Montalbano's First Case and Other Stories

by Andrea Camilleri

  Montalbano went up to the old man, who was unable to speak. His face was all bloodied. The blood poured out of his nose and mouth. The beat cop arrived at a leisurely pace. Montalbano sat the victim down in the passenger seat, as he was clearly in no condition to drive.

  “Take him at once to the emergency room,” he said to the policeman.

  The beat cop seemed to move in slow motion.

  “Did you get the car’s license number?” Montalbano asked him.

  “Yes,” the cop said, pulling a pad and pen out of his pocket. He wrote down the number. Montalbano, who had memorized the number himself, noticed that the man had written it incorrectly.

  “Listen, the last two numbers are wrong. I got a good look at them. They’re five-eight, not six-three.”

  The cop gruffly corrected the two numbers and put the car in gear.

  “Wait. Don’t you want my name, address, and telephone number?” Montalbano asked.

  “Why would I?”

  “What do you mean, why would you? I’m a witness.”

  “All right, all right, if you really care so much.”

  He wrote down Montalbano’s personal particulars as if they were somehow offensive to him. Then he closed his notepad, gave Montalbano a dirty look, and left without another word.

  As he was driving off to take the old man to the hospital, Mery reappeared on the sidewalk.

  “I decided to freshen up a little,” said Mery, who hadn’t noticed anything. “Shall we go?”

  A month went by without so much as a leaf moving. No messages of promotion or transfer were forthcoming from the Higher Spheres. Montalbano began to be convinced that it was all a joke played on him by someone trying to get his goat. Which put him in a bad mood and had him dealing imaginary kicks left and right like a horse being assaulted by horseflies.

  “Try to be reasonable,” Mery said, trying to calm him down, especially as she had become the principal target of his outbursts. “Why would anyone want to play a joke like that on you?”

  “How should I know? Maybe you and your Uncle Giovanni know!”

  And it always ended in a squabble.

  Then, one fine morning, Inspector Sanfilippo called him into his office and, beaming a broad smile, at last gave him the response of the Council of Gods: Montalbano was to be Chief Inspector of the Vigàta Police.

  Montalbano’s face turned pale at first, then red, then began to verge on green. Sanfilippo became worried he might be having some sort of attack.

  “Montalbano, are you okay? Sit down, please!”

  He filled a glass from the bottle of mineral water he always kept on his desk and handed it to him.

  “Drink.”

  Montalbano obeyed. Because of his reaction, Sanfilippo got the wrong idea.

  “What’s wrong? Don’t you like Vigàta? I know it pretty well, you know. It’s a delightful town. You’ll love it there, you’ll see.”

  Montalbano returned to the “delightful town”—as Sanfilippo called it—four days later. This time in an official capacity, to introduce himself to Inspector Locascio, whom he was to replace. Police headquarters was located in a decent sort of building, a three-story construction situated right at the start of the main street for those entering from the Montereale road, and at the end of the main street for those coming in from the Montelusa road. Montelusa was the provincial capital, where the prefecture, commissioner of police, and courts all were. Locascio, who lived with his wife on the third floor of the building in an apartment belonging to the police department, immediately told Montalbano that he would have the flat cleaned up before leaving.

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why? Don’t you intend to use the apartment?”

  “No.”

  Locascio misinterpreted this.

  “Ah, I get it. You don’t want people to see your comings and goings. Lucky you, who can have nighttime guests!” he said, elbowing him in the ribs.

  On the day Montalbano was to take command, Locascio introduced him to all the men on the force, one by one. There was one man, a little older than Montalbano, whom the inspector immediately took a liking to, Sergeant Fazio.

  Montalbano wanted to take his time looking for the right place to live. In the meanwhile he rented a bungalow that was part of a hotel complex a little over a mile outside of town. He’d put his books and other few belongings in a storage facility in Mascalippa until he found a home.

  3

  The day after his arrival in Vigàta he got in his car and went to Montelusa to introduce himself to Police Commissioner Alabiso, whose fate was already sealed. The soothsayers predicted that at the first sign of movement at the ministry, he would be given his walking papers. He’d long been the chief of the political team (which still existed, though every so often they changed its name), and by this point he knew too much. The last straw was his scarcely flexible character; indeed he’d never met a compromise he liked. In short, there are men of quality who, when appointed to certain positions, turn out, precisely because of their quality, to be unfit in the eyes of men who have no qualities whatsoever but who, to make up for it, engage in politics. And Commissioner Alabiso was now considered unfit because he wasn’t afraid of anybody.

  The commissioner received Montalbano at once, shook his hand, and asked him to sit down. But he seemed distracted. Every so often, as he was talking to Montalbano and looking him straight in the eye, he would hesitate, as if confused. Then he suddenly said:

  “But tell me something. Have we met before?”

  “Yes,” said Montalbano.

  “Ah, so that’s it! I was sure I had seen you before! Did we meet on duty?”

  “In a way, yes.”

  “And when was that?”

  “About seventeen years ago.”

