Petty, petty, petty. The games he played.

Ermanno was seemingly unimpressed. He made his student wait at least five minutes before he opened the door with a timid smile and a friendly "Buon giorno, Signor Lazzeri."

"Buon giorno, Ermanno. Come stai?"

"Molto bene, grazie, e to?"

"Molto bene, grazie."

Ermanno opened the door wider, and with the sweep of a hand said, "Prego." Please come in.

Marco stepped inside and was once again struck by how sparse and temporary everything looked. He placed his books on the small table in the center of the front room and decided to keep his coat on. The temperature was about forty outside and not much warmer in this tiny apartment.

"Vorrebbe un caffe?" Ermanno asked. Would you like a coffee?

"Si, grazie." He'd slept about two hours, from four to six, then he'd showered, dressed, and ventured into the streets of Treviso, where he'd found an early bar where the old gentlemen gathered and had their espressos and all talked at once. He wanted more coffee, but what he really needed was a bite to eat. A croissant or a muffin or something of that variety, something he had not yet learned the name of. He decided he could hold off hunger until noon, when he would once again meet Luigi for another foray into Italian cuisine.

"You are a student, right?" he asked when Ermanno returned from the kitchen with two small cups.

"Non inglese, Marco, non inglese."

And that was the end of English. An abrupt end; a harsh, final farewell to the mother tongue. Ermanno sat on one side of the table, Marco on the other, and at exactly eight-thirty they, together, turned to page one of lesson one. Marco read the first dialogue in Italian, Ermanno gently made corrections, though he was quite impressed with his student his preparation. The vocabulary was thoroughly memorized, but the accent needed work. An hour later, Ermanno began pointing at various objects around the room-rug, book, magazine, chair, quilt, curtains, radio, floor, wall, backpack-and Marco responded with ease. With an improving accent, he rattled off the entire list of polite expressions-good day, how are you, fine thanks, please, see you later, goodbye, good night-and thirty others. He rattled off the days of the week and the months of the year. Lesson one was completed after only two hours and Ermanno asked if they needed a break. "No." They turned to lesson two, with another page of vocabulary that Marco had already mastered and more dialogue that he delivered quite impressively.

"You've been studying," Ermanno mumbled in English.

"Non inglese, Ermanno, non inglese," Marco corrected him. The game was on-who could show more intensity. By noon, the teacher was exhausted and ready for a break, and they were both relieved to hear the knock on the door and the voice of Luigi outside in the hallway. He entered and saw the two of them squared off across the small, littered table, as if they'd been arm wrestling for several hours.

"Come va?" Luigi asked. How's it going?

Ermanno gave him a weary look and said, "Molto intense" Very intense.

"Vbrrei pranzare," Marco announced, slowly rising to his feet. I'd like some lunch.

Marco was hoping for a nice lunch with some English thrown in to make things easier and perhaps relieve the mental strain of trying to translate every word he heard. However, after Ermanno's glowing summary of the morning session, Luigi was inspired to continue the immersion through the meal, or at least the first part of it. The menu contained not a word of English, and after Luigi explained each dish in incomprehensible Italian, Marco threw up his hands and said, "That's it. I'm not speaking or listening to Italian for the next hour."

"What about your lunch?"

"I'll eat yours." He gulped the red wine and tried to relax.

"Okay then. I suppose we can do English for one hour."

"Grazie," Marco said before he caught himself.

Midway through the morning session the following day, Marco abruptly changed direction. In the middle of a particularly tedious piece of dialogue he ditched the Italian and said, "You're not a student."

Ermanno looked up from the study guide, paused for a moment, then said, "Non inglese, Marco. Soltanto Italiano." Only Italian.

"I'm tired of Italian right now, okay? You're not a student."

Deceit was difficult for Ermanno, and he paused a bit too long. "I am," he said, without much conviction.

"No, I don't think so. You're obviously not taking classes, otherwise you wouldn't be able to spend all day teaching me."

"Maybe I have classes at night. Why does it matter?"

"You're not taking classes anywhere. There are no books here, no student newspaper, none of the usual crap that students leave lying around everywhere."

"Perhaps it's in the other room.'

"Let me see."

"Why? Why is it important?"

"Because I think you work for the same people Luigi works for."

"And what if I do?"

"I want to know who they are."

"Suppose I don't know? Why should you be concerned? Your task is to learn the language."

"How long have you lived here, in this apartment?"

"I don't have to answer your questions."

"See, I think you got here last week; that this is a safe house of some sort; that you're not really who you say you are."

"Then that would make two of us." Ermanno suddenly stood and walked through the tiny kitchen to the rear of the apartment. He returned with some papers, which he slid in front of Marco. It was a registration packet from the University of Bologna, with a mailing label listing the name of Ermanno Rosconi, at the address where they were now sitting.

"I resume classes soon," Ermanno said. "Would you like some more coffee?"

Marco was scanning the forms, comprehending just enough to get the message. "Yes, please," he said. It was just paperwork-easily faked. But if it was a forgery, it was a very good one. Ermanno disappeared into the kitchen and began running water.

Marco shoved his chair back and said, "I'm going for a walk around the block. I need to clear my head."

The routine changed at dinner. Luigi met him in front of a tobacco shop facing the Piazza dei Signori, and they strolled along a busy alley as shopkeepers were closing up. It was already dark and very cold, and smartly bundled businessmen hurried home, their heads covered with hats and scarves.

Luigi had his gloved hands buried deep in the wool pockets of his knee-length rough fabric duster, one that could've been handed down by his grandfather or purchased last week in Milan at some hideously expensive designer shop. Regardless, he wore it stylishly, and once again Marco was envious of the casual elegance of his handler.

Luigi was in no hurry and seemed to enjoy the cold. He offered a few comments in Italian, but Marco refused to play along. "English, Luigi," he said twice. "I need English."

"All right. How was your second day of class?"

"Good. Ermanno's okay. No sense of humor, but an adequate teacher."

"You're making progress?"

"How could I not make progress?"

"Ermanno tells me you have an ear for the language."

"Ermanno is a bad con man and you know it. I'm working hard because a lot depends on it. I'm drilled by him six hours a day, then I spend three hours at night cramming. Progress is inevitable/' "You work very hard,' Luigi repeated. He suddenly stopped and looked at what appeared to be a small deli. "This, Marco, is dinner."

Marco stared with disapproval. The storefront was no more than fifteen feet across. Three tables were crammed in the window and the place appeared to be packed. "Are you sure?" Marco asked.

"Yes, it's very good. Lighter food, sandwiches and stuff. You're eating by yourself. I'm not going in."

Marco looked at him and started to protest, then he caught himself and smiled as if he gladly accepted the challenge.