Transient Desires

by Donna Leon

  ‘To you?’ Duso asked.

  ‘To me. To Raffi. To Giorgio,’ he said and watched Duso try to contain his surprise. ‘They love one another. Well, they’re friends, so they should, don’t you think?’

  Duso opened his mouth to speak, but no words emerged. Finally he managed to ask, ‘And if it was more?’ unable to say what that ‘more’ would be but leaving no doubt about what he meant, ‘you wouldn’t mind?’

  Brunetti thought about it for a moment, never having questioned his son’s preference but thinking of the other possibility now. ‘No, I wouldn’t mind. Yet,’ he began and saw Duso grow suddenly more alert. ‘Yet I’d worry that it might complicate his life or make it difficult.’ He gave himself time to follow this idea, then finished by saying, ‘But not as difficult and painful as it would be if he pretended to be heterosexual and wasted his life with that.’ The thought ran along with itself until Brunetti said, with finality, ‘That would cause me limitless pain.’

  ‘I see,’ Duso said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Could this be the reason Marcello’s frightened?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Maybe,’ Duso answered. He glanced at Brunetti and added, ‘Everyone’s afraid of Pietro.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Why do you think I haven’t seen him for ten years?’ Duso asked and gave a smile that transformed his face, the sort of easy smile a person gives when slipping off a pair of too-tight shoes. ‘He doesn’t believe Marcello and I are just friends. Like brothers.’

  He looked at Brunetti, who said, ‘You’re both lucky to have that bond.’

  ‘You think it’s a good thing?’ Duso asked, his voice as neutral as he could make it.

  ‘One of the best things that can happen, I’d say,’ was Brunetti’s response. Seeing that Duso had trouble masking his relief at hearing this, Brunetti risked saying, ‘His uncle’s afraid you’ll . . . influence him?’

  Duso nodded, then smiled and said, ‘That’s why we go to Santa Margherita, so people can see us picking up girls and maybe go and tell his uncle.’

  Brunetti laughed. ‘That’s very clever of you.’

  ‘It was Marcello’s idea. His uncle didn’t believe him when he said we went out looking for girls, so then we’d go to Campo Santa Margherita on the weekends, and sometimes his cousin would see us there, with girls.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Excuse me, I don’t understand.’

  ‘With the girls.’

  ‘Oh, we’d have a drink with them and talk, and then Marcello would ask them if they’d like to go out into the laguna for a ride. He always left the boat on the other side of the bridge. So we’d go there with the girls, and the word got around about it, and lots of people thought we were picking them up – you know – but all we did was go out into the laguna. Sometimes we’d go out to Vignole and have the grilled chicken at that place there.’

  ‘And then?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Then we’d take the girls home. Marcello always took them to the riva nearest where they lived or where their hotel was.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘No, but the next day Marcello made sure to brag about it at work, without ever giving any details: he’d just boast about it and say how easy it was to pick up girls if you have a boat.’ Duso smiled and again grew handsome.

  Brunetti remained quiet, aware that they’d arrived at the point in this conversation where Duso would have to reveal more, especially about why Marcello was so afraid.

  Neither spoke for a long time, Brunetti determined to make that time grow longer by not speaking. He sat calmly, trying to imagine what it must be like for Vio to be trapped between his uncle and his friend.

  Duso leaned forward and said, ‘His uncle’s been violent with him in the past.’

  Brunetti nodded but said nothing.

  ‘Once he was making a delivery in one of the small boats – I think it was going to Caputo. It was electrical stuff: microwave ovens and blenders, and small things like that. While he was taking the first load to the shop – just down the calle by the Ponte delle Paste – someone must have jumped down into the boat and stolen a carton of telefonini: the little Nokia ones, before everyone got an iPhone. This was years ago, when people still used them.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Marcello told me he called his uncle.’

  ‘Not the police?’ Brunetti asked.

  Duso shook his head. ‘He said his uncle told him never – but NEVER – to call the police.’

  Brunetti let that pass without comment.

