"Last stop was Austin, Texas. That was thirty years ago. Name's Rudolph."

"Good morning, Rudolph, a pleasure. I'm Marco." They were in kindergarten where only first names were needed. "You don't sound Texan."

"Thank God for that," he said with a pleasant laugh, one that barely revealed his mouth. "Originally from San Francisco."

The waiter leaned in and Rudolph ordered black coffee, then something else in rapid Italian. The waiter had a follow-up, as did Rudolph, and Marco understood none of it.

"What brings you to Bologna?" Rudolph asked. He seemed anxious to chat; probably rare that he cornered a fellow North American in his favorite cafe.

Marco lowered his booklet and said, "Just traveling around Italy for a year, seeing the sights, trying to pick up some of the language."

Half of Rudolph's face was covered with an unkempt gray beard that began fairly high up the cheekbones and sprang in all directions. Most of his nose was visible, as was part of his mouth. For some odd reason, one that no one would ever understand because no one would ever dare ask such a ridiculous question, he had developed the habit of shaving a small round spot under his lower lip and comprising most of his upper chin. Other than that sacred ground, the wild frizzy whiskers were allowed to run free and apparently go unwashed. The top of his head was pretty much the same-acres of untouched bright gray brush sprouting from all around the beret.

Because so many of his features were masked, his eyes got all the attention. They were dark green and projected rays that, from under a set of thick sagging eyebrows, took in everything.

"How long in Bologna?" Rudolph asked.

"Got here yesterday. I have no schedule. And you, what brings you here?" Marco was anxious to keep the conversation away from himself.

The eyes danced and never blinked. "I've been here for thirty years. I'm a professor at the university."

Marco finally took a bite of his cheese sandwich, partly out of hunger, but more importantly to keep Rudolph talking.

"Where's your home?" he asked.

Following the script, Marco said, "Toronto. Grandparents immigrated there from Milan. I have Italian blood but never learned the language."

"The language is not hard," Rudolph said, and his coffee arrived. He grabbed the small cup and thrust it deep into the beard. Evidently it found his mouth. He smacked his lips and leaned forward a bit as though he wanted to talk. "You don't sound Canadian," he said, and those eyes appeared to be laughing at him.

Marco was struggling under the labor of looking, acting, and sounding Italian. He'd had no time to even think about putting on Canadian airs. How, exactly, does one sound Canadian? He took another bite, a huge one, and through his food said, "Can't help that. How did you get here from Austin?"

"A long story."

Marco shrugged as if he had plenty of time.

"I was once a young professor at the University of Texas law school. When they found out I was a Communist they began pressuring me to leave. I fought them. They fought back. I got louder, especially in the classroom. Communists didn't fare too well in Texas in the early seventies, doubt if much has changed. They denied me tenure, ran me out of town, so I came here to Bologna, the heart of Italian communism."

"What do you teach here?"

"Jurisprudence. Law. Radical left-wing legal theories."

A powdered brioche of some sort arrived and Rudolph ate half of it with the first bite. A few crumbs dropped from the depths of his beard.

"Still a Communist?" Marco asked.

"Of course. Always. Why would I change?"

"Seems to have run its course, don't you think? Not such a great idea after all. I mean, look at what a mess Russia is in because of Stalin and his legacy. And North Korea, they're starving there while the dictator builds nuclear warheads. Cuba is fifty years behind the rest of the world. The Sandinistas were voted out in Nicaragua. China is turning to free market capitalism because the old system broke down. It really doesn't work, does it?"

The brioche had lost its appeal; the green eyes were narrow. Marco could see a tirade coming, probably one laced with obscenities in both English and Italian. He glanced around quickly and realized that there was a very good chance the Communists had him outnumbered in the Bar Fontana.

And what had capitalism done for him?

Much to his credit, Rudolph smiled and shrugged and said with an air of nostalgia, "Maybe so, but it sure was fun being a Communist thirty years ago, especially in Texas. Those were the days."

Marco nodded at the newspaper and said, "Ever read papers from home?"

"Home is here, my friend. I became an Italian citizen and haven't been back to the States in twenty years.1'

Backman was relieved. He had not seen American newspapers since his release, but he assumed there had been coverage. Probably old photos as well. His past seemed safe from Rudolph.

Marco wondered if that was his future-Italian citizenship. If any at all. Fast-forward twenty years, and would he still be drifting through Italy, not exactly glancing over his shoulder but always thinking about it?

"You said 'home,'" Rudolph interrupted. "Is that the US. or Canada?"

Marco smiled and nodded to a far-off place. "Over there, I guess." A small mistake, but one that should not have been made. To quickly shift to another subject, he said, "This is my first visit to Bologna. Didn't know it was the center of Italian communism."

Rudolph lowered his cup and made a smacking sound with his partially concealed lips. Then with both hands he gently pawed his beard backward, much like an old cat slicking down his whiskers. "Bologna is a lot of things, my friend," he said, as if a lengthy lecture was starting. "It's always been the center of free thought and intellectual activity in Italy, thus its first nickname, la dotta, which means the learned. Then it became the home of the political left and received its second nickname, la rossa, the red. And the Bolognesi have always been very serious about their food. They believe, and they're probably right, that this is the stomach of Italy. Thus, the third nickname of la grassa, the fat, an affectionate term because you won't see many overweight people here. Me, I was fat when I arrived." He patted his stomach proudly with one hand while finishing off the brioche with the other.

A frightening question suddenly hit Marco: Was it possible that Rudolph was part of the static? Was he a teammate of Luigi and Ermanno and Stennett and whoever else was out there in the shadows working so hard to keep Joel Backman alive? Surely not. Surely he was what he said he was-a professor. An oddball, a misfit, an aging Communist who'd found a better life somewhere else.

The thought passed, but it was not forgotten. Marco finished his little sandwich and decided they'd talked enough. He suddenly had a train to catch for another day of sightseeing. He managed to extricate himself from the table and got a fond farewell from Rudolph. "I'm here every morning," he said. "Come back when you can stay longer."

"Grazie," Marco said. "Arrivederci."

Outside the cafe, Via Irnerio was stirring to life as small delivery vans began their routes. Two of the drivers yelled at each other, probably friendly obscenities Marco would never understand. He hustled away from the cafe just in case old Rudolph thought of something else to ask him and came charging out. He turned down a side street, Via Capo di Lucca-he was learning that they were well marked and easy to find on his map-and zigzagged his way toward the center. He passed another cozy little cafe, then backtracked and ducked inside for a cappuccino.

No Communists bothered him there, no one seemed to even notice him. Marco and Joel Backman savored the moment-the delicious strong drink, the warm thick air, the quiet laughter of those doing the talking. Right now not a single person in the world knew exactly where he was, and it was indeed an exhilarating feeling.