The Dance of the Seagull im-15

by Andrea Camilleri

  Which he does, and when Manzella falls asleep, exhausted, G picks up his clothes, goes downstairs very quietly, opens the door, lets in Carmona and Sorrentino, whom he’d alerted beforehand, and leaves. He’s done what he was supposed to do, and so they let him go free.

  Could I make a parenthetical comment here? the inspector asked himself.

  Permission granted, he commented:

  There are two possibilities: either G is a fool, believes the promise, and remains in Vigàta—and in this case we’ll soon find his bullet-riddled body abandoned somewhere—or else he’s shrewd and by now has already flown to northern Greenland, an area that, as everybody knows, has not yet been penetrated by the Sicilian Mafia, since it’s too cold up there.

  End of parenthesis.

  Carmona and Sorrentino go upstairs, wake Manzella up, and force him downstairs, naked as the day he was born. They don’t even let him put on his slippers, which were, in fact, still on the floor beside the bed.

  And this meant that the moment had come, willy-nilly, for Montalbano, too, to go into the living room.

  He stopped on the landing at the top of the stairs, counting the steps. There were sixteen.

  He wished he had his pistol in his hand. Even though he knew it would have been useless, since there was nothing to shoot at. He felt the hair on his arms stand on end, as when one brushes past a television set that has just been turned off, no matter how hard he tried to control himself and kept repeating in his mind that there was nobody waiting for him in the living room . . .

  Of course there was nobody! Nobody in flesh and blood, that is. What was this bullshit, anyway? What was he afraid of, a ghost? A shade? So he was starting to believe in ghosts at age fifty-seven and counting?

  He descended two stairs.

  A window shutter slammed hard, and he jumped in the air like a startled cat, so spooked he nearly lost his grip of the banister.

  The wind had picked up.

  With eyes closed, he dashed down the next four stairs. But then he suddenly lost heart and descended two more stairs, gripping the banister tightly and sliding his foot until it found emptiness, then slowly raising his leg and setting the sole of his shoe down lightly on the step below, exactly like someone partly or totally blind.

  But what the hell was all this tension? He’d never felt this way before. Was it some sort of nasty joke of old age?

  This time the shutters of the living-room windows slammed with a loud boom and closed simultaneously. Now the room downstairs was in darkness again.

  How was that possible? the inspector wondered. If the wind was blowing from one direction, how could both windows slam shut at the same time?

  He suddenly understood that there actually was someone waiting for him in the living room.

  Someone who had the same body and face as him, and who had the same name: Salvo Montalbano. He himself was the invisible enemy he would have to face. The enemy who would force him to relive what had happened in that room, down to the smallest details . . .

  Relive? Wrong word. He hadn’t witnessed Manzella’s slow, painful death. How, then, could he relive it? And, anyway, after all the murders of which he’d seen so many vestiges that it was sometimes more upsetting than if he’d witnessed the murders themselves, why did this one have such a strong effect on him?

  He would never get out of this situation unless he saw it through to the end, of that he was immediately certain.

  And for this reason, he began descending the remaining stairs with as decisive a step as he could muster.

  He stopped again at the bottom of the staircase.

  The room was not completely in darkness. The shutters were closed, but through the slats filtered blades of gray light that cast the trembling shadows of the windblown leaves on the trees outside. He wanted neither to reopen the shutters nor to light the lamps, but only to stand still for a moment until his eyes slowly adjusted.

  To make space for the show they were about to direct, Carmona and Sorrentino had pushed all the furniture up against the wall. A buffet that had once had a small ceramic fruit bowl on it, which was now on the floor, shattered to pieces. Three chairs. A sofa. A small dining table, a sideboard with dishes and glasses. A television set.

  There were two milky white things on the floor, near the table, which he couldn’t quite identify.

  It couldn’t be. He realized immediately what they were but refused to believe it. He looked at them more closely, needing to convince himself that he’d seen correctly, as the disorder in the pit of his stomach, a knot of dense liquid, bitter and burning, began to rise into his throat, bringing tears to his eyes.

  He started looking around the chair in the middle of the room and the dark circle of blood surrounding it.

  The floor was made of terracotta, and he noticed that one tile, right in front of the chair, had been freshly splintered. If he’d had a knife handy, he could easily have extracted the bullet that, after passing through Manzella’s foot, had shattered the tile and buried itself in the ground.

  Mimì was right.

  They’d taken him out of bed and down the stairs, moved the furniture out of the way except for the chair in the middle of the room, sat him down . . . No, first they . . . Go on, get it out, it’s better that way.

  They started asking him—surely slapping him around, and kicking and punching—what he’d told Fazio . . .

  But he could only give them one answer: that he’d only hinted at the matter with Fazio, and hadn’t named any names . . . And those guys didn’t believe him, and at some point decided to get more serious.

  “You used to be a ballet dancer, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So dance, then.”

  And one of them shot him in the foot. Then they forced him to stand up on one leg, the one with the uninjured foot, and made him dance around the chair.

