Transient Desires (Commissario Brunetti #30)(45)

‘Ah, Signor Duso,’ Brunetti said. ‘Is there some way I can help you?’ He continued towards Duso with an extended hand.

Duso gave a weak smile, let go of Brunetti’s hand, cleared his throat a few times, and finally said, ‘I’d like to speak to you, Commissario.’ He looked at Brunetti, then around the room, and said, ‘I have to.’

‘Of course. What about?’

‘Marcello,’ he said, speaking in a hoarse voice, almost as if the name frightened him.

Responding to the urgent tone, Brunetti said, ‘What’s wrong?’

‘He’s afraid someone’s going to hurt him.’





17


Brunetti put his hand on the young man’s arm and left it there. Duso stood immobile, frightened at the sound of what he had just said.

‘Come back here with me,’ Brunetti told him, walking towards the guard. The man saw them coming and, responding to a gesture from Brunetti, unlocked the door to the small office next to his, where the translators listened to and transcribed the recordings of the interrogations where they had assisted the police in questioning suspects who did not speak Italian. As he had hoped, the room was empty. Table, four chairs, a locked cabinet with the tape recorders, and rows of files containing the transcripts.

Brunetti pulled out a chair for Duso and waited until he sat, head bowed, then moved around the table to sit opposite him. The young man had not shaved that morning and looked as though he had slept badly. Long experience had taught Brunetti to wait out the time that would ensue before the other person found the energy or courage to speak. He sat, folded his hands on the table in front of him, and looked down at them, not ignoring Duso but certainly not paying him over-much attention.

Footsteps passed beyond the door. The larger door to the riva, and to freedom, opened with a double squeak and closed with three. Brunetti, hearing it only a few times, realized that the sound would drive him mad if he sat near it all day. He looked at his wedding ring, twirled it around once or twice with his thumb. What pleasure it gave him to touch it, as though it were some sort of cult object, invested with magic powers, always near at hand, like a friendly spirit.

‘I went to see him yesterday,’ Duso said with no introductory noises or hesitation.

Brunetti nodded but made no mention of having been to the hospital himself that morning.

‘He looked awful and couldn’t stop moving around,’ Duso said. ‘He shifted from side to side, like he was trying to make the pain go away.’

Again Brunetti nodded.

‘I asked him if I could call a nurse or help him get up. I even asked if he needed to go to the bathroom,’ Duso said in a small voice, as though he were confessing some breach of the rules concerning intimacy between male friends.

‘He said no, that he was all right, but then he said he was frightened and didn’t know what to do.’

After some time had passed, Brunetti asked, ‘Did he say what he was frightened of?’

‘No, not at first. He changed the subject and asked me what I was doing, but it was obvious he wasn’t interested, not really.’ Duso threw his hands in the air, then clasped them together and allowed them to drop on his lap.

‘We’ve been best friends since we were kids,’ he said in a pleading voice, as though he wanted Brunetti to judge that Vio thus had the obligation to confide in his friend.

‘What did you do?’ Brunetti asked.

‘I stood up and said I’d leave unless he told me what was wrong, and he said I was free to go, but that wasn’t how friends were supposed to behave.’

Brunetti was struck by how young Duso sounded as he spoke, arguing about who was a best friend, then offended that his best friend was not playing by the rules.

Brunetti nodded. Time passed, but no matter how long Duso stared at his hands, they did not speak, nor did he. Finally Brunetti asked, ‘What happened?’

‘I went back and sat down again and just waited for him to talk.’ He looked up at Brunetti then, who smiled his approval.

‘Did he finally tell you?’

Duso nodded, but then changed the motion and shook his head. ‘I thought he did, but now I don’t know.’

Brunetti sat and waited.

Both men examined their hands, Brunetti’s fingers now intermeshed, Duso kneading the knuckles of one hand with the fingers of the other. The door to the riva opened and closed: once, twice.

‘He said that he was in trouble, bad trouble, and he didn’t know what to do.’ Before Brunetti could ask, Duso said, ‘No, not because of the accident – well, sort of, but not really. I told you the truth about that. So did Marcello. I rang what I thought was the alarm button, and I thought they’d be there in a minute, so we got away as fast as we could. Marcello was terrified they’d call the police: if they stopped us, they’d find out whose boat it was.’

‘If it’s not the accident, what is it he’s afraid of?’ Brunetti insisted.

Duso pressed his hands so hard that Brunetti could hear the joints cracking. He looked at Brunetti, then looked away. ‘I just told you,’ Duso said shortly. ‘He’s afraid of his uncle and going back to work for him.’

‘Did his uncle find out his boat was involved in the accident?’

Duso shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. When we got back to the Giudecca that night, Marcello moored it at the dock behind the office. It’s his uncle’s oldest boat – that’s why he let Marcello use it – so there were already a lot of dents and scratches, but it’s solid. There was no way anyone could tell the dent in the prow was new,’ he said, his relief audible. As memory came back he said, ‘There wasn’t much blood, really. I worked fast.’ He paused, remembering.