CB19 A Question of Belief (2010) Read Free

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 liberatedfrom 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 crème-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 responseBrunetti 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