Transient Desires (Commissario Brunetti #30)(64)

Duso gave a sigh, as would a person who suddenly realized just how very tired he was, and went on. ‘I went downstairs in my bare feet and let him in. He was wet. Not just wet. Soaked.’ Duso turned and started to walk again; Brunetti moved up to his side as they continued.

‘He came in and stood there, dripping on the floor. If he moved, his shoes squished. When we got up to my apartment, I bent down and took his shoes off, then his socks. He was shaking so much I told him to go and take a shower to get warm. But he went over and sat on my sofa and asked – like he was a guest in my house – if he could have something hot to drink. I knew he loved hot chocolate, so I asked him if that’s what he wanted.’ As Duso had spoken, his steps had slowed even more, weighed down by memory.

He stopped but continued looking ahead, down towards San Basilio and, beyond that, the offices of the port, and beyond them, the docks for the cruise ships. ‘I left him there and went into the kitchen to make the hot chocolate. It took a couple of minutes, and when I came back with it, he was lying on the sofa, crying. Like a little kid, sobbing like his heart was broken. And shivering.

‘I went and got a blanket. It was still very hot, and I don’t have air conditioning, but he was shivering like it was winter. I helped him get his clothes off and wrapped him in the blanket and made him sit up. I asked him what was wrong, and he tried to make a joke. It was terrible: he showed me his watch. It was one I gave him for his birthday, but it wasn’t waterproof, and he showed it to me and said he was crying because he ruined the watch in the water. And then he started to cry again, harder, and all I could think of to do was give him the hot chocolate, but he drank it too fast and burned his mouth, so I took it back and blew on it until it was cool enough for him to drink.’ Duso looked at his feet and saw that one of his shoes was untied. He knelt and tied it, and Brunetti saw that he -double knotted it, the way his mother-in-law had taught his own children to tie theirs.

Duso stood but remained still. ‘I sat down beside him and asked him to tell me what was wrong. All he did was shake his head and keep drinking the chocolate. He’d take a sip and shake his head and take another sip and shake his head again. When it was gone, he held the cup like he didn’t know what do with it, so I took it and put it on the floor.’

Duso looked down at the pavement, as if he needed to see where the cup was so he wouldn’t knock it over. ‘He was still sort of crying, sort of hiccuping and wiping his eyes and nose on the blanket.

‘I asked him again to tell me what was wrong, but the only thing he said was, “We killed them. We killed them.” And then he started to cry again.’

Duso resumed walking, Brunetti at his side. They passed the pizzeria where he and Paola often went with the kids, the restaur-ant, the post office, and were almost at the end of the riva. Duso stopped in front of the almost invisible entrance to the supermarket.

Brunetti noticed the African refugee who always stood there start towards them and waved him away with a quick motion of his hand. The man, sensing something he didn’t understand, moved back to his place to the right of the doorway.

After a long time, Duso said, ‘That’s all that happened. Marcello fell asleep sitting up. I pushed him over and pulled a pillow under his head, got him another blanket. And I went back to my room and lay awake, thinking about Marcello and how much I love him.’ He gave an enormous shrug and let out a sigh.

‘I guess I fell asleep. When I woke up, he was gone. He’d left the blankets on the sofa. His shoes were by the door, he’d taken a pair of mine; they’re a size bigger, so he could wear them. And he’d taken an old sweater I’ve had forever.’

‘When did you see him again?’

‘Oh, about a week later. We went out for pizza with some friends,’ he said, pointing back towards OKE. ‘We could sit outside in the evening.’

‘Did he ever say anything about it?’

Duso shook the idea away with a sudden motion of his head.

‘Never?’ Brunetti prodded

Duso refused to answer.

‘Did he change in any way?’

‘Not that anyone else would notice.’

‘But you did?’

Duso nodded.

‘How?’

‘He didn’t talk as much as he used to, and he didn’t seem to have as much fun with the things we did.’

Brunetti wondered what else might have happened that night in Duso’s apartment, but then he remembered the way Duso had spoken of the love he had for his friend, and he cast away the idea, ashamed of his curiosity.

Before Brunetti could say anything, Duso smiled and reached out to touch his arm. The younger man let some time pass and then said, ‘That’s all.’ He turned and started back in the direction from which he had come. Brunetti went in the other direction, turned right, and started for home.

Brunetti dawdled on the way, wanting to have time to think through his meeting with Duso. Poor boy, he thought, to be in love with his best friend. Especially with – what was it people used to say when he was younger? – ‘A love that dared not speak its name’?

In recent years, Brunetti had come to wish that some sorts of love would decide to speak their names a bit less loudly. Did people not realize how tiresome so much of this conversation was to anyone who thought the sexual behaviour of other people was not a matter to discuss or judge?