  “C’mon, dance, dance, an’ don’ make any noise.”

  And so Manzella hopped around the chair on one foot, naked, at once comical and terrifying, emitting desperate cries that no one could hear . . .

  And the inspector saw him dancing as if he were in the room with the others. The danse macabre looked like a scene in a black-and-white film, in the quivering light filtering through the shutters . . .

  At that moment, what Montalbano was fearing would happen, happened.

  As he was imagining the scene in his head, little by little Manzella’s naked, bloodied body began to transform itself, becoming slowly more hairy, and the floor was no longer tiled but made of sand, exactly like the beach at Marinella . . .

  In a sort of burst of light, a blinding flash, he found himself as on that morning, watching the seagull perform its dance of death.

  The bird, however, was not emitting the heartrending cry he’d heard that day. It now had a human voice, that of Manzella begging for mercy and weeping . . .

  And he heard, quite clearly, the laughter of the other two having a good time, as they had done before . . .

  The seagull by this point was on the threshold of death.

  Manzella had fallen to the floor, unable to remain standing any longer, writhing as he tried to raise his head.

  The seagull was now waving its beak back and forth, as if wanting to put something in a spot too high to reach.

  The two men then went up to Manzella, lifted him off the ground, and started dragging him about the room, working him over with the knife as the blood spattered all over the walls and furniture . . .

  But before doing this, they’d granted themselves another amusement . . .

  Suddenly it all ended, perhaps because a gust of wind opened the windows again.

  He found himself sitting on the stairs, eyes shut tight, face in his hands.

  It was over. This was what he had so feared from the first moment he’d entered that room: that one reality would ineluctably superimpose itself on another. It wasn’t like a dream that comes back to you when you’re awake. No, it wasn’t something he’d already
seen before, it was something entirely different, an aberration of reason, a momentary swerve, a short circuit that flung you into a world utterly foreign to you, as time scrambled the past, mixing events that happened on different days together into a single present . . .

  Now he felt much calmer.

  He opened his eyes and looked at the spot the seagull had pointed to with its beak.

  There was a picture hanging on the wall, but he couldn’t quite tell what it depicted. It was too far away.

  He stood up and went up to it. Four red roses. Painted as though photographed, horrendous. The kind one used to see on boxes of chocolates.

  His right arm moved as if by itself, independent of his will. The hand took the picture off the wall and turned the frame around. There was nothing on the back, just the brown paper covering the reverse of the canvas. His hand spread its fingers, the painting fell to the floor, the glass shattered, the bottom part of the frame came off, and a white envelope popped out halfway. The inspector was not surprised. It seemed perfectly natural, like something he’d known all along. He bent down, picked it up, and put it in his pocket.

  Now there was only one thing left for him to do: get the hell out of that house as fast as possible. He headed for the door and then stopped dead in his tracks.

  Fingerprints!

  He must have left hundreds in every room he entered!

  Then immediately he almost started laughing. He didn’t give a flying fuck whether the fingerprints were found. They weren’t registered anywhere, whereas those of Carmona and Sorrentino were.

  Before leaving the room, he couldn’t resist and went back and looked at the two used condoms on the floor near the table.

  As soon as he got into the car, he happened to glance at his watch. And for a second, he thought it had broken.

  Could it possibly be four o’clock? Was it possible he’d spent nearly three hours in that house without having the slightest sense of it?

  The position of the sun, which was ducking in and out of the clouds, confirmed that the watch was running fine. What was the explanation?

  What is this? What the hell is he thinking? So now he’s trying to convince himself that another weird thing happened inside Manzella’s house? Montalbano Two suddenly and rather angrily asked.

  What other thing? Montalbano One immediately reacted, as if stung by a wasp.

  This business about time. Absolutely nothing paranormal happened, nothing magical, nothing mysterious, no presences, time did not stop or stand still or similar bullshit. He simply stayed in there for three hours without noticing the time passing. So let’s drop this stuff about weird and uncanny events, because nothing unusual whatsoever happened inside that house.

  Oh, no? Then how do you explain—

  You want an explanation? Plain and brutal? He was already upset when he entered the house, his heart was pounding because he can’t tolerate violence anymore, or at least the image of violence he has in his own mind. Men become rather more sensitive to certain things when going through andropause.

  You could have spared us the mention of andropause.

  No, I can’t not talk about it, because it’s the reason for everything! Look, he practically saw what happened in there. Simple as that. It’s not the first time that’s happened to him. And he grafted the death of the seagull onto what he saw. Which spooked him just as much. That’s all. The only thing different is the way he reacted. Like an old man, with his emotions on his sleeve and tears always ready to spill. Which is not a good sign.

  Everything you say is so damned trite! And how do you explain the fact that he found the envelope immediately?

  Why, I suppose you think the seagull’s beak pointed to where the envelope was hidden? Come on! Give me a break! It was his policing instincts that led him there! If Catarella had searched the room, he might have taken a little longer, but he would have found it in the end, too!

