Transient Desires (Commissario Brunetti #30)(74)

‘Commissario?’ he heard Duso say and turned towards him again.

‘You wandered off again,’ Duso said. It must have been some time: the darker blue dots on his shirt had almost disappeared.

‘You see,’ Brunetti began, ‘this is very difficult for me.’ He turned a softened face to Duso and said, ‘Because I don’t want to do it, I delay and I try to think about something else.’ He waved his arm at the spectacle that faced them from the other side of the Canal, still glorious even in the diminished light.

Duso’s head turned to follow the sweep of Brunetti’s arm down past the Zitelle, all the way to the docked boats of the Guardia di Finanza.

When he turned back, Brunetti was reaching into the pocket of his jacket.

‘No, please, Commissario,’ Duso said, putting his hand on Brunetti’s arm to stop him. ‘I’ll pay for this.’

Later, Brunetti was to remember that.





26


The waiter had disappeared. Brunetti suddenly lost all patience with his own moral cowardice. And Duso’s. The drowning girls, who had thrashed in Brunetti’s imagination ever since Nieddu had told him about their deaths, seemed to encircle the table as he spoke. Duso sat silent, asking nothing, not questioning the truth of what he heard. He sat and stared across at the Giudecca as he listened. Finally Brunetti asked again, ‘Did Marcello tell you about the women?’

Duso was slow in answering, but when he did, the young man said, ‘He didn’t tell me anything, only that people died, and they killed them.’ He took a few deep breaths and added, ‘Since then, he’s been . . . strange.’ He looked at Brunetti, who nodded.

Duso opened his mouth to speak but failed to make any noise. A small boat with two young men in it skidded past them, heading towards the Zattere, seeming to hop from wave to wave, as if slamming down onto them was what it was meant to do.

When the noise was dulled, Brunetti reminded himself that his task was now to persuade Duso to – he did not mince words, at least not to himself – betray his best and oldest friend, who also happened to be the man he was in love with. And possibly a party to murder.

He asked, ‘Would you help him if you could?’

Duso stared at him as if he thought Brunetti had lost his senses.

‘Of course, I’d do anything.’

‘Good.’ How to say it? ‘We need Marcello to do one thing.’

Raising his voice, Duso said, ‘He won’t do anything to hurt his uncle.’

‘The uncle who kicks him down a ladder and involves him in human trafficking and murder?’ Brunetti asked softly, almost hissing.

Duso tried to defend his friend. ‘He took Marcello in when no one else would help. He gives him a salary that allows him to support his mother and their family. Marcello owes him everything.’

Brunetti threw up his hands and, before he thought, said, ‘One of you is crazy.’

Duso put his own hands on the arms of his chair and started to push himself to his feet.

Without thinking, Brunetti reached out and spread his palm on Duso’s chest. ‘Sit down,’ he ordered, and Duso sat. Brunetti grabbed his arm.

‘He can owe him all he wants, but unless Marcello gets free of him, his uncle will corrupt him.’ Before Duso could protest, Brunetti leaned closer and, voice tight with anger he forced himself to control, said, ‘His uncle will have him go out on the boat another night, and they’ll bring in more girls. Or kill them – it’s all the same to Borgato. And sooner or later, Marcello will stop crying about it and then stop being able to cry about it.’ Brunetti closed his eyes until he felt his own arm move and move again, and when he looked at it, he saw Duso using his free hand to try to loosen Brunetti’s grip from his arm.

Brunetti pulled his hand away, waiting for his rage to lessen. He listened to his heart throb, propped his elbows on the table and lowered his head into his hands.

After some time, he recognized the sound of a vaporetto, arriving from the right. He raised his head and opened his eyes to look at the boat, white and slow and familiar, before allowing himself to look at Duso’s empty chair.

Instead, he saw the young man sitting there, staring at him, waiting.

Brunetti asked, ‘Will you help him?’

Duso nodded.

Brunetti took the box with the watch from his inner pocket and handed it to Duso. The younger man examined the box with little interest and placed it, unopened, on the table in front of Brunetti.

Into his silence, Brunetti said, ‘Please open the box, Berto.’

Duso did as he was told and revealed a thin watch with a metal band. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘It’s a watch.’ There was no sign of recognition on Duso’s face.

Duso picked it up again. It was nothing special: metal, normal thickness, no snazzy diving meters, two hands. Brunetti told him, ‘Inside is a transmitter. It gives a radio signal that can be followed from a great distance.’

‘By whom?’ Duso asked, eyes still on the watch.

‘In this case, the Guardia Costiera. Some of their boats are equipped to do it.’

The sun had gone down, and the evening’s chill was setting in. Duso shivered but showed no eagerness to leave. ‘What do you want me to do?’

The dispassion with which Duso asked the question could have been simple curiosity as much as assent. ‘Give the watch to Marcello,’ Brunetti answered, then smiled and added, ‘Tell him this one is waterproof.’