Transient Desires

by Donna Leon

  Raffi, who had been following the conversation, smiled, then returned his attention to his chicken leg before his mother could see his expression.

  Instead of answering her daughter, Paola turned to Brunetti and said, ‘You’re the one familiar with logic and the rules for making a syllogism, aren’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Brunetti admitted, forking up another piece of chicken.

  ‘So what would you call what Chiara’s just said?’

  Brunetti finished his chicken and took a sip of wine. He set the glass down and, in a very serious way, declared, looking at his daughter, ‘I’m afraid you’ve fallen into your old habit of using the argumentum ad absurdum. The two actions are somewhat simi­­lar, but they are not the same, however mind-catching the comparison might be at first hearing.’

  He emptied his glass and poured it half-full again, adding, ‘So it’s just a rhetorical trick.’ Before she could say anything in her own defence, Brunetti smiled at her and added, ‘Very clever, I must say, and likely to be effective.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Paola said. ‘But I also thought it would be more forceful if it came from you.’

  ‘Because I’m the king of logic?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Paola conceded.

  Chiara, whose fork was poised over the round zucchini her mother had filled for her with the same stuffing she’d used for the chicken, said, ‘Lots of people use it, making it sound like two things are alike, when they really aren’t.’

  Raffi chimed in here to say, ‘Politicians do it all the time.’

  ‘I don’t know why people even bother to talk about politics,’ Chiara observed.

  ‘Excuse me?’ This from Paola.

  ‘You heard me, Mamma. Why bother? People talk about politics, the government changes, people talk some more, there’s another election, and after it, the people and the politicians are still repeating the same things, and nothing changes.’

  ‘That, my angel,’ Paola broke in to observe, ‘is much the same thing I thought when I was your age.’ Before Chiara could protest, Paola added, ‘And still think now.’

  Brunetti suddenly realized how much he longed for them to stop or the subject to change. If he could just tabulate all the hours he’d spent talking about politics and politicians during his life and could pack them together like a snowball and somehow add them to his life, how much longer would he live? Even more interesting, how else might he have used that time? He could have learned another language; to knit and have made sweaters or long, uneven scarves for everyone. What colour Judo belt would he be entitled to wear by now?

  ‘Guido? Guido?’

  He looked across the table at Paola and asked, smiling at her, ‘Yes, my love?’

  She cast up her eyes, though not her hands, which held a large bowl. ‘I asked if you’d like some persimmons and cream.’ She set the bowl on the table next to another one that rippled with a sea of cream. She put two large spoonfuls of whipped persimmons into a smaller bowl and slid the cream in front of Brunetti.

  ‘You trust me with this?’ he asked in exaggerated concern.

  ‘No, I don’t, but I’ve never known you to let the children go hungry.’ She spooned more of the slippery mush of persimmons into two of the remaining bowls and passed one to each of the children.

  Brunetti had flattened the surface of his persimmons with the back of his spoon and dropped four or five spoonfuls of whipped cream on top of it. To him, it looked like an orange sea with thick clouds floating on the surface.

  He scooped up more persimmons, held the spoon above his bowl and let some of the orange mush dribble on the clouds.

  ‘Guido,’ Paola said in her schoolmistress voice, ‘if you insist on playing with your food, you can go to your room.’

  ‘May I take the bowl with me, m’am?’

  Paola closed her eyes, shifted her bowl forward on the table, and laid her forehead down where it had been. ‘He’s going to drive me mad, and then, when I’m locked in the attic, he will have to take care of the children.’

  Much as he would have enjoyed hearing the rest of her scen­ario, Brunetti – who thought it would appear heartless to continue eating while she described her tragic future – said in an entirely normal voice, ‘This is really wonderful, Paola. I like it that you always put a little bit of sugar in the cream.’

  Paola sat up, thanked him for the compliment, and continued eating her dessert. The children had long since finished and were sitting, as quiet as baby chicks, their empty bowls held in their outstretched hands, making soft plaintive noises.

