Transient Desires (Commissario Brunetti #30)(35)

‘Including your family?’

She shrugged. ‘They live a ten-minute walk from the Bay, so they could try to swim, I suppose.’

‘You sound very calm about it,’ Brunetti said, surprised.

‘Either you worry or you don’t,’ she said, sounding resigned. ‘I used to, but I can’t any more.’

‘Just like that?’ Brunetti asked. ‘You can just switch it off?

She turned away from him and walked towards the ticket machines. She tapped her boat pass on the sensor, and the twin metal bars swung back and let her enter. Just as they were beginning to close, a well-dressed man hurried in right behind Griffoni without bothering with a boat pass.

‘Not my business,’ thought Brunetti, tapped his card on the sensor, and moved to stand next to Griffoni. ‘Tell me more about why you think he’s lying and why, of all things, about an abbess.’

‘I think he wanted me to believe he came from a good family, so important that one of them can become an abbess.’

‘An abbess is that important?’ asked Brunetti, making no attempt to hide his astonishment.

‘Religion’s different for us.’

‘Does that mean you’re . . .’ he began, then flailed round to find the right phrase, ‘. . . a believer?’

She let out a snort of laughter. ‘Of course not. But it’s import-ant to look as though you are, and that you respect it.’

When Brunetti made no response, she continued. ‘It’s one of the codes of behaviour. We have to be polite to women, and we have to be solemn about religion.’ Before he could question this, she said, ‘If you don’t trust me, come to the Duomo some day when the Bishop’s showing the blood of San Gennaro,’ she suggested, then added, ‘The liquefaction of the blood, that is.’

‘And Alaimo believes that?’ Brunetti asked.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she answered without a second’s hesitation. ‘But he thinks someone with my background would believe it. And would be impressed by him if he had an aunt who’s an abbess.’ She raised her hands and shook them in the air, fingers spread, as a sign of confusion. ‘What people believe makes no sense.’

Brunetti started to say something but she held up a hand and said, ‘Trust me, Guido.’ Then, as if this would explain things, she added, ‘We have deceit in our marrow.’

The vaporetto arrived. When they were aboard, she said, speaking directly to Brunetti but speaking softly, ‘It’s simple. He doesn’t want to tell us what he knows about what’s going on.’

As Brunetti watched the Palanca stop approach, he considered what Griffoni said. The vaporetto pulled up, moored, waited for the passengers to leave and more to come on board, cast off and backed away a bit, and then continued on its sober way towards the Redentore. ‘But why?’ Brunetti asked. Both of them understood from his tone that it was not a question; no more than a request for speculation.

Griffoni said nothing, perhaps because she had become familiar with this habit of Brunetti’s in responding to confusing information: open the drawer and start pulling things out to see what’s there.

Into her silence, he suggested, ‘Whatever might cause the officer in charge of the Capitaneria di Porto to lure us away from a possible suspect is important.’

‘It’s not our job to patrol the waters, Guido. You’re not Andrea Doria.’

Ignoring her, Brunetti insisted, ‘If he doesn’t want us to know about Vio, there’s a reason.’ When Griffoni did not respond, he asked, ‘Right?’

‘Maybe Alaimo knows they’re up to something and wants to be the one to arrest him,’ Griffoni suggested.

‘He’s not a policeman, Claudia. That’s us. We do the arresting. Alaimo can catch them out on the water, but we’re the ones who do the arresting.’

Brunetti put his hands in his pockets and rolled back and forth on his feet a few times. The boat banged into the embarcadero at San Zaccaria but he didn’t register the shock and continued rocking back and forth. The sound of the railing being pulled back broke into his reverie, and he stepped to the opening, standing to one side for a moment to let Griffoni pass in front of him.

They turned right and started in the direction of the Questura. He was about to speak but saw that there was something else she wanted to say so remained silent. He saw her attempt to speak, then stop herself. They continued walking and still she didn’t speak.

‘Just say it, Claudia,’ Brunetti told her.

Giving no sign that she’d heard him, Griffoni kept walking. Just as they came down the Ponte della Pietà, she swerved towards the water, stopped at the edge of the riva, and looked across at San Giorgio. ‘May I say a few words about Veneziano?’ she surprised him by asking. She wasn’t looking at him but at the church.

‘If you’d like to, I’d be interested,’ he said.

‘I’ve become accustomed to it. When you and Vianello and the others speak it, I listen to what you say and understand a lot of it. Not all, but most.’

‘I’m happy to learn that,’ Brunetti said, utterly confused as to why they were having this conversation – if it was a conversation – now.

‘I don’t . . .’ she began, turning to face him. ‘I don’t hear it and immediately assume that you all have to be stevedores or bargemen, barely literate and that reluctantly so.’