  ‘So he called his uncle and told him what had happened.’

  ‘And the uncle?’

  ‘He told him to get back to the office.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And that’s what Marcello did. He got the papers signed for the delivery and went back to the Giudecca, just the way his uncle told him to do.’ Duso’s voice staggered through the last words, stopped for a moment, and then went on. ‘When he got there, he tied up the boat and started up the ladder. His uncle was waiting for him at the top.’

  Duso’s breath had tightened as he spoke. ‘He told me . . . he told me that, when he got near the top, his uncle stamped on his hand and then put his foot against his forehead and kicked him off the ladder, into the boat.’ Duso stopped here and looked at Brunetti, who remained silent.

  After a few breaths Duso continued, speaking very quickly. ‘Two of the men who work there saw what happened.’

  ‘They didn’t try to stop him?’

  Surprised, Duso said, ‘He’s their boss.’

  ‘I see,’ Brunetti said, then asked, ‘What happened?’

  ‘As soon as Pietro was gone, one of them climbed down the ladder and helped Marcello up to the dock. Two of his fingers were broken: he’d twisted around and broken his fall with his hands. But they had to take him to the hospital.’

  ‘What did he do?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘What could he do? After he got back from the hospital – he lives with his uncle – he said he apologized to him for leaving the boat unguarded for so long.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘His uncle said the price of the telefonini would come out of his salary, and he was to be at work the next day.’

  Brunetti was at a loss for what to say about this. Duso waited a bit, and when Brunetti still said nothing, added, ‘That was the end of it.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘He told me he’s afraid to go back to his uncle’s place when he gets out of the hospital.’

  ‘Could he stay with you?’ Brunetti asked.

  Duso froze. His hands fell into his lap. Brunetti had the feeling that, had Duso been able to do it, he would have got up and left the room, but he seemed incapable of motion.

  ‘He’d kill me,’ Duso said. Hearing himself, he raised his hand halfway to his lips in the hope of stuffing those three short words back into his mouth.

  Ignoring what Duso said, Brunetti asked, ‘Then could he stay with some other friend? Or leave the city for a while?’

  Duso shook his head. ‘It’s impossible. Where could he work? All he knows is boats.’

  ‘Will his uncle calm down if they don’t see each other for a while?’ Brunetti asked.

  This time Duso shrugged. ‘Marcello says he never knows what his uncle will do. It could be that he’ll need him for a job and tell him to come back to work. God knows.’

  Well, Brunetti thought but did not say, he’s a Giudecchino, after all.

  Both men sat silent for a long time, Brunetti bereft of ideas or suggestions to give Duso. ‘How much longer will they keep him in the hospital?’ Brunetti finally asked.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I want to talk to his uncle, and after what you say about him, I’d like Marcello to be in a safe place when I do.’

&n
bsp; 18

  After Duso left, Brunetti began to consider how best to go about questioning Vio’s uncle. He could present himself unexpectedly at the office of the transport company and ask to speak to Signor Borgato, or he could arrive with the full panoply of the law: visit not announced, police launch with an armed officer as well as the pilot, demands in place of suggestions. And certainly more trouble for Marcello.

  Brunetti had always loathed, above all, bullies: he despised their arrogance, their contempt for people weaker than they, and their calm assurance that they were to have more of everything for the asking or taking. To oppose them was to provoke them, and to provoke them was to lose. To provoke Borgato was perhaps to endanger his nephew, Marcello.

  He found the homepage of Borgato Trasporti and dialled the number. A man’s voice answered neutrally with the name of the company.

  ‘Good afternoon, Signore. This is Ingegnere Francesco Pivato from the office of Mobilità e Trasporti. I’d like to speak to Signor Borgato if he’s available.’

  After what seemed a long time, the man said, ‘This is Borgato.’

  ‘Ah, then good day, Signor Borgato,’ Brunetti said warmly, switching to Veneziano. ‘I’d like to speak to you about a problem that concerns you.’

  After a moment’s silence, the voice asked, ‘What’s this about?’