  Brunetti woke in the middle of the night, pulling himself free from a dream in which he was behind the wheel of a car, driving at high speed. Just as the car approached a curve in the tree-lined road, he reached to the seat beside him and pulled up a bottle of gin, a drink he loathed. As he put the bottle to his lips, he gave himself a great shake and opened his eyes: the car, the road, the gin were gone, leaving behind an explan­ation of why Vio had gone so slowly on the way to the hospital.

  If he had been stopped by the police, with the injured young women in the boat and the damage of the accident still to be seen, the police would have tested him and Duso for alcohol and drugs and if he tested positive, he’d lose his licence and perhaps be convicted of a crime. Once the girls were in the hospital, however, there was no longer any evidence that he had been involved in an accident, and so he risked far less.

  With that realization, he returned to sleep until the alarm woke him at 6:15.

  When Brunetti arrived at the embarcadero at the Zattere, there were seven people already inside. He excluded the three women and the priest and was left to choose among a man wearing well-ironed jeans, white leather tennis shoes and a brown suede bomber jacket, a white-haired man in a business suit, and a man in his thirties wearing fashionably torn jeans, similar white tennis shoes, and a short blue double-breasted jacket with a decidedly nautical look.

  Approaching the man in the bomber jacket, he inquired, ‘Signor Cesco?’

  The man looked at him, surprised, while the man in the blue jacket said, ‘That’s me, Signor Brunetti.’ He stepped closer to Brunetti, shook hands, and pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. ‘Let’s go outside while I smoke this,’ he said quite amiably. His skin was weathered, as was often the case with men who work outdoors, and his dark hair was cut short, a flash of white just above both ears. His face was lightly scarred by the acne of his adolescence, his eyes attentive, his mouth broad and turned up in a grin.

  ‘I suppose that means I don’t look like a spazzino,’ he said. Once they were back on the wooden platform in front of the covered landing, he lit his cigarette and breathed in welcome smoke. ‘Should I take that as a compliment?’ he asked.

  Brunetti shrugged. ‘My father worked loading and unloading boats at the port,’ he said with an easy grin although in a less exaggerated Veneziano. ‘So it doesn’t occur to me that there’s any need to disguise being a spazzino.’

  ‘Tell that to my classmates,’ Cesco said, this time without a smile.

  ‘Classmates where?’ Brunetti asked, his curiosity real.

  ‘Ca’ Foscari. I graduated six years ago with a degree in architecture.’

  Brunetti nodded but said nothing.

  ‘Like you, I didn’t have a father who could give me a job in his office or even ask a friend to do it.’ He puffed on his cigarette for some time, looking in the direction of San Basilio, whence the boat would come. He took a final deep pull on his cigarette and walked to the garbage cans at the entrance to the landing, rubbed it out, and dropped it in.

  When he was again next to Brunetti, he said, tilting his head back towards the garbage can, ‘Less work for my colleagues on this side.’

  Brunetti nodded, then asked, ‘What about Pietro Borgato?’

  Cesco braced his hands on the ra
iling and said, ‘Are you allowed to tell me why you’re interested in him?’ His attention was suddenly distracted by the arrival of a boat from the right. It touched the landing gently and stopped.

  Brunetti moved towards it and got on board; Cesco and most of the people waiting at the embarcadero followed. The sailor slid the railing into place. Most people remained on deck during the swift crossing, but the two men did not speak. They got out on the other side and walked out to the riva in front of the embarcadero. Finally, Brunetti answered Cesco’s question, ‘No, I can’t tell you.’

  ‘I didn’t think you could,’ Cesco said, ‘but it’s nice to know you guys are interested in him.’

  Brunetti made an inquisitive noise.

  Cesco pushed himself away from the railing and turned around to lean against it, hands propped on the iron bars. ‘Because he’s gone up in the world.’ He grinned, then added, ‘And because I don’t like him.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Brunetti asked.

