John Grisham
The Broker
"I guess you picked the wrong side." "Bologna did not." No sense refighting the war. They paused as their voices seemed to float up and echo slightly around the dome. Backman's mother had taken him to church a few times each year as a child, but that halfhearted effort at pursuing a faith had been abandoned quickly in high school and totally forgotten over the past forty years. Not even prison could convert him, unlike some of the other inmates. But it was still difficult for a man with no convictions to understand how any style of meaningful worship could be conducted in a such a cold, heartless museum. "It seems so empty. Does anyone ever worship in this place?" "There's a daily mass and sendees on Sunday. I was married here." "You're not supposed to talk about yourself. Luigi will get mad." "Italian, Marco, no more English." In Italian, she asked him, "What did you study this morning with Ermanno?" "La famiglia." "La sua famiglia. Mi dica." Tell me about your family. "It's a real mess," he said in English. "Sua moglie?" Your wife? "Which one? I have three." "Italian." "Quale? Ne ho tre." "L'ultima." The last one. Then he caught himself. He was not Joel Backman, with three ex-wives and a screwed-up family. He was Marco Lazzeri from Toronto, with a wife, four children, and five grandchildren. "I was kidding," he said in English. "I have one wife." "Mi dica, in Italiano, di sua moglie?" Tell me about your wife. In very slow Italian, Marco described his fictional wife. Her name is Laura. She is fifty-two years old. She lives in Toronto. She works for a small company. She does not like to travel. And so on. Every sentence was repeated at least three times. Every mispronunciation was met with a grimace and a quick "Ripeta." Over and over, Marco went on and on about a Laura who did not exist. And when he finished with her, he was led to his oldest child, another ere
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