A Sea of Troubles

'And the brother, Sandro?'

'Surprisingly enough, he's still here. Well, he's been here. His boat is still out, left before dawn this morning and still isn't back.'

'What could that mean?'

'Anything, really,' Vianello said. 'That the fish are running and he doesn't want to stop or that he's had engine trouble. The boss here seemed to think it's nothing more than a run of good luck, lots of fish.'

Vianello sipped at his wine, then went on. 'Signora Bottin died of cancer five years ago. Her relatives have had nothing to do with Giulio or Marco since she died.'

'Why?' Brunetti asked.

'That house on Murano. They disputed her will, but as it had been left to her by her parents and Bottin agreed that it should go to the son entirely, there was really no case they could make for it'

'And since then?'

'There's been no contact between them, it seems.'

'Where'd you learn this?'

'The owner of the bar. He seemed to think it was innocent enough to tell me at least this much.'

Brunetti wondered what new dispute would now result about ownership but asked, instead, 'And this Giacomini the waiter told us about?'

Vianello pulled out his notebook and flipped it open. 'Paolo Giacomini, another fisherman. The owner says he lives in Malamocco, but for some reason he keeps his boat here. He's known as a troublemaker, someone who likes to cause bad blood between people.'

'And the trouble between Scarpa and Bottin?'

'No one would tell me anything about it except that there was some sort of run-in between them a year or so ago. Either they collided or came close and got their nets tangled. Whatever it was, there's been bad feeling between them ever since.'

'We can try the police in Chioggia,' Brunetti suggested.

'Probably the best thing, if it happened there,' Vianello agreed. 'If that's where the denuncia was made, perhaps they can tell us something. I get the feeling that these people take care of things in their own way. And they've all taken a vow of silence where Bottin is concerned. No one can remember anything about him; certainly no one has a bad word to say about him.'

'Yet Signora Follini told me that, whatever happened, it happened because of him, not because of the son.'

'So now what do we do?' Vianello asked.

'First we have lunch,' Brunetti answered, 'then we go and see if we can find this Giacomini.'

The meal passed off pleasantly enough, in part because Brunetti made no comment upon Vianello's choices and in part because he restrained himself from having clams, though he did eat an enormous platter of coda di rospo which the owner assured him had been caught that morning. The owner had not succeeded in replacing Lorenzo Scarpa and had to wait on tables himself, so the meal took a long time to arrive, a situation worsened by the entrance of a string of Japanese tourists just as Brunetti and Vianello ordered.

Their guide seated them at two long tables against the walls, where they seemed quite happy to wait for their meal while smiling and bowing to one another, the guide, Brunetti and Vianello, and the owner. Their behaviour was so exquisitely restrained and polite that Brunetti was amazed that anyone should ever speak badly of them. When he and Vianello were finished, they paid their bill, again in cash, received no receipt and got to their feet. Automatically, Brunetti bowed in the direction of the Japanese, waited for Vianello to do the same and for the Japanese to respond, then led his sergeant out to the bar section, where they had coffee but refused grappa.

It had grown still warmer while they were inside, and they rejoiced in the heat of the day. It brought back the sense of boyish freedom they'd experienced when they set out that morning. Back at the police launch, they found no sign of Bonsuan, though a string of fish was hanging in the water from a stanchion on the other side of the boat.

Neither of them much minded having to wait, and they were happy enough to sit on a wooden bench that looked across the waters in the general direction of Venice, though all they could see was the water of the laguna, a few boats moving across it, and the topless, endless sky.

'Where do you think he's gone?' Brunetti asked.

'Bonsuan or Scarpa?' 'Bonsuan.'

'He's probably in some bar, learning more in five minutes than we have in two days.'

'Wouldn't surprise me in the least,' Brunetti said, removing his jacket and turning his face up to the sun. Vianello was prevented from doing the same only by the fact that he was wearing uniform.

After about ten minutes, Brunetti was awakened from a semi-doze by Vianello's voice, saying, 'Here he comes.'

He opened his eyes, looked to the right, and saw Bonsuan, wearing his dark uniform slacks and a white shirt with a large black stain on one shoulder, walking in their direction. When the pilot reached them, Brunetti moved to the left, making a space for him on the bench between them.

'And?' he asked when Bonsuan sat down. ‘I decided to have trouble with the engine,' the pilot answered.

'Decided?' Vianello asked.

'That way I'd have to ask someone for help.'

'What did you do?'

‘I sawed through one of the distributor wires with a file and left it hanging, then tried to start up. Couldn't. So I opened the engine again, saw what was wrong, and went into the village to see if someone would give me a piece of wire.'

'And?' Brunetti asked.

'And I found a man I know from the Army, when I did my military service. His son has a boat out here, and my friend takes care of the engines for him. He came along with me, saw the wire, went back to his workshop and found me a piece, then came back and helped me change it.'

'Did he realize what you'd done?' Vianello asked.

'Probably. I was hoping to get someone who didn't know much about engines, well, as much as I do. But Fidele probably saw what I'd done. Doesn't matter. I took him down to the bar to thank him and he was willing to tell me about them.'

'The Bottins?' Brunetti asked. 'Yes.'

'What did he say?'

Brunetti found it interesting, the way Bonsuan distanced himself from the information he'd managed to obtain. It was what Brunetti wanted or what Vianello wanted. It was probably no more than Bonsuan's way of remaining loyal to the other fisherman, the tribe he was so soon going to rejoin.

'Anything you're looking for, it was the father,' Bonsuan finally explained.

'Who told you that?' Vianello asked.

At the same time Brunetti asked, 'What did he do?'

Bonsuan answered both questions with the same shrug, then said, 'No one told me anything exact, but it was clear that no one liked him. Usually they pretend they do, at least they do when they're talking to foreigners like me. But not with Bottin. I figure it's something he did, but that's just a feeling. I don't have any idea what it could have been, but it was as if they didn't consider him one of them any more.'

'Because of the way he treated his wife?' Brunetti asked.

'No,' Bonsuan said with a sudden shake of his head. 'She was from Murano, so she didn't count’ and with that, he dismissed her humanity as easily as the possibility.

There was a long silence. Three cormorants came whizzing past them and splashed down a good distance from shore. They swam around for a while, seemed to confer among themselves as to where the fish might be, then, so smoothly as hardly to disturb the surface of the water, disappeared below it, leaving no trace. Automatically, curious, Brunetti began to hold his breath when he saw them slip under the water, but he was forced to expel it and take three long breaths before the first of them popped up, corklike, quickly followed by the other two.