Transient Desires (Commissario Brunetti #30)(49)

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.