  The commissioner looked puzzled.

  “But you were just a child then!”

  “Not quite. I was eighteen.”

  The commissioner visibly put up his guard. He was beginning to understand.

  “In sixty-eight?” he ventured.

  “Yes.”

  “In Palermo?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was an inspector at the time.”

  “And I was a university student.”

  They eyed each other in silence.

  “What did I do to you?” the commissioner asked.

  “You kicked me in the ass. So hard that it tore the seat of my pants.”

  “Ah, I see. And what did you do?”

  “I managed to punch you.”

  “Did I arrest you?”

  “You weren’t able to. We wrestled for a few seconds, but I managed to break free and escaped.”

  Then the commissioner said something incredible, and so softly that Montalbano wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

  “Those were the days,” Alabiso sighed.

  Montalbano started laughing, and the inspector joined in almost at once. They embraced in the middle of the room.

  Then they got down to more serious matters. Mostly concerning the turf war between the two local Mafia families, the Cuffaros and the Sinagras, a struggle that yielded at least two killings a year on each side. According to the commissioner, each of the families had a saint in heaven.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but what heaven are you talking about?”

  “Parliament.”

  “And do the two honorables belong to different parties?”

  “No. They both belong to the majority party and the same bloc. You see, Montalbano, I’ve got this idea, but it’s very hard to prove.

  And it’s because of this idea of yours that they want to screw you, Montalbano thought.

  “Perhaps it’s completely unfounded. Who knows?” the commissioner went on. “But there are certain coincidences which . . . I think it’s worth looking into.
”

  “But, didn’t you discuss this with my predecessor?”

  “No.”

  No explanation.

  “And why are you discussing it with me?”

  “Inspector Sanfilippo is a dear friend of mine, like a brother. He told me all I needed to know about you.”

  Every morning when he left the hotel to go to headquarters, after a series of curves he came to a straight segment of road parallel to the long, broad beach. The area was called Marinella. There were some three or four small houses built right on the beach and standing rather far apart from one another. They were quite unpretentious, all single-story constructions that spread out horizontally, with rooms that probably lined up in a row, railroad-style. And all inevitably with giant cisterns on the roof for collecting water. On two of them, however, the tanks were situated at the edge of a sort of terrace that served as a roof and solarium and had an external staircase in masonry for access. Each house also had, in front, a small terrace where one could eat in the evening with a view of the sea. Every time Montalbano drove past he felt his heart throb. If he could somehow manage to move into one of those houses, he would never leave! Jesus, what a dream! To wake up in the morning and take a walk along the water. And perhaps, if the weather was right, go for a long swim.

  Montalbano hated barbershops. Whenever he was forced to go to one because his hair was hanging down to his shoulders, it put him in a dark mood.

  “Where can I go to get my hair cut?” he asked Fazio one morning in the tone of someone asking where the nearest funeral home was.

  “The best place for you would be Totò Nicotra’s salon.”

  “What do you mean ‘the best for me’? Let’s get this straight, Fazio. I refuse to set foot in one of those salons full of mirrors and gold trim, I’m looking for . . .”

  “Something more discreet, sort of old-fashioned,” Fazio finished his sentence.

  “Exactly,” Montalbano confirmed, looking at him with a touch of admiration.

  “And that’s why I mentioned Totò Nicotra.”

  This Fazio was a true cop: A few tidbits of information were enough for him to know a person inside and out.

  When the inspector walked into Nicotra’s shop, there were no customers. The barber was a taciturn old man well past sixty who looked a bit melancholy. He didn’t even open his mouth until halfway through the haircut. Then he decided to ask:

  “How do you like Vigàta, Inspector?”

  By now everyone knew who Montalbano was. And so, as they got to talking, he learned that one of the little houses in Marinella was now vacant because Nicotra’s son, Pippino, had gone to New York and married an American girl who’d even found him a job there.

  “But they’ll want to come back for summer vacation, won’t they?”

  “No, sir. My son already told me he’s gonna go to Miami for his vacation. Who knows when I’ll see him again! So I had the house whitewashed an’ cleaned up inside for nothing!”

  “Well, you could always go there yourself.”

  “To Miami?!”

  “No, I meant the house on the beach.”

  “I don’ really like the sea air. My wife’s from Vicari. You know it?”

  “Yes, it’s up high.”

  “Right, an’ my wife’s got a little house there, where we like to go now and then.”

  Montalbano could feel his heart throb with hope. He leapt into the breach:

  “Do you think your son would be willing to rent it to me for the whole year?”

  “Wha’ss my son got to do with it? He left me the keys and told me to do whatever I want with it.”

  “Hi, Mery. Want to hear some good news? I found a house!”

  “In town?”

  “No, a bit outside. A small, three-room house, with kitchen and bath. Right on the beach at Marinella, just a few yards from the water. It has a solarium and a veranda in front where you can eat outside. A little jewel.”

  “Have you already moved in?”

  “No. Day after tomorrow. I’ve already arranged for my stuff to be brought down from Mascalippa.”