  Cesco considered this for a moment, then answered, ‘Because he gives me orders. Tells me how to do my job.’

  Smiling, Brunetti asked, ‘Could you perhaps be more specific?’

  Cesco laughed and turned around to do a few semi-push-ups against the bar while considering his answer. Finally he said, ‘Once he came out with his bag of garbage in his hand while I was sweeping something up – dog shit, I think – and he told me I should wash it with water and dropped the bag on the ground. He could just as easily have put it in my cart, but he dropped it on the pavement.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I swept up the dog shit and dumped it in my cart, picked up his bag, and walked away.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘He called me a shit,’ Cesco said. ‘Sei uno stronzo.’

  ‘And you?’

  I kept on walking and picked up the bags in front of the next houses.’

  ‘And he?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was busy.’

  Brunetti decided not to pursue this and asked, ‘How do you know he’s gone up in the world?’ He paused and added, ‘If I might ask.’

  ‘Because I’m the garbage man,’ Cesco said, his smile back in place. ‘My route takes me into a courtyard on the opposite side of the canal from where he has his boats moored. It’s where I usually stop to have a cigarette in the morning. Sometimes I leave my cart there and go and have a coffee, then come back and have another cigarette.’ Brunetti began to wonder if he’d fallen into the hands of a fantasist, who was going to report that Pietro Borgato was one of the people who dumped garbage into the canal and tell Brunetti to go and arrest him. Giving no sign of this, he nodded to Cesco to continue.

  ‘A couple of months ago, when I went into Campiello Ferrando opposite his place, I noticed two boats, Cabinati, with closed cabins, moored at the entrance to his place. Big things, they looked new but not brand new, if you know what I mean.’

  Brunetti nodded.

  ‘They were different from the boats he already had, more like taxis, but bigger,’ Cesco said. ‘Then two guys came out of the warehouse with an engine: at least 250 horsepower, maybe even more.’ Because they were speaking in Veneziano, the garbage man took it for granted that Brunetti would understand the power – one might even say the majesty – of an engine this size, far bigger than necessary to transport even the heaviest cargo.

  Brunetti did and exclaimed, ‘Madonna Santissima’ as an expression of his surprise. Then he asked, ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I parked my cart in the usual place, made some noise putting my broom inside, lit a cigarette, and stepped behind the cart. It’s what I’ve done there six times a week for the last four years.’

  ‘So you were invisible?’ Brunetti interrupted to show that he was following the story and had an idea of where it was heading.

  Cesco smiled and said, ‘Exactly. I stood there, smoking my cigarette, and watched them. They went back into his warehouse and brought out another motor. Same size.’ He paused and, as if programmed by the script, Brunetti knew the surprise was coming, just now. He decided to give a prompt and asked, ‘What did they do then?’

  Cesco could not help smiling. ‘They started installing the first motor. Borgato was there and drove them like they were mules. Swearing at them, correcting them, cursing their mothers, telling them they had to get them installed fast.’

  He looked at Brunetti, who said nothing, but nodded, leaving it to Cesco to move on to the climax.

  ‘I looked at my watch, and I’d been there ten minutes, so I stepped around the cart, tossed my cigarette into the bottom, and grabbed my broom. I swept a little in the courtyard: it’s what I do every day. Then I stuck my broom back in the cart and left.’

  ‘Did they notice you?’

  ‘As you mentioned,’ Cesco said with a broad smile, ‘I’m invisible. I finished my route: it took about three hours, and I took my cart back to the magazzino where we leave them and parked it there.’

  ‘And then?’ Brunetti asked, as he suspected Cesco wanted him to.

  ‘I went back to the courtyard.’

  ‘And?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Both boats were gone.’ He paused, reached towards the pocket where he kept his cigarettes, but pulled his hand back and said, ‘Since then, I’ve seen the boats a number of times, so he’s using them. But they come in early in the morning.’

  Brunetti watched Cesco trying to decide whether to say something else, so he made himself look as much like an oak tree as possible: patient, motionless, secure.

