Transient Desires (Commissario Brunetti #30)(63)

Duso turned to his right and looked in the direction of the Gesuati church, one of the two directions from which Brunetti could arrive. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, then ran one hand through his hair and turned around to look in the direction of San Basilio.

When he saw Brunetti, he started walking towards him. As they got closer, Duso remembered to smile, almost remembered how to do it.

The two men stopped and shook hands. Duso’s nervousness conveyed itself to his hand: first he grasped Brunetti’s too tightly, then he dropped it as though his own hand had been burned by the contact.

The younger man turned back towards the bar and went inside, preventing Brunetti from suggesting they sit at a table on the terrace, where there was still a slice of sunlight. Duso stood at the bar and waited for Brunetti to join him. When he did, Duso turned to the barman and ordered a coffee.

Brunetti nodded to the barman.

The coffees came almost immediately, and both of them added sugar and stirred. Duso took a small sip of his, replaced the cup in his saucer, and opened another packet of sugar. He held it above and spilled some in, stirred it around, and drank the coffee.

From beside him, Brunetti saw the young man’s left eyebrow rise. Duso slid his cup and saucer away with a delicate push of his forefinger, as though to suggest the coffee had offended him by being too strong. Then he turned to face Brunetti, waiting for him to speak.

Brunetti decided to tell the truth. ‘I told you I went to see Borgato.’ Duso nodded. ‘From what I saw, I’d say it’s dangerous for Marcello to be around him.’

Duso considered this for a long time and finally could do no better than ask, ‘Even though he’s his uncle?’

Brunetti took another sip of his coffee and set the cup down. He said nothing.

‘Didn’t you hear me, Commissario?’ Duso finally asked.

Brunetti turned to Duso. ‘Yes, I did. But we both know that means nothing.’

‘It means they’re part of the same family,’ Duso said defensively, trying to sound offended.

‘And this is Italy, the home of the united family, where everyone lives only to be of service to his relatives,’ Brunetti said roughly. To relieve the tension, he asked the barman for two glasses of water and remained silent until they came. He drank half of his and set the glass down on the counter, then pushed the other closer to Duso.

Brunetti watched the younger man drink down the water as though it were an August day and he’d not had anything to drink for hours. He had not protested about Brunetti’s remarks on families.

‘Your friends call you Berto, don’t they?’ Brunetti surprised them both by asking.

Duso was so startled by the question that it took him some time before he could nod, then smile. ‘I couldn’t pronounce my name – my own name – until I was four, but by then everyone called me “Berto” so it was too late.’ He gave Brunetti another lopsided smile and shrugged.

‘Good,’ Brunetti said, patting Duso on the shoulder. ‘It’s much easier to talk to a Berto than to a Filiberto.’

The smile slid back as Duso said, ‘It’s a lot easier to be called Berto, too. Believe me.’

‘I do,’ Brunetti said and extended his hand. ‘Guido,’ he said, and Duso responded with both his hand and ‘Berto.’

Brunetti was surprised at the realization that he had not calculated this last scene in an attempt to end Duso’s reticence. Young enough to be his son, Duso had not hidden his love for Marcello from him and given him a clearer sense of the tangled wires connecting Marcello to his uncle.

‘Will you tell me more?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes,’ Duso replied. Then, looking around, he added, ‘But not here. Let’s walk down to San Basilio.’ He pushed himself away from the bar and went out to the broad riva. Brunetti followed after putting a few coins on the counter.

The day was cool; it had rained in the night, the air was still fresh, and the view across to the Giudecca was radiantly clear. Fewer cruise ships were coming now, but still there were two in port. Someone had mentioned it at the Questura that day, adding, ‘I’d hoped they’d all been killed off,’ only quickly to hold up his hands at the shocked faces around him to add, ‘I meant the ships. I meant the ships, not those poor devils on them.’

Duso set off slowly, and Brunetti adjusted his pace to his. At the bottom of the bridge, Brunetti decided not to wait for the other man to begin and so asked, ‘Has Marcello ever talked about having to work at night?’

‘For his uncle, you mean?’ Duso asked.

Recognizing Duso’s question for what it was, an attempt to delay – if he was lucky, postpone – further questions, Brunetti said, ‘Yes,’ and immediately repeated the question, ‘Has he ever talked about it?’ Duso kept walking at the same slow pace, unlike some people who tried to walk faster to escape questions. And the need to answer them.

After a few steps, Duso said, ‘Yes. Once.’ No sooner had he said that than he added, ‘At least that’s what I think he was talking about.’

‘When?’ Brunetti asked.

Duso stopped walking and turned to look at the houses on the other side of the canal. Brunetti paused beside him, silent.

‘About two months ago.’ He waited for a moment and said, surprised not to have thought of it until then, ‘It was the night of Ferragosto, so the city was quiet: everyone was away on vacation. Marcello called me at four in the morning and told me he was outside my apartment and asked if he could come up.’ Before Brunetti could ask, Duso said, ‘He didn’t want the other people who live in my building to hear the bell and wonder what was going on.’