A Question of Belief

His answer was a curved gleam of teeth, like a secondary light suddenly flashing on beneath the main beam of his turban. ‘Si, Commissario,’ Bambola said. ‘Sergio’s down with summer flu, and he asked me to take over while he’s sick.’ With a cloth so white it could have been an extension of his turban, he took a swipe at the bar and asked what he could offer them.

‘Two coffees, please,’ Brunetti said.

The Senegalese turned away and busied himself with the machine. Unconsciously, Brunetti prepared himself for the familiar clanks and thumps of Sergio’s technique as he prised loose the handle that held the used coffee grounds, banged it clean, then flipped the lever that would fill it with fresh coffee. The noises came, but muted, and when he glanced at the machine he saw that the wooden bar on which Sergio had been banging the metal cup for decades had been covered with rubber stripping that effectively buffered the noise. The name of the machine’s maker, ‘Gaggia’, had been liberated from the accumulation of grime and coffee stains that had obscured it since Brunetti had first come to the bar.

‘Will Sergio recognize the place when he comes back?’ Vianello asked the barman.

‘I hope so, Ispettore. And I hope he likes it.’

‘The case?’ Vianello asked with a nod of his chin in the direction of the pastries.

‘A friend found it for me,’ Bambola explained and gave it an affectionate swipe with the towel. ‘Even keeps them warm.’

Brunetti and Vianello did not exchange a look, but the long silence with which they greeted the barman’s explanation had the same effect. ‘Bought it for me, Ispettore,’ Bambola said in a more sober voice, emphasis heavy on the first word. ‘I have the receipt.’

‘He did you a favour, then,’ Vianello said with a smile. ‘It’s much better than that old plastic thing with the crack on the side.’

‘Sergio thought people didn’t notice it,’ Bambola said, his normal voice restored.

‘Hah!’ Vianello said. ‘This one makes you want to open it and eat.’ Fitting the deed to the word, he opened the case and, careful to take a napkin first, grabbed a creme-filled brioche from the top shelf. He took a bite, covering his chin and the front of his shirt with powdered sugar. ‘Don’t change these, Bambola,’ he said as he licked away his sugar moustache.

The barman put the two coffees on the counter, setting a small ceramic plate beside Vianello’s.

‘No paper plates,’ Vianello observed. ‘Good.’ He rested the remaining half of the brioche on the plate.

‘It doesn’t make sense, Ispettore,’ Bambola said. ‘Ecological sense, that is. Use all that paper, just to make a plate that gets used once and thrown away.’

‘And recycled,’ Brunetti offered.

Bambola shrugged the suggestion away, a response Brunetti was accustomed to. Like everyone else in the city, he had no idea what happened to the garbage they so carefully separated: he could only hope.

‘You interested in that?’ Vianello asked. Then, to avoid confusion, added, ‘Recycling?’

‘Yes,’ Bambola said.

‘Why?’ Vianello asked. Before the barman could answer, two men came in and ordered coffee and mineral water. They took their places at the other end of the bar.

When they were served and Bambola came back, Vianello returned to his question. ‘You interested because it will save Sergio money? Not using paper plates.’

Bambola removed their cups and saucers and placed them in the sink. He rinsed them quickly and set them inside the dishwasher.

‘I’m an engineer, Ispettore,’ he finally said. ‘So it interests me professionally. In terms of cycles of consumption and production.’

‘I figured you’d studied,’ Vianello said. ‘But I didn’t know how to ask you.’ After waiting a moment to see how Bambola accepted this last, he asked, ‘What sort of engineer?’

‘Hydraulic. Water purification plants. Things like that.’

‘I see.’ Vianello pulled some change from his pocket, sorted through it, and left the right amount on the bar.

‘If you speak to Sergio,’ Brunetti said as he moved towards the door, ‘please say hello and tell him to get better.’

‘I will, Commissario,’ Bambola said and turned away towards the two men at the end of the bar. Brunetti had expected Vianello to return to the subject of his aunt, but the impulse, it seemed, had been left in the Questura and Brunetti, having no particular desire to continue that conversation, did not pursue it.

Outside, both men paused involuntarily under the whip of the sun. The Questura was less than two minutes’ walk, but in the heat that appeared to have increased while they were inside, it might have been half a city away. The sun blasted down on the pavement along the canal. Tourists sat under the umbrellas in front of the trattoria on the other side of the bridge. Brunetti studied them for a moment, seeking some sign of motion. Could it be that the heat had dried them out, and they were no more than empty shells, like locusts? But then a waiter took a tall glass of some dark liquid to one of the tables, and the guest moved his head slowly to watch his arrival.

They set off. Bodies of water, Brunetti knew, were meant to cool the places where they were found, but the flat, dark green surface of the canal seemed only to reflect and redouble the light and heat. Instead of relief, it provided humidity. They trudged on.

‘I had no idea he was an engineer,’ Vianello said.

‘Me neither.’

‘Hydraulic engineer at that,’ Vianello added with undisguised admiration. The door to the Questura was only a few steps away. The guard, understandably, had retreated inside.

Brunetti wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt, marvelling that he had been so foolish as to wear a long- sleeved shirt that day. ‘How long’s he been around?’ Brunetti asked, moving off towards the stairs.

‘I’m not sure. Three, four years. I figure he was illegal for most of that, before he got his papers. He always used to disappear when I came in wearing my uniform.’ Vianello smiled at the memory. ‘Tall guy like that. Remarkable, he’d be there one minute, but then he simply wasn’t, like he’d evaporated or something.’

‘I’m going to, soon,’ Brunetti said as they got to the first floor.

‘What?’

‘Evaporate.’

‘Let’s hope he doesn’t,’ Vianello said.

‘Who? Bambola?’

‘Yes. Sergio can’t work all those hours. And you have to admit the place looks better. Just in a day.’

‘His wife’s been sick,’ Brunetti said. ‘Good thing he found him.’

‘Lousy work, running a bar,’ Vianello said. ‘You’re there all day, never know what sort of trouble you’re going to have with the people who come in, and you always have to be polite.’

‘Sounds like working here,’ Brunetti said.

Vianello laughed and turned down towards the officers’ squad room, leaving Brunetti to confront the second flight of steps on his own.

3

Two days later, sitting at his desk, Brunetti wondered at the possibility of making some sort of deal with the criminals in the city. Could they be induced to leave people alone until the end of this heat spell? That presupposed some sort of central organization, but Brunetti knew that crime had become too diversified and too international for any reliable agreement to be possible. Once, when crime had been an exclusively local affair, the criminals well known and part of the social fabric, it might have worked, and the criminals, as burdened by the unrelenting heat as the police, might even have been willing to cooperate. ‘At least until the first of September,’ he said out loud.

Too assailed by the heat to consider the papers on his desk, Brunetti allowed himself to continue his idle train of thought: how to convince the Romanians to stop picking pockets, the Gypsies to stop sending their children to break into homes? And that was only in Venice. On the mainland, the requests would have been far more serious, asking the Moldavians to stop selling thirteen-year-olds and the Albanians to stop selling drugs. He considered for a