  Would you guys please quit bugging me? the inspector cut in. I have to drive, for Chrissakes! You practically made me run over that little kid there!

  But he felt that, in the end, the discussion had done him good, put things into perspective. Since he didn’t feel the least bit hungry, he stopped at the first bar he came upon and downed a double espresso.

  “Have Augello and the others left?”

  “Yessir, Chief. Already a ’alf ’our ago already. An’ Signura Fazio brought the gun.”

  “Go and put it in my car.”

  He went into his office, took the envelope out of his pocket, and without even looking at it, slipped it into a drawer, which he then locked.

  He didn’t want to be distracted by any new information. The most important thing for now was for Fazio to get to Palermo safe and sound.

  The first call came in around five-thirty, from Mimì.

  “Totò Monzillo sends greetings,” said Augello.

  Monzillo was a colleague from Montelusa Central, a good cop.

  “What does that mean?”

  “What’s it supposed to mean, Salvo? It means Monzillo’s here with me in Fiacca. We ran into each other in the parking lot. He’s got four men with him.”

  “And what’s he doing there?”

  “He’s waiting for the ambulance with Fazio, so he can escort them to Palermo. Direct orders from Bonetti-Alderighi. So I think that means we can—”

  “Return to Vigàta? Forget about it!”

  “But what’s the use of us going along with them? To form a procession?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little ridiculous?”

  “Not in the least. You know about the metallic blue car, you know about Carmona, and you know why they want to kill Fazio, whereas Monzillo doesn’t know a goddamn thing.”

  “You’re right,” said Augello.

  The inspector had been counting on that very thing: that the commissioner, as was logical, would send an escort. That way, Carmona and his pal would realize almost at once that there were two police cars accompanying the ambulance and would almost certainly drop their plans. They were killers, not kamikazes, and were fond of their stinking lives. Montalbano felt a little less worried. And so he started signing papers.

  “We’re heading off now. It’s exactly six o’clock,” said Mimì.

  “Thanks. Have a good trip.”

  “We’re halfway there, and everything’s going smoothly. Except that it’s raining a little.”

  The fifth call, however, was late in coming. After twenty-five minutes of waiting, Montalbano started squirming nervously in his chair, and at one point his signature came out as an impenetrable scrawl. He got up, went over to the window, fired up a cigarette, and at that moment Mimì called.

  “What’s the holdup?”

  “Listen, something crazy happened, a false alarm.”

  “Are you sure it was false?”

  “Absolutely. A car with two men inside passed the ambulance and then swerved and blocked the lane. It was the wet road surface. But we immediately thought it was an ambush and surrounded the vehicle. Can you imagine? The poor bastards saw eight guns pointed at them, some of them machine guns. They were forced out of the car with their hands up and searched, and then the older of the two, who’s got heart trouble, had a mild attack.”

  “Who were they?”

  “The bishop of Patti and his secretary.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “I don’t think that’s the last we’re gonna hear of this.”

  17

  Augello’s eighth and last call came in just before eight o’clock.

  “The ambulance has just entered the infirmary. Nothing else happened. Smooth ride, except for the snafu with the bishop. I don’t think we were even followed. Listen, since we won’t be back in Vigàta till about ten, I’m just going to go home, and we can talk tomorrow.”

  “All right.”

  Now he could at last look at what Manzella had written.

  He opened the drawer and took out the envelope, which
wasn’t sealed. Inside were two sheets of paper covered with dense handwriting on both sides. He started reading.

  Inspector Montalbano . . .

  He gave a start in his chair, as if someone had unexpectedly called his name.

  Why had Manzella addressed the letter directly to him? He continued reading.

  When he had finished, he got up and started pacing slowly around the desk. After about ten laps, he took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. He was all sweaty. What he had just read was not a letter, but a soap-covered rope to hang oneself, a loaded and cocked pistol, a lighted fuse.

  “Hello, Mimì? Montalbano here. Sorry to bother you, but when you get to Vigàta, I want you to come straight to the office. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “But I’ve already told Beba to make—”

  “I don’t give a fuck.”

  “Thanks for being so understanding.”

  “Hello, Angela? Montalbano here. Listen, I’m very sorry, but I won’t be able to see you tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “Something’s come up. I have to stay here at the office all night. There’s a huge operation involving the whole province.”

  “So when can we see each other?”

  “I’ll ring you around four in the afternoon tomorrow and we can decide then. Ciao.”

  Going to eat was out of the question. This whole damned story was looking as if it would end up the way it had started, that is, by taking away his appetite both morning and night.

  He headed for the port. There wasn’t a soul on the eastern wharf, whereas in the distance, on the western jetty, where the trawlers docked and the big cold storage houses were, the powerful floodlights were already on, lighting up the whole area of unloading and reloading the evening’s haul.

  It was by the light of those floods that Manzella had been able to see through his telescope—the porter’s wife had been able to see through that same telescope—and it had cost both of them their lives.