The Honorable Torrisi’s phone call came in at 8:25. Fazio was there too, waiting in the inspector’s office, having been told the whole story.
“Inspector Montalbano? I hereby inform you that Pino Cusumano is ready to admit that he ordered Brucculeri to do what you already know.”
“Excellent. Then he should come to the police station at once.”
“Well, there’s a slight problem. The poor boy quite unfortunately fell down a flight of stairs.”
“I’m so sorry. Did he hurt himself?”
“Apparently broke a couple of ribs, fractured his nasal septum, and can’t move one of his legs . . . We had to call an ambulance.”
“What hospital is he at?”
“Santo Spirito, in Montelusa.”
They both hung up at the same time. Montalbano turned to Fazio.
“Did you get that? The Cuffaros beat the shit out of their beloved son and grandson. He’s going to confess to attempting to have me murdered. He’s at Santo Spirito hospital now. You call Montelusa Central and tell them the whole story. They can take care of Pino Cusumano from here on in.”
“And where are you going?”
“I’m suddenly hungry. I’m gonna go eat. Ah, and one more thing. When you go home, I want you to tell Rosanna I’ve kept my promise. Pino will go to jail, and she won’t have to testify. And give her my best.”
“All right,” Fazio said drily.
“What is it? Is there something wrong?”
“What are we going to do with Rosanna’s handgun?”
“We’ll file it away as found in the street.”
“And what about Judge Rosato? What’ll we tell him when he calls?”
“We’ll tell him that Rosanna turned out to be a mythomaniac and non compos mentis.”
“And what do we do about Dr. Siracusa?”
“He’ll be back in a few days feeling a lot more reassured, I promise. At that point you’ll go to his house to check his gun collection. And, as if by chance, you’ll discover the secret drawer. I’ll tell you everything in due time. That way, he’ll have other problems to think about.”
Fazio’s face grew even longer.
“So everything’s taken care of, then.”
“Yes.”
“But only by throwing the rules out the window, Chief.”
“That’s the same thing Torrisi said, Fazio. You’re in good company.”
“If you want to insult me, sir, it can only mean one thing: that your conscience isn’t clean.”
“Get it off your chest, if you want to.”
“Chief, we’ve behaved the way they do in ’Murcan movies, the ones where the sheriff does whatever the hell he pleases because in those parts every man makes his own law. But things are different here. We’ve got rules that—”
“I know perfectly well that we’ve got rules! But you know what these rules of yours are like, Fazio? They’re like the woolen sweater my Auntie Cuncitta made for me.”
Fazio gawked at him, utterly lost.
“A sweater?”
“You bet. When I was fifteen, my Auntie Cuncittina made me a woolen sweater. But since she didn’t know how to knit, the sweater had some stitches so big they looked like holes, other stitches that were too small, and one arm that was too short, and the other too long. And so, to make it look right on me, I had to pull it out on one side, tuck it in on the other, squeeze it on one side and stretch it on the other. And you know why I could do it? Because the sweater lent itself to that kind of adjustment. It was made of wool, not iron. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly. So that’s how you see things?”
“That’s how I see things.”
Around ten-thirty that evening he phoned Mery. They decided that he would come to see her the following Saturday. As he was about to say good-bye, Montalbano had an idea.
“Oh, and listen. I’m trying to help set up an eighteen-year-old girl who—”
“Set up in what sense?”
“I dunno, as a housekeeper, caretaker of something or other, babysitter, that kind of thing . . . She’s very neat, pretty—which never hurts—and is used to earning her keep, which she’s been doing since childhood. And everyone she’s worked for has only good things to say about her.”
“Are you serious about this?”
“Of course.”
“Doesn’t she have anybody in Vigàta?”
“No. Nobody.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll tell you the whole story when I come.”
“So she would be available to sleep at the home of her work provider?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, that’s fantastic! My mother’s been in despair . . . She called me just an hour ago saying she just can’t manage anymore . . . Listen, could you bring her with you when you come on Saturday?”
He went out onto the veranda. Soft night, bright moonlight, surf gently washing the sand. There wasn’t a soul on the beach. He undressed and dashed into the water for a swim.
