Francesca was a bit livelier with the real tourists than she was with Marco. Her voice had more energy, her smile came quicker. She was wearing a pair of very stylish eyeglasses that made her look ten years younger. Hiding behind the Australians, he watched and listened for a long time without being noticed.

She explained that the Fontana del Nettuno is now one of the most famous symbols of the city, and perhaps the most popular backdrop for photos. Cameras were pulled from every pocket, and the tourists took their time posing in front of Neptune. At one point, Marco managed to move close enough to make eye contact with Francesca. When she saw him she instinctively smiled, then said a soft "Buon giorno."

"Buon giorno. Mind if I tag along?" he asked in English.

"No. Sorry I had to cancel."

"No problem. How about dinner?"

She glanced around as if she'd done something wrong.

"To study, of course. Nothing more," he said.

"No, I'm sorry," she said. She looked beyond him, across the piazza to the Basilica di San Petronio. "That little cafe over there," she said, "beside the church, at the corner. Meet me there at five and we'll study for an hour."

"Va bene."

The tour continued a few steps to the west wall of the Palazzo Comunale, where she stopped them in front of three large framed collections of black-and-white photos. The history lesson was that during World War II the heart of the Italian Resistance was in and around Bologna. The Bolognesi hated Mussolini and his fascists and the German occupiers, and worked diligently in the underground. The Nazis retaliated with a vengeance-their well-publicized rule was that they would murder ten Italians for every one German soldier killed by the Resistance. In a series of fifty-five massacres in and around Bologna they murdered thousands of young Italian fighters. Their names and faces were on the wall, forever memorialized.

It was a somber moment, and the elderly Australians inched closer to look at the heroes. Marco moved closer too. He was struck by their youthfulness, by their promise that was forever lost-slaughtered for their bravery.

As Francesca moved on with her group, he stayed behind, staring at the faces that covered much of the long wall. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of them. A pretty female face here and there. Brothers. Fathers and sons. An entire family.

Peasants willing to die for their country and their beliefs. Loyal patriots with nothing to give but their lives. But not Marco. No sir. When forced to choose between loyalty and money, Marco had done what he always did. He'd gone for the money. He'd turned his back on his country.

All for the glory of cash.

She was standing inside the door of the cafe, waiting, not drinking anything but, of course, having a smoke. Marco had decided that her willingness to meet so late for a lesson was further evidence of her need for the work.

"Do you feel like walking?" she said before she said hello.

"Of course." He'd walked several miles with Ermanno before lunch, then for hours after lunch waiting on her. He'd walked enough for one day, but then what else was there to do? After a month of doing several miles a day he was in shape. "Where?"

"It's a long one," she said.

They wound through narrow streets, heading to the southwest, chatting slowly in Italian, discussing the morning's lesson with Ermanno. She talked about the Australians, always an easy and amiable group. Near the edge of the old city they approached the Porta Saragozza and Marco realized where he was, and where he was going.

"Up to San Luca," he said.

"Yes. The weather is very clear, the night will be beautiful. Are you okay?"

His feet were killing him but he would never think of declining. "Andiamo," he said. Let's go.

Sitting almost one thousand feet above the city on the Colle della Guardia, one of the first foothills of the Apennines, the Santuario di San Luca has, for eight centuries, looked over Bologna as its protector and guardian. To get up to it, without getting wet or sun burned, the Bolognesi decided to do what they'd always done best— build a covered sidewalk. Beginning in 1674, and continuing without interruption for sixty-five years, they built arches; 666 arches over a walkway that eventually runs for 3.6 kilometers, the longest porticoed sidewalk in the world.

Though Marco had studied the history, the details were much more interesting when they came from Francesca. The hike up was a steady climb, and they paced themselves accordingly. After a hundred arches, his calves were screaming for relief. She, on the other hand, glided along as if she could climb mountains. He kept waiting for all that cigarette smoking to slow her down.

To finance such a grandiose and extravagant project, Bologna used its considerable wealth. In a rare display of unity among the feuding factions, each arch of the portico was funded by a different group of merchants, artisans, students, churches, and noble families. To record their achievement, and to secure their immortality, they were allowed to hang plaques opposite their arches. Most had disappeared over time.

Francesca stopped for a brief rest at the 170th arch, where one of the few remaining plaques still hung. It was known as "la Madonna grassa," the fat Madonna. There were fifteen chapels en route. They stopped again between the eighth and ninth chapels, where a bridge had been built to straddle a road. Long shadows were falling through the porticoes as they trudged up the steepest part of the incline. "It's well lighted at night," she assured him. "For the trip down."

Marco wasn't thinking about the trip down. He was still looking up, still gazing at the church, which at times seemed closer and at other times seemed to be sneaking away from them. His thighs were aching now, his steps growing heavier.

When they reached the crest and stepped from under the 666th portico, the magnificent basilica spread before them. Its lights were coming on as darkness surrounded the hills above Bologna, and its dome glowed in shades of gold. "It's closed now," she said. "We'll have to see it another day."

During the hike up, he'd caught a glimpse of a bus easing down the hill. If he ever decided to visit San Luca again for the sole purpose of wandering through another cathedral, he'd be sure to take the bus.

"This way," she said softly, beckoning him over. "I know a secret path."

He followed her along a gravel trail behind the church to a ledge where they stopped and took in the city below them. "This is my favorite spot," she said, breathing deeply, as if trying to inhale the beauty of Bologna.

"How often do you come here?"

"Several times a year, usually with groups. They always take the bus. Sometimes on a Sunday afternoon I'll enjoy the walk up."

"By yourself?"

"Yes, by myself."

"Could we sit somewhere?"

"Yes, there is a small bench hidden over there. No one knows about it." He followed her down a few steps, then along a rocky path to another ledge with views just as spectacular.

"Are your legs tired?" she asked.

"Of course not," he lied.

She lit a cigarette and enjoyed it as few people could possibly enjoy one. They sat in silence for a long time, both resting, both thinking and gazing at the shimmering lights of Bologna.

Marco finally spoke. "Luigi tells me your husband is very ill. I'm sorry."

She glanced at him with a look of surprise, then turned away. "Luigi told me the personal stuff is off-limits."

"Luigi changes the rules. What has he told you about me?"

"I haven't asked. You're from Canada, traveling around, trying to learn Italian."

"Do you believe that?"

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"Because you claim to have a wife and a family, yet you leave them for a long trip to Italy. And if you're just a businessman off on a pleasure trip, then where does Luigi fit in? And Ermanno? Why do you need those people?"