The Dance of the Seagull im-15

by Andrea Camilleri

  APARTMENTS FOR RENT. SEE PORTER.

  Montalbano parked, got out, and went in. Mimì had decided it was best for the inspector to go in alone, after phoning Beba and learning that little Salvuzzo had taken a tumble and hurt his forehead.

  Inside the porter’s lodge, which was actually a small apartment, he looked through an open door and saw a woman busying herself with a broom.

  “Is the porter here?”

  “No.”

  “Could you tell me who I should talk to for information on the available apartments?”

  “Me.”

  “And who are you, may I ask?”

  “The porter’s wife. Is that good enough?”

  “It’s good enough for me.”

  But he really didn’t feel like talking about Manzella with a woman who seemed like a busybody.

  “Listen, do you know when your husband will be back?”

  “If he can still find the way home, he should be back around eleven.”

  “Does he have a job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “At Gnazio Cutaja’s shop. His job is to empty glass after glass of wine. Know what I mean?”

  Witty, the porter’s wife.

  “I do.”

  An alcoholic. It was hopeless; he had no choice but to talk to her. Meanwhile the woman had stopped and, leaning on the broomstick, was eyeing him with a hint of malevolence.

  “Mind if I say something?” she asked.

  “Go ahead.”

  “You smell like a cop. No offense.”

  It was best to lay his cards on the table.

  “You’re right. I’m an inspector.”

  “Please come in and sit down.”

  Montalbano sat down on one of the chairs around a small table. From a tiny little kitchen came a wonderful smell of fish soup.

  “Would you like a little wine?”

  “Please don’t bother, thanks. My compliments on the fish broth, though. It must be delicious, to judge from the smell.”

  The woman’s attitude changed. She propped the broom up in a corner, smoothed out her apron, and sat down in one of the other chairs.

  “Ask me anything. I can tell you whatever you want to know.”

  “Signora, we’ve learned that a man named Filippo Manzella is supposed to have lived in one of the small apartments in this building until about twenty days ago. Is that correct?”

  “Yessir. He’s a good man.”

  “How long did he live here?”

  “’Bout three years.”

  “Why did he leave?”

  “He said he found something better.”

  “Did he leave a forwarding address?”

  “No.”

  “So what was he going to do about the mail and bills?”

  “He said he’d come by once a week.”

  “When did he last come by?”

  “He never came. I put aside three letters for him and an electrical bill.”

  “Did he ever receive visitors?”

  “Not during the day.”

  “How about at night?”

  “Mr. Inspector, how should I know? I lock up the lodge at seven-thirty every night, have dinner, watch TV, and go to bed. Whoever wants to come in uses the intercom outside.”

  “Could I have a look at the apartment where he used to live?”

  “What do you think you’re gonna find there? When I cleaned it up, all’s I found was a telescope he tol’ me he’d come by to pick up.”

  “And where’s this telescope?”

  “It’s still in the apartment. Just the way he left it, ’cause the apartment’s not been rented yet.”

  “Could I see it?”

  The woman sighed, got up, went into the other room, returned with a set of keys, and handed them to the inspector.

  “You can go by yourself. Sixth floor, number eighteen. Sorry, but I gotta look after my soup. There’s an elevator.”

  The door to apartment number 18 opened directly onto a small sitting room endowed with a television niche and an alcove kitchen. The sitting room led into the bedroom, where there was barely enough room for a double bed, a tiny closet, two bedside tables, and a window. A narrow door led into a microscopic bathroom with a shower. There were two telephone jacks, one in the living room, one in the bedroom, but there was no sign anywhere of a functioning phone. The telescope was enormous: resting on a tripod, it took up half the sitting room. It was pointed towards the port of Vigàta. The moment the inspector brought his eye to the eyepiece, he felt as if he could touch the outer wall of one of the cold storage warehouses on the side facing the sea, where the fishing boats docked to unload. The broad main door was open, and inside he could clearly see two men busy working.

  As he was leaving the tiny apartment, it suddenly occurred to him that he should look inside the closet. In addition to some blankets and a change of sheets, he found a pair of binoculars in their case. He took them out. They were powerful military binoculars with infrared lenses.

  Manzella must have bought them on the black market for a hefty sum.

  He put them back, closed up, went down the stairs, and gave the keys back to the porter’s wife.

  “A few more questions and then I’ll leave you in peace.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why didn’t I see any telephones in the place?”

  “Signor Manzella used only a cell phone.”

  “Do you know where he worked?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “So how did he get by?”

  “I don’t know. But he was never wantin’ for money.”

  “Did he ever go out?”

  “Of course! Mornings, when he was here, he would go out grocery shopping ’cause he liked to cook while listening to music. He even had a big stereo, an’ afternoons he’d sleep till five an’ then—”

  “Wait a second. You said ‘when he was here.’ You mean he wasn’t always here?”

  “No, sir, he wasn’t. Sometimes he’d disappear for weeks at a time.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Who normally cleans the apartments?”

  “Me, my sister, an’ my sister-in-law.”