  Brunetti allowed himself a nervous laugh and said, ‘I’m not all that sure, Signor Borgato.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Borgato demanded in a belligerent voice.

  ‘I think this is something that the Polizia Municipale should be dealing with, and not us,’ Brunetti said, doing his best to sound prissy. ‘It has to do with the registration of a boat that belongs to you but that seems to have the same licence number as a boat registered to someone in Chioggia.’

  Again, a long time passed before Borgato responded. ‘That’s impossible,’ he said roughly, then, perhaps remembering who he was talking to, he changed tone and asked, ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘That’s the question I asked when I spoke to our Director, Signor Borgato,’ Brunetti said, trying to sound exasperated. ‘He said it should be evident. But it’s not, so you’re the person I have to ask.’

  ‘Afraid of your boss, are you?’ Borgato jabbed at him.

  Brunetti decided that Ingegnere Pivato was probably accustomed to listening to provocation and so said, ‘I’m merely trying to close our file on this matter, Signore. It’s been dragging on for months.’ Brunetti was careful to speak with the beginning of tight-lipped annoyance. ‘I thought we could do that more quickly if I spoke to you directly.’ He waited a moment before continuing, ‘Or we’ll have no choice but to pass it on to a higher authority.’

  Borgato considered that for a moment but came back with the sarcasm of the strong. ‘And just how do we do that?’

  ‘One way is to have you come to our office, Signore, and —’

  ‘That’s not going to happen,’ Borgato interrupted, as Brunetti had thought he would. ‘You can come out here if you want to see me,’ he added, again conforming to Brunetti’s expectations. To refuse to speak to a patent weakling would be to lose the chance to play with him, push him around a little, show the bureaucrats who was in control.

  Brunetti allowed a muffled ‘ah’ to escape. He grabbed some papers that were on his desk and riffled loudly through them, then said, ‘I could come after lunch, Signor Borgato. About three?’ he inquired, being careful to sound uncertain.

  ‘I’m a busy man. Come at four,’ Borgato said and put down the phone.

  Brunetti had promised Paola he would be home for lunch, so home he went. Both of his children were there, something that happened with lesser frequency as their school lives and the demands of friendship took up more and more of their time. He noted the birth of their friendships, as the names of classmates were introduced at the table, their qualities described or praised, their opinions introduced, always at first with enthusiasm, later with thought, sometimes with scepticism. He learned of the family lives of some of these children, for to him and to Paola they were still children. Most of the families were unexceptional as the parents lived out their middle-class lives: going to the office, travelling, acquiring.

  He sometimes wondered what his children said of him and Paola to their friends. To be a policeman, regardless of rank and however unusual, was not to be a professional, not the way a doctor or a lawyer was. Paola’s full professorship, however, let her fit effortlessly into the ranks of the acceptable and respected. The social position of her parents, Brunetti understood, gave her an added footstool from which to view the world around her: she hardly needed university degrees to be well regarded.

  When he tuned back to the conversation, he heard Chiara say, ‘I was on the bus from Mestre last week, and two boys started to shout at an old man. No reason; they just chose him and started saying he was useless and ought to do them a favour and die.’

  ‘How old was he?’ Paola asked, unable to moderate her surprise.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Chiara said. ‘It’s hard to say how old old people are.’ She thought about it for a moment and said, ‘Maybe sixty.’

  Brunetti and Paola glanced at one another but said nothing.

  ‘What happened?’ Raffi asked between bites of pasta.

  ‘He ignored them. He was reading a magazine.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘The bus was pulling into Piazzale Roma, so we all knew the ride was almost over. I guess they did, too,’ she said reflectively. ‘Just as the bus got to the stop and the doors opened, one of them grabbed the magazine from his hands and tossed it in his face. Then they both ran out of the bus. Laughing.’

  ‘What did the man do?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘I think he was too surprised to do anything. He just sat there. But then another boy picked up the magazine and handed it back to him. Then, looking at him directly, Chiara asked, ‘Can’t the police do anything about it?’

