Transient Desires (Commissario Brunetti #30)(28)

‘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 railing 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?’