“Yeah, he’s a nice guy about that sort of thing. He covers it all up with a lot of guff about advancing national consciousness, raising the awareness of the Italian masses and all, but I think he’s basically in it for the goodness. Get a square meal into the little scamps and hope some of the three Rs takes root.”
“He having a lot of success?”
“Some. A lot of the kids, the boys especially, think they’ll turn into fags if they can read.”
“I noticed.” Buckley gave Ron a wry grin. “I met one of your Baker Street Irregulars on the way here. Name of Benito. Nice kid, under the dirt. I might have given him a clinching argument about learning to read. Told him I made money writing.”
“I can’t say I know all their names. But I’ll mention him to Massimo, see if we can’t follow up on that for you.”
“Thanks,” Buckley said, and then he saw Ducos. He stood up and called out, “Michel!”
Ducos looked around, face blank, and then he saw Buckley and smiled back. “Joe!” He came over. “You know, Monsieur Buckley, you nearly got me into terrible trouble at the embassy, publishing what you did.”
“Eh? What’s that?” Marcoli rose and came over, a suspicious note in his voice. “How in trouble, Michel? And who is this?”
“Monsieur Marcoli, permit me to name Monsieur Buckley to you, American journalist. Monsieur Buckley, if Monsieur Stone has not already had the honor, this is Monsieur Marcoli, who is the leader of this Committee of Correspondence.”
“You know each other?” said Marcoli, and then, “Jesu! That Buckley? Are you?”
Buckley nodded and Marcoli favored him with an enthusiastic embrace and a flurry of protestations of how honored he was to have Buckley there.
“But what is this talk of trouble?” Marcoli asked at length.
“Monsieur Ducos was kind enough to give me some information for my story about d’Avaux,” Buckley said.
Marcoli beamed. “Michel? That was you? You kept that quiet!” And he was off again, this time embracing and congratulating Ducos. Phrases like blow against the oppressor, and struck the serpent with the sword of truth drifted out like flecks of foam from a torrent.
And with that, they were all friends. Marcoli promised Joe a full interview, perhaps the very next day but not today, since they had a private business meeting right after the public meeting.
Buckley saw Gerry Stone with oil up to his elbows emerging from the back room, where apparently he was chief of maintenance on the Committee’s printing press. Frank wandered in too, but hardly seemed to notice Joe’s presence beyond a murmured: “Oh, hi, Mr. Buckley.”
Come to that, the lad hardly seemed to notice his own presence, when Marcoli’s daughter was in his line of sight. Which was . . . almost always. Buckley snickered to himself. Teenagers. It was pretty clear that Giovanna herself was very happy with the situation.
Not that anything was “going on,” Joe was certain. Frank Stone and Giovanna Marcoli moved around each other like a double star. Constant glances back and forth did for the force of gravity—pretty damn ferocious force, judging by the frequency of the doe-eyed looks they gave each other—but Buckley noted that they almost always maintained a certain distance. The double handful of Marcoli sons and cousins were watching the couple all the time, from what Joe could tell. Not with any hostility, no—in fact, it was obvious they all approved of Frank. But there’d be no hanky-panky here, either, fervent revolutionists or not. Lurking somewhere under the approval was the hint that if their sister might cry—or ought to, even if she didn’t—one Frank Stone might bleed.
But that was the only positive note. The meeting started as advertised. A few of the urchins drifted in—Benito among them, Buckley noted. But other than them and the members of Marcoli’s extended family, Ducos, the Stones and Buckley himself, the meeting had the traditional audience for such events: three old men and a dog. One of the old men remained fast asleep throughout Marcoli’s hour-long speech. So did the dog.
There wasn’t even anyone Buckley could peg as the Obvious Cop, who might at least have explained the execrable turnout. Which was a shame, in a way, because while Antonio Marcoli was not rowing with both his oars in the water, he was a damn fine speaker. Buckley got most of it down, and figured he could let the guy revise and extend it later to fill in what he’d missed.