  “Who cleaned Manzella’s place?”

  “I did.”

  “Here’s a rather delicate question, signora. When you made his bed in the morning, did you ever get the impression that Manzella had slept with a woman?”

  The porter’s wife started laughing.

  “The impression? Mr. Inspector, sometimes it was like an earthquake had hit! Pillows on the floor, sheets all tangled, an’ one time half the mattress was on the floor.”

  “Did that sort of thing happen often?”

  “Lately, yes.”

  “Was he a ladies’ man?”

  “What do you think, when you see a bed in that condition a good three nights a week?”

  “Three nights a week? But isn’t he getting on in years?”

  “Yeah, but I guess it’s still workin’ pretty good. Or maybe he takes pills.”

  “Was it always the same woman, or did he see a lot of different ones?”

  “How’m I supposed to know?”

  “I don’t know, by the color of the hair on the pillow or in the shower . . .”

  “Wouldja believe it? I never found a single hair!”

  “How about a hairpin or some lipstick?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Maybe they was careful.”

  “Does Manzella have a car?”

  “Used to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a Signor Falzone lives in the building who sells used cars. Manzella sold him his for pennies. A Fiat Panda in really good condition.”

  “When did he do that?”

  “A couple of days before leaving the place. He said he wanted to buy a new one.”

  “How’d Falzone pay him?”

&nbs
p; “Manzella wanted cash. I was there.”

  “Where’d he put his belongings?”

  “One suitcase was enough. He didn’t own much. If you ask me . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “If you ask me, Manzella had another house.”

  “One last thing. Could you give me the three letters?”

  The porter’s wife seemed undecided.

  “An’ what’ll I tell Manzella if he comes by?”

  “Tell you what. I’ll leave you a receipt. That way, Signor Manzella can come and pick them up at the station.”

  11

  While leaving the building, he was thinking that Manzella’s departure was not a simple change of residence, but looked a lot like the sudden flight of someone who wanted to vanish without a trace.

  He moved the car just enough to avoid arousing the curiosity of the people in the building, then pulled over and took the letters out of his pocket.

  The first one had been sent from Palermo and was signed, “Your loving sister, Luciana.” It was one long whinefest: the ninety-year-old mother needed assistance; Luciana’s husband was a dissolute pervert; the son had lost his head chasing after a girl who seemed like a saint but in fact was a real slut, to the point that she made him buy the panties she wore . . .

  In short, the sister was hitting him up for money.

  The second letter was from a certain Sebastiano and sent from Messina. He said things were going well, he’d got his head straightened out and had finally found the love of his life. Of whom he’d attached a photograph. It showed a young man in a Navy uniform, about twenty-five years old, with a low brow, stick-out ears, and a horsey face.

  He must have been about six-foot-three and was so well built that he looked like an athlete, though his legs were so bowed they practically formed a circle.

  Montalbano thought that love, as we know, is blind.

  The third and last letter, posted in Vigàta, he read twice in a row.

  Then he drove off, dropped in at the station, put the first two letters in a drawer of his desk and the third in his jacket pocket. Then he left and headed home to Marinella.

  The night was soft and clear and windless. And the moon, instead of resting over the orchards, was floating on the sea. Autumn felt perhaps that its days were numbered and was surrendering to its end with a sort of melancholy and slightly distracted languor, letting itself be invaded, without resistance, by days and nights already springlike. Sitting out on the veranda, Montalbano had scarfed down a huge dish of pasta ’ncasciata that Adelina had left for him in the oven. Normally it was a lunch dish, but luckily his housekeeper had never made any distinction between things that were better for lunch and things that were better for dinner. And sometimes the inspector suffered the consequences. As would certainly be the case that night, since digesting pasta ’ncasciata sometimes led to nocturnal battles. Sighing, he stood up, went into the house, and sat down at the table on which he’d left the letter addressed to Filippo Manzella, and read it for the third time.

  Ippo,

  Would you please tell me why you suddenly don’t want to see me any longer?

  I’ve tried to reach you dozens of times on your cell phone, but you won’t ever pick up. Why? I think someone may have told you wicked things about me, totally invented lies, and you, silly man, believed them. The Fiacca story, if they told you about it, was nothing. Aside from the fact that I miss you, I think we absolutely need to meet and clear things up. There could be consequences. It’s in your own interest. Get it?

  So give me a ring. G.

  The first problem presented by the letter, which was sent from Vigàta to another address in Vigàta and written in perfect Italian, was in the final lines, where there was a menacing shift in tone. If Manzella wanted to break things off with his girlfriend G, why did G write that there might be consequences? At any rate, it was clear that Manzella stood to lose everything from these “consequences.” Was it to avoid such unpleasant consequences that Manzella had fled his apartment without leaving a forwarding address? By the same token, he must have sold the car so that nobody could trace the license plate back to the owner.