  “I want to see you!”

  “Me too.”

  “Listen, I could come to Vigàta this Saturday afternoon and go back to Catania Sunday evening. What do you say? Would you put me up?”

  The following day was a Thursday. And a beautiful day it was, which put him in a good mood. Entering his office at the station, he noticed a sort of postcard on his desk, addressed to him from “The Courthouse of Montelusa.” It had been postmarked fifteen days before. Which meant it had taken a good two weeks to travel the less than four miles separating Vigàta and Montelusa. They were convening him for the coming Monday at nine a.m. His good mood faded. He didn’t like having to deal with judges and lawyers. What the hell did they want from him? The card didn’t say anything, other than the division where he was supposed to appear. The third division.

  “Fazio!”

  “Your orders, Chief.”

  He handed him the summons. Fazio read it and looked questioningly at the inspector.

  “Could you have a look and see what this is about?”

  “Sure.”

  Fazio returned a couple of hours later.

  “Chief, before coming to Vigàta to start your new job, you’d been through here a couple of times, hadn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Montalbano admitted.

  “And you witnessed a scuffle between two motorists?”

  Right! He’d forgotten all about it.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re being called upon to testify.”

  “What a pain in the ass.”

  “Sir, apparently you’re a good citizen. And good citizens who testify are usually subjected to pains in the ass, at least around here.”

  Was Fazio making fun of him?

  “Are you saying it’s better not to testify?”

  “Chief, what kind of question is that? If you want me to answer as a policeman, I’ll tell you it’s your duty to testify. But if you want me to answer as a civilian, I’ll tell you it’s always a big pain in the ass.”

  He paused.

  “And sometimes one pain in the ass leads to another, like mushrooms.”

  “Look, this involves some chickenshit incident. Following an ordinary traffic accident, some bully broke an old man’s—”

  Fazio raised a hand to cut him off.

  “I know the whole story. The beat cop filled me in.”

  “The one who took down the license plate number?”

  “Yessir. He said he’d written down the wrong number and you made him correct it.”

  “Yeah, and so?”

  “Well, if not for you, who were in Vigàta for the second time and whom everyone knew was an inspector, that wrong number would have been written down correctly.”

  Montalbano looked bewildered.

  “What the hell are you saying?”

  “Chief, the beat cop says he was right to write the number down wrong.”

  Montalbano could feel his nerves beginning to fray.

  “Fazio, you’re talking in circles. Could you be a little clearer, please?”

  Fazio answered with a question.

  “Can I close the door?”

  “Go ahead,” Montalbano consented, increasingly flummoxed.

  Fazio closed the door and sat down in one of the two chairs that were in front of the desk.

  “As the beat cop was driving the old man to the emergency room, he tried to persuade him not to file a complaint. But the old guy, who’s from Caltanissetta, dug in his heels.”

  “I’m sorry, Fazio. But what is this cop, anyway? A Franciscan monk? What’s he want, peace on earth?”

  “He wants peace all right, just not eternal peace.”

  “Fazio, you an
d I have barely just met. But if you don’t explain this whole business to me as clearly as possible within three minutes’ time, I’m going to grab you and throw you out of this office. And you can report me to whoever you like, the union, the commissioner, or the pope!”

  Very calmly, Fazio stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper folded in four, unfolded it, smoothed it out, and began to read.

  “Cusumano, Giuseppe, son of Salvatore Cusumano and Maria Cuffaro, was born in Vigàta on October 18, 19—”

  Montalbano cut him off.

  “Who’s he?”

  “The guy that punched the old man.”

  “What the hell do I care about his personal particulars?”

  “Chief, his mother, Maria Cuffaro, is the kid sister of Don Lillino Cuffaro, and Giuseppe is the favorite grandson of Don Sisino Cuffaro. Get the picture?”

  “Bright and clear.”

  Now he understood everything. The beat cop was afraid to take sides against the scion of a Mafia family like the Cuffaros, and that was why he quite purposely wrote down the wrong license plate number. So that the assailant could never be properly identified.

  “All right, thanks. You can go now,” he said curtly to Fazio.

  On Friday morning he prepared his suitcase—actually three suitcases, and rather large ones at that—loaded them into the car, paid the bill, and headed off to his new home in Marinella. It didn’t seem real to him. After Nicotra the barber had given him the keys the evening before, Montalbano hadn’t been able to resist the temptation to go and look at the place once more before returning to the hotel for the last time. The little house was nicely furnished. There wasn’t any heavy pseudoaristocratic or pseudo–Arab emirate stuff; only tasteful, modest pieces. The phone was already hooked up. Apparently the phone company had worked overtime because he was a police inspector. The empty refrigerator in the kitchen worked fine. The gas bottle was new. One reached the veranda—which was spacious enough for a bench, two chairs, and a small table—by means of a French door in the dining room. Three stairs led down from the veranda to the beach. Montalbano sat down on the bench and stayed for an hour, savoring the sea air. He would have liked to fall asleep right then and there.