  Brunetti set his fork down. ‘We’d have to be there, or someone would have to take a photo or film it, and the person they bother would have to make a complaint. And we’d have to identify the person who did it.’ He pulled his lips together and raised his eyebrows. ‘There isn’t much chance of catching them.’

  ‘They’ll only get worse,’ Raffi broke in to say.

  ‘I agree,’ added Paola.

  ‘I agree, too,’ Brunetti said. ‘But until we have evidence or the names of the boys . . .’ he paused and looked at Chiara, who nodded, ‘. . .doing it, it’s not likely that we can stop them.’

  ‘Thank God it’s not America,’ Chiara said. ‘And everyone has guns. It would be Far West every day.’

  Brunetti, who read crime statistics and knew this was true, chose to say nothing.

  As his appointment with Borgato was not until four, Brunetti found himself with too little time to go back to the Questura. So he took his copy of Tacitus into the living room and extended himself on the sofa to read of the death of Agrippina, one of the passages he remembered from his student days.

  The index directed him to Chapter Fourteen, where he read with returning horror Tacitus’s description of Nero’s slapstick plan to drown his own mother: the boat fell apart, but did not fall on her. She swam to the shore, leaving her maid thrashing in the water to be killed in her place. So completely did the plan fail that the Emperor had no choice but to send three assassins to put an end to her.

  Brunetti remembered then that there had been some sort of prophecy, and after a few paragraphs found it. ‘She consulted the Chaldeans and they prophesized that Nero would surely reign, and would surely kill his mother. To which Agrippina replied, ‘Let him kill me, so long as he will reign.’ Brunetti closed his eyes to think about this.

  When he woke, he glanced at his watch and, seeing the time, hurried to their bedroom and found a badly scuffed pair of light brown
shoes that he no longer liked but had failed to throw away. With them, he wore a grey suit that had seen better days and should have had narrower lapels. Before putting on the suit, he removed his shirt and clenched it in his hands to wrinkle it lightly and then put it on again. Next he chose a particularly unattractive green tie. In the back of the closet in the storeroom behind the kitchen he found an old trench coat he’d bought as a student and never had the will to throw away, even after he’d brushed against a greasy door hinge and left a stain on the left pocket that had refused to disappear. He found a briefcase he’d carried at university, leather dried and peeling, and put it under his arm.

  Paola looked up from the papers she was grading when he came into her study to say goodbye. She removed her reading glasses and studied his appearance. ‘Carnevale doesn’t start until February, Guido,’ she said, then added, in a sweeter voice, ‘How clever of you to go as Hercule Poirot.’

  Standing in the doorway, Brunetti ran his hands down the sides of the trench coat and turned a full circle. ‘I was trying for something closer to Miss Marple,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me it’s necessary for you to go out of this house looking like that,’ she said, ‘or I’ll try to stop you.’

  ‘I have to interview someone who thinks I’m a weakling and make him show me how superior he is.’

  She replaced her glasses, said, ‘Then you go with my blessing,’ and returned her attention to the papers.

  To avoid embarrassment, Brunetti had asked Foa to pick him up at the end of the calle beside the house: he was waiting when Brunetti arrived. Foa gave Brunetti a long look and reached out a hand to help him jump on board. The pilot said nothing, and Brunetti went down the steps into the cabin.

  Foa cut through Rio San Trovaso and emerged into the Giudecca Canal. He pulled up at the Palanca stop to allow Brunetti to step up on to the embarcadero. ‘Would you like me to come back for you, Commissario?’ he asked. Before Brunetti could refuse, Foa said, ‘I’m not on duty this afternoon, so I can take this boat and dock it at the Questura and come back in my own.’ Again, anticipating Brunetti’s response, he said, ‘It’s much smaller and doesn’t have a cabin.’ Seeing Brunetti’s reluctance, the pilot said, ‘I’ll be back in forty-five minutes,’ revved up the engine, and started back in the direction of the Questura.