Transient Desires (Commissario Brunetti #30)(48)
‘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.’
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.