  The second problem was that the letter didn’t quite add up. The overall tone didn’t make sense. Nothing indicated with any certainty that G was a woman, since the handwriting could have been either feminine or masculine. And a woman who’d just been abandoned by a man with whom she’d had a relationship would have used different, somewhat more passionate words. But if it was a man . . . Would a man have ever used expressions like “wicked things”? Or “silly man”?

  What would he, Montalbano, have written? He thought of words like bullshit, crap, slander, gossip . . . No, “wicked things” was not something a man would say. Nor was “silly man” a manly expression. It was probably best to bring the letter with him when he went to Montelusa Central. He could ask Gargiulo in the Forensics department, who was a good handwriting analyst, for help.

  The inspector went to bed after a long telephone conversation with Livia, which ended on a positive note. But he had an infernal night, all because of the pasta ’ncasciata.

  “You look a little pale today. Everything all right in the bosom of the family?” asked that colossal pain in the ass, Dr. Lattes, chief of the commissioner’s cabinet, who never set foot outside of his boss’s waiting room and was always there, ready to bust the balls of every poor wretch who entered.

  “Everyone’s fine, with thanks to the Blessed Virgin.”

  “His honor the commissioner is waiting for you.”

  He’d been very punctual. Bonetti-Alderighi seemed solicitous, and even stood up.

  “Carissimo! Please sit down. How are you? All better now? You look a little pale.”

  Of course he was pale! He hadn’t slept a wink because of the pasta ’ncasciata!

  “Well, the aftereffects of the Super Scrockson are devastating, since the tube is inserted into—”

  “For heaven’s sake, spare me the details. Anyway, I don’t want you to get tired out. Just tell me what happened.”

  “Mr. Commissioner, sir, I have very little to tell you, which is why I didn’t file a report. In a few words, I received an anonymous tip concerning some suspected drug traffic passing through the port and sent Inspector Fazio to go and check it out. As far as we know, as soon as he got there, he got shot and wounded in the head, and then disappeared. Later we learned, from an anonymous phone call, that Fazio’d been seen with two men in the area of the Three Wells. They intended to kill him. I called the fire department, and they pulled two corpses out of two different wells, but Fazio was still nowhere to be found.”

  “Did you inform the prosecutor of these discoveries?” the commissioner interrupted him.

  “Of course. And Forensics and Dr. Pasquano as well. All in order.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then Fazio was spotted on the road to Fiacca.”

  “Who spotted him?”

  “A . . . colleague from the police department there who knew him.”

  “Go on.”

  “Fazio was wandering about. I caught up to him, but he didn’t recognize me, so I took him to the hospital in Fiacca, where he’s still a patient. They had to operate on him.”

  “Have you gone to see him? Has he told you anything?”

  “I haven’t gone there yet, because the doctors told me, over the phone, that he hasn’t recovered his memory yet. He can’t remember anything at all. It’s going to take some time.”

  “Are the doctors sure his memory will return to full function?”

  “Absolutely.”

  They talked for another ten minutes, then the commissioner said:

  “Keep me informed.”

  Which meant that the discussion was over. Montalbano had told him a blend of lies and truth but, more importantly, he had managed, with the story of Fazio’s amnesia, to make sure that nobody would go and bother Fazio at the hospital. All in all, however, the commissioner, perhaps worried he
might aggravate the effects of the Super Scrockson if he was mean to Montalbano, had been rather understanding.

  The inspector went to the Forensics lab, hoping not to run into the chief, Vanni Arquà, whom he didn’t like. He didn’t see him anywhere, but neither did he see Gargiulo.

  “Looking for someone, Inspector?” asked a youngster from the staff.

  “Yes, Gargiulo.”

  “He’s not coming in today. Try again tomorrow.”

  “Could you do me a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  Montalbano took G’s letter to Manzella out of his pocket.

  “Could you give him this for me and ask him to have a look at it? Tell him I’ll give a ring tomorrow.”

  He went out of the building. There was a bar just around the corner. He ordered an espresso, and as they were making it, he checked the telephone book. Filippo Manzella lived at 28, Via Croce. That is, on the opposite side of town. Going there by car was out of the question. Montelusa was actually a labyrinth of streets and alleys forever broken up by ongoing road work and one-ways. He decided to go to Via Croce on foot, nice and slow, since he had all the time in the world. The appointment with Signora Manzella wasn’t till eleven.

  The apartment was on the fifth floor of a tall eight-story building. It was small but sparkling clean and in perfect order. Signora Manzella sat him down in the living room and asked if he’d like some coffee. Montalbano declined, asking only for a glass of water. The walk there had been long and all uphill.

  The lady, who told him her name was Ernestina, was nice-looking, about forty-five, primly dressed, and must have been a pretty girl in her youth. And she seemed like a thinking person. It was she who opened the discussion.

  “Now tell me sincerely,” she said, “this story of the fine, you completely made that up, didn’t you?”

  Montalbano breathed a sigh of relief. It was better to show his hand.

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “A police inspector isn’t going to bother to come all the way to my home for a simple traffic ticket.”

  Montalbano smiled and said nothing.

  “What’s happened to Filippo?” Signora Ernestina asked.