his idea—“a monthlong wine and culinary adventure through the heart of Chianti!”
They found a fourteenth-century monastery near the medieval village of San Gimignano, complete with housekeepers and cooks, even a chauffeur. But on the fourth day of the adventure, Joel received the alarming news that the Senate Appropriations Committee was considering deleting a provision that would wipe out $2 billion for one of his defense-contractor clients. He flew home on a chartered jet and went to work whipping the Senate back into shape. Wife number two stayed behind, where, as he would later learn, she began sleeping with the young chauffeur. For the next week he called daily and promised to return to the villa to finish their vacation, but after the second week she stopped taking his
“I don’t have a dime.”
“That’s what they say. None that they could find, anyway.” He pulled some bills out of his pocket and laid them on the file. “While you were tucked away, Italy abandoned the lira and adopted the euro. There’s a hundred of them. One euro is about a dollar. I’ll be back in an hour with some clothes. In the file is a small dictionary, two hundred of your first words in Italian. I suggest you get busy.”
An hour later Stennett was back with a shirt, slacks, jacket, shoes, and socks, all of the Italian variety. “Buon giorno,” he said.
“Hello to you,” Backman said.
“What’s the word for car?”
“Macchina.”
“Good, Marco. It’s time to get in the macchina.”
Another silent gentleman was behind the wheel of the compact, nondescript Fiat. Joel folded himself into the backseat with a canvas bag that held his net worth. Stennett sat in the front. The air was cold and damp and a thin layer of snow barely covered the ground. When they passed through the gates of the Aviano Air Base, Joel Backman had the first twinge of freedom, though the slight wave of excitement was heavily layered with apprehension.
He watched the road signs carefully; not a word from the front seat. They were on Route 251, a two-lane highway, headed south, he thought. The traffic soon grew heavy as they approached the city of Pordenone.
“What’s the population of Pordenone?” Joel asked, breaking the thick silence.
“Fifty thousand,” Stennett said.
“This is northern Italy, right?”
“Northeast.”
“How far away are the Alps?”
Stennett nodded in the general direction of his right and said, “About forty miles that way. On a clear day, you can see them.”
“Can we stop for a coffee somewhere?” Joel asked.
“No, we, uh, are not authorized to stop.”
So far the driver appeared to be completely deaf.
They skirted around the northern edge of Pordenone and were soon on A28, a four-lane where everyone but the truckers appeared to be very late for work. Small cars whizzed by them while they puttered along at a mere one hundred kilometers per hour. Stennett unfolded an Italian newspaper, La Repubblica , and blocked half the windshield with it.
Joel was very content to ride in silence and gaze at the countryside flying by. The rolling plain appeared to be very fertile, though it was late January and the fields were empty. Occasionally, above a terraced hillside, an ancient villa could be seen.
He’d actually rented one once. A dozen or so years earlier, wife number two had threatened to walk out if he didn’t take her somewhere for a long vacation. Joel was working eighty hours a week with time to spare for even more work. He preferred to live at the office, and judging by the way things were going at home, life would’ve certainly been more peaceful there. A divorce, however, would’ve cost too much money, so Joel announced toeveryone that he and his dear wife would spend a month in Tuscany. He acted as though it had all been his idea—“a monthlong wine and culinary adventure through the heart of Chianti!”
They found a fourteenth-century monastery near the medieval village of San Gimignano, complete with housekeepers and cooks, even a chauffeur. But on the fourth day of the adventure, Joel received the alarming news that the Senate Appropriations Committee was considering deleting a provision that would wipe out $2 billion for one of his defense-contractor clients. He flew home on a chartered jet and went to work whipping the Senate back into shape. Wife number two stayed behind, where, as he would later learn, she began sleeping with the young chauffeur. For the next week he called daily and promised to return to the villa to finish their vacation, but after the second week she stopped taking his
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