Transient Desires (Commissario Brunetti #30)(60)

The man’s expression changed from curiosity to something harder.

‘Why are you here?’ the American asked, coming one step closer. ‘What do you want?’

The words would have been aggressive had he not sounded so curious.

‘To see if there’s been any improvement in her condition, sir.’

The man glanced towards his daughter, as if he hoped to catch her listening to their conversation, but she was not. In a voice he forced to sound calm, Watson said, ‘You can see. There’s none.’ His voice choked off the last word.

‘I’m sorry,’ Brunetti said, conscious of how useless it sounded.

Before Brunetti could say anything more, the other man stepped back to where he had been sitting, bent and picked up his phone, and put it in his pocket. He came around the bottom of the bed to Brunetti and held out his hand. ‘Alex Watson,’ he said. His grip was firm but quick, the sort of handshake Americans often gave: eager to establish friendship but reluctant to give any indication they wanted it to continue. He had reddish blond hair that had begun to whiten with age and very pale blue eyes that reminded Brunetti of a Border Collie’s, although the man had none of that animal’s restrained nervousness.

Brunetti took Watson’s hand and repeated his name, leaving off the title.

Watson looked at his daughter and closed his eyes for a long time, then turned to Brunetti and said, ‘Perhaps we could talk in the corridor. I don’t want to disturb her.’

With a brief nod, Brunetti turned and went into the corridor. Two white-jacketed women stood a few doors down, talking in soft voices.

‘Have the doctors told you what’s going on?’ Brunetti asked.

‘They say now that she’s in a coma. When they called me to tell me about the accident, they said only that she was unconscious.’ He remained silent for a long time and then said, ‘Now it’s a coma.’

Brunetti nodded and made a noise, which Watson must have interpreted as a request to continue. ‘They say it sometimes happens with head injuries. Brain injuries, that is.’ Brunetti heard how difficult it was for Watson to speak the words the doctors had actually used.

Watson walked over to one of the windows that looked out on a parking lot. He braced his hands against the windowsill and lowered his head for a moment, then pushed himself upright. ‘I spoke to one of the doctors through a translator.’

‘What did the doctor say?’

‘Something about a piece of bone – I think he said it a was really a fragment. But he didn’t tell me how big it is, or I didn’t understand.’ Before Brunetti could ask Watson if he remembered the Italian so he might translate, Watson said, ‘It’s not the translator’s fault. I’m having a hard time remembering what people tell me. When I talk to my wife, I try to repeat what the doctors tell me. She does speak Italian, but she can’t be here.’

Brunetti’s expression must have revealed his surprise, for Watson said, ‘She’s in the middle of chemotherapy, in Washington, and she can’t be in a hospital, any hospital, because her immune system is . . . it’s not working very well.’

Brunetti nodded to acknowledge hearing this and, after a pause, asked, ‘Is that all they’ve told you, Signor Watson?’

‘They said the only thing they can do is wait and see what happens.’ Brunetti noticed motion and glanced down to see Watson’s hands, clenching and unclenching repeatedly.

‘I’ve been told that she and Ms Petersen are friends at university,’ Brunetti said, trying to re-establish the normality of their conversation.

Watson opened his mouth in surprise. ‘Yes. They live in the same dormitory.’

‘So you don’t know her well?’

‘No,’ Watson answered, shaking his head several times, as if he’d forgotten it was moving. ‘She stayed with us in Rome last year.’ His face softened and he added, ‘She’s got a lot more sense than some of the girls who went to high school with Lucy.’ In evidence, he offered, ‘She helped my wife with the cooking. Made Lucy help keep their room clean while they were staying with us.’ Then, voice wavering, Watson added, speaking as though it were a declaration of love, ‘Lucy’s never been the neatest girl in the world.’

Before Watson could spin entirely out of control, Brunetti said, ‘Neither is my daughter,’ and smiled.

The truce of shared parenthood descended, and both remained silent for some time.

Deciding to make a clean break with their preliminary talk, Brunetti asked, ‘Did JoJo tell you what happened that night?’

Watson turned his back to the window and half sat on the sill as though suddenly in need of support. After a moment, he nodded and went on. ‘They were in a piazza with a lot of other kids, and they met two young men, Italians, who asked them if they’d like a drink.

‘When they went into a bar, JoJo had a gingerino, and Lucy had a Coke. Then the boys both had apple juice and they all started to laugh about that.’ Watson paused here, and a smile removed a decade from his face. He stopped, and Brunetti saw him cast his attention towards the door to his daughter’s room.

Brunetti let a good deal of time pass and then asked, ‘Did she tell you about the accident?’

Watson nodded. ‘She said it took her some time to remember, but then it started coming back.’ Brunetti said nothing, and Watson went on. ‘The fact these guys didn’t drink reassured them both, so they accepted their invitation to go out in their boat. Everything was fine until they were out in the open water, when the one at the motor kept going faster and faster until JoJo asked him to slow down. But he didn’t understand. Though I don’t know how much there is to understand, really, if a girl starts shouting at you while you’re speeding in a boat.’ Brunetti heard the tight breath of anger slipping back into Watson’s voice but said nothing.