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