  Cesco gave in to temptation, pulled out his cigarettes and lit one, then turned to Brunetti and said, ‘Once, when I pulled the cart in there – it was raining – one of the big boats was on the other side. He and his nephew – what’s his name? Marcello? – were scrambling around in it, with a hose, washing it down. The nephew was kneeling, using rags to wipe up the water and wringing it out over the side. Borgato kept telling him to hurry up.’

  He paused for some time, occasionally puffing at his cigarette. Brunetti did not stir.

  ‘Borgato went back into the warehouse and came out with one of those black plastic garbage bags and started picking up stuff from the bottom of the boat and shoving it into the bag.’

  ‘Could you see what it was?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘A jacket, a couple of shoes, a scarf. I remember that because, even in the rain, I could see how happy looking it was: lots of bright colours.

  ‘Did you see anything else?’

  Cesco shook his head, then started to speak again. ‘Finally, they got on the boat, and the nephew started the motor, and they backed down the canal, turned around, and left.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where they went?’

  ‘No.’ Cesco walked back to the entrance to the embarcadero and rubbed out his cigarette before tossing it into the garbage container. As he walked back towards Brunetti, his smile broke out again, and he said, ‘Professional habit.’ He paused a step from Brunetti and said, ‘I’ve never seen either of the boats there again.’ He pushed up the sleeve of his jacket and checked the time. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said.

  Cesco stepped back from the railing and turned away from the water. He offered his hand to Brunetti, who shook it gladly.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ Brunetti said.

  Cesco stuck his hand into his pocket. ‘Glad to do it,’ he said. He turned from Brunetti and started down the riva, a man on his way to work.

  When Cesco had been gone a few minutes, Brunetti went into Palanca and had a coffee, a brioche, and another coffee. Leaving the bar, he walked down to Ponte Piccolo and crossed it, right at the first calle and down to Campiello Ferrando, which ended in a canal. He turned right, and in three steps was in a courtyard, a garden on his right. A warehouse stood on the other side of the canal, two large boats moored in front of it: he assumed it to be Borga
to’s warehouse.

  He went back to the riva and stood for some time, watching the sunlight bring the day back to life. He glanced at his watch, surprised that it was not yet eight. He went down to the Redentore stop to wait for the Number Two.

  11

  Brunetti was in no hurry to get to work and decided to walk from Valaresso and observe, at this time of the morning, the absence of people in the Piazza. So it proved to be, with so few people he could have counted them had he chosen to. He ambled, delighting in the sight of the flags swirling about in the breeze, and the horses poised, front legs lifted delicately, gazing down the Piazza, as if pausing to decide which way to go. How wonderful they were, even if only copies, how bold and excessive, like so much within his line of sight.

  He looked around the Piazza again, still only spotted with people, and thought of his mother’s often-repeated warning that he should never make a wish, for fear it would be granted. For years we Venetians had wished the tourists to disappear and give us back our city. Well, we’d had our wish, and look at us now.

  He cast off this thought, paused after passing the bell tower, and turned to sweep a panoramic look from left to right. Could a normal person see this and not be affected? Finding no answer, and not much liking rhetorical questions, anyway, Brunetti shrugged and continued on his way to work.

  He stopped in Signorina Elettra’s office first, but she wasn’t there. He turned to leave but saw Vice-Questore Giuseppe Patta standing in the doorway of his office, watching him. Brunetti’s first reaction was relief that he was standing well over a metre from her desk and facing it, not close to it and appearing to examine the papers on it.

  ‘Good morning, Vice-Questore,’ he said. ‘I was hoping to see Signorina Elettra.’

  ‘Why?’ Patta surprised him by asking: it was not usual for the Vice-Questore to demonstrate interest in police matters unless they somehow called his authority into question or necessitated his making a decision.

  ‘I asked Signorina Elettra to get some information for me, Dottore,’ Brunetti answered, making light of the matter by being as vague as possible.