At Marco's insistence, the morning sessions were beginning at eight, not thirty minutes later. Ermanno, the student, still needed long hours of hard sleep but he couldn't argue with his pupil's intensity. Marco arrived for each lesson with his vocabulary lists thoroughly memorized, his situational dialogues perfected, and his urgent desire to absorb the language barely under control. At one point he suggested they begin at seven.

The morning he met Rudolph, Marco studied intensely for two uninterrupted hours, then abruptly said," Vbrrei vedere l'universita." I'd like to see the university.

"Quando?" Ermanno asked. When?

"Adesso. Andiamo a fare una passeggiata." Now. Let's go for a walk.

"Penso che dobbiamo studiare." I think we should study.

"Si. Possiamo studiare a camminando." We can study while we re walking.

Marco was already on his feet, grabbing his coat. They left the depressing building and headed in the general direction of the university.

"Questa via, come si chiama?" Ermanno asked. What's the name of this street?

"E Via Donati," Marco answered without looking for a street sign.

They stopped in front of a small crowded shop and Ermanno asked, "Che tipo di negozio e questo?" What kind of store is this?

"Una tabaccheria." A tobacco store.

"Che cosa puoi comprare in questo negozio?" What can you buy here?

"Posso comprare molte cose. Giornali, riviste, francobolli, sigarette." I can buy many things. Newspapers, magazines, stamps, cigarettes.

The session became a roving game of name that thing. Ermanno would point and say, "Cosa e quelio?" What's that? A bike, a policeman, a blue car, a city bus, a bench, a garbage can, a student, a telephone booth, a small dog, a cafe, a pastry shop. Except for a lamppost, Marco was quick with the Italian word for each. And the all-important verbs-walking, talking, seeing, studying, buying, thinking, chatting, breathing, eating, drinking, hurrying, driving-the list was endless and Marco had the proper translations at his disposal.

A few minutes after ten, and the university was finally coming to life. Ermanno explained that there was no central campus, no American-style quadrangle lined with trees and such. The Universita degli Studi was found in dozens of handsome old buildings, some five hundred years old, most of them packed end to end along Via Zamboni, though over the centuries the school had grown and now covered an entire section of Bologna.

The Italian lesson was forgotten for a block or two as they were swept along in wave of students hustling to and from their classes. Marco caught himself looking for an old man with bright gray hair— his favorite Communist, his first real acquaintance since walking out of prison. He had already made up his mind to see Rudolph again.

At 22 Via Zamboni, Marco stopped and gazed at a sign between the door and a window: facolta di giurisprudenza.

"Is this the law school?" he asked.

"Si."

Rudolph was somewhere inside, no doubt spreading left-wing dissent among his impressionable students.

They ambled on, in no hurry as they continued to play name that thing and enjoy the energy of the street.

The lezione-a-piedi-lesson on foot-continued the next day when Marco revolted after an hour of tedious grammar straight from the textbook and demanded to go for a walk.

"Ma, deve imparare la grammatica," Ermanno insisted. You must learn grammar.

Marco was already putting on his coat. "That's where you're wrong, Ermanno. I need real conversation, not sentence structure."

"Sono io l'insegnante." I am the teacher.

"Let's go. Andiamo. Bologna is waiting. The streets are filled with happy young people, the air is alive with the sounds of your language, all just waiting for me to absorb." When Ermanno hesitated, Marco smiled at him and said, "Please, my friend. I've been locked in a small cell about the size of this apartment for six years. You can't expect me to stay here. There's a vibrant city out there. Let's go explore it."

Outside the air was clear and brisk, not a cloud anywhere, a gorgeous winter day that drew every warm-blooded Bolognese into the streets for errands and long-winded chats with old friends. Pockets of intense conversation materialized as sleepy-eyed students greeted each other and housewives gathered to trade the gossip. Elderly gentlemen dressed in coats and ties shook hands and then all talked at once. Street merchants called out with their latest bargains.

But for Ermanno it was not a walk in the park. If his student wanted conversation, then he would certainly earn it. He pointed to a policeman and said to Marco, in Italian of course, "Go to that policeman and ask directions for the Piazza Maggiore. Get them right, then repeat them to me."

Marco walked very slowly, whispering some words, trying to recall others. Always start with a smile and the proper greeting. "Buon giorno,' he said, almost holding his breath.

"Buon giorno," answered the policeman.

"Mi pud aiutare?" Can you help me?

"Certamente." Certainly.

"Sono Canadese. Non parlo molto bene." I'm Canadian. I don't speak Italian very well.

"Allora." Okay. The policeman was still smiling, now quite anxious to help.

"Dov'e la Piazza Maggiore?"

The policeman turned and gazed into the distance, toward the central part of Bologna. He cleared his throat and Marco braced for the torrent of directions. Just a few feet away and listening to every sound was Ermanno.

With a beautifully slow cadence, he said in Italian, and pointing of course the way they all do, "It's not too far away. Take this street, turn at the next right, that's Via Zamboni, follow it until you see the two towers. Turn on Via Rizzoli, and go for three blocks."

Marco listened as hard as possible, then tried to repeat each phrase. The policeman patiently went through the exercise again. Marco thanked him, repeated as much as he could to himself, then unloaded it on Ermanno.

"Non c'e male," he said. Not bad. The fun was just starting. As Marco was enjoying his little triumph, Ermanno was searching for the next unsuspecting tutor. He found him in an old man shuffling by on a cane and with a thick newspaper under his arm. 'Ask him where he bought the newspaper," he instructed his student.

Marco took his time, followed the gentleman for a few steps, and when he thought he had the words together he said, "Buon giorno, scusi." The old man stopped and stared, and for a moment looked as though he might lift his cane and whack it across Marco's head. He did not offer the customary "Buon giorno."

"Dov'e ha comprato questo giornale?" Where did you buy this newspaper?

The old man looked at the newspaper as if it were contraband, then looked at Marco as if he'd cursed him. He jerked his head to the left and said something like, "Over there." And his part of the conversation was over. As he shuffled away, Ermanno eased beside Marco and said in English, "Not much for conversation, huh?"

"I guess not."

They stepped inside a small cafe, where Marco ordered a simple espresso for himself. Ermanno could not be content with simple things; instead he wanted regular coffee with sugar but without cream, and a small cherry pastry, and he made Marco order everything and get it perfect. At their table, Ermanno laid out several euro notes of various denominations, along with the coins for fifty cents and one euro, and they practiced numbers and counting. He then decided he wanted another regular coffee, this time with no sugar but just a little cream. Marco took two euros and came back with the coffee. He counted the change.

After the brief break, they were back on the street, drifting along Via San Vitale, one of the main avenues of the university, with porticoes covering the sidewalks on both sides and thousands of students jostling to early classes. The street was crammed with bicycles, the preferred mode of getting around. Ermanno had been studying for three years in Bologna, so he said, though Marco believed little of what he heard from either his tutor or his handler.