FIFTY PAIRS OF HOBNAILED BOOTS
When the Americans landed in Sicily in 1943, they normally wore the ankle boots that came with their standard equipment, and this spelled the end of the hard hobnailed boots that had traditionally been worn by Italian foot soldiers as well as peasants. During the pandemonium of the Allied landing, a certain Michele Borruso, owner of a herd of goats at Castro, looted a hastily abandoned Italian military warehouse and brought home with him, among other things, fifty pairs of hobnailed boots, enough to shoe a whole dynasty. When Borruso died, his son Gaetano inherited goats, pastures, and forty-eight pairs of hobnailed boots. Many years later, Gaetano was robbed of some thirty goats, but the poacher appeared to get off easy, since not only did the goatherd not report the theft but, in conversations about town, he didn’t even express any desire for revenge. And so the thieves, convinced that a second poaching would be taken in stride like the first, tried again, and this time they made off with a good hundred animals, since in the meanwhile business had been good for Gaetano Borruso. A couple of weeks after the second robbery, Casio Alletto, a violent man who everyone in town knew was the head of a gang that indiscriminately poached every kind of beast that walked on four or two legs, was found on the banks of the Billotta torrent, severely beaten by clubs, stones, kicks, and punches. Rushed to Villalta hospital, he was dead on arrival. That the crime bore Gaetano Borruso’s signature was beyond question: The marks made by hobnailed boots on Casio Alletto’s face spoke quite clearly.
Two days before the killing, the police commissioner of Villalta had learned that Inspector De Rosa, stationed in Castro, had fallen from his horse during a hunting party and could not take on the case. So he sent Salvo Montalbano, who at the time had just turned thirty, to lend a hand to Sergeant Billè, upon whose shoulders had fallen the fairly light burden of the investigation, which actually appeared to be rather simple.
But while the burden of the investigation may have been light, the same could not be said of the uphill climb that Montalbano and Billè had to make to reach the paddock in which Borruso had built himself a one-room hut of mortarless stone, in which he normally lived. With the money he had, he could, of course, have afforded a more comfortable dwelling, but that would not have fitted with the family tradition of the Borrusos, who not only were goatherds, but were keen to appear as such. After driving over forty kilometers from Castro, Montalbano and Billè had been forced to leave the car behind and begin a grueling ascent in single file, with Billè in front and Montalbano behind, along a footpath that even goats would have considered impassible. But while Sergeant Billè, who clearly concealed a satyr’s physique under his uniform, easily negotiated the path nimbly and goatlike, with hops and leaps, Montalbano struggled, chest heaving like a bellows. He used the first fifteen minutes of the climb to outline in his mind a subtle, tactical approach to qu
estioning Borruso. During the second fifteen minutes, however, this strategy condensed into a very simple resolution: The moment the asshole contradicted himself, he would arrest him. The idea of looking for bloodstained hobnailed boots in the man’s hut didn’t even cross Montalbano’s mind, since the guy had forty-seven extra pairs with which to shuffle the deck.
The morning was as limpid as a pane of glass just cleaned. The blue sky seemed to be shouting to the universe that it was twice as blue as usual, while the trees and plants answered back, as forcefully as they could, with the greenest of greens. One had to keep one’s eyes half-shut, so violent was the assault of the colors, while the crisp air stung the nostrils. After half an hour of climbing, Montalbano felt an urgent need to pause and catch his breath. Embarrassed, he said as much to the sergeant, who replied that he should be patient just a bit longer. They would get their chance to rest presently, at the halfway point, at the house of a peasant whom Billè knew personally.
When they got there, two men and a woman, seated outside around an old wooden table with a great big pile of wheat on top, were so busy removing the impurities from the grain that they hardly noticed the two outsiders. Instead a toddler about two years old ran clumsily towards Montalbano on legs as unsteady as those of a newborn calf and anchored himself solidly on Montalbano’s trousers with two hands sticky with jam. The woman, apparently the mother, shot to her feet and took the little boy in her arms.
“This child is gonna bring the wrath of God down on our heads! Always making mischief!”
“Good morning, Sergeant,” said one of the men, standing up. The other remained seated and brought two fingers to his cap by way of greeting.
“Sorry to trouble you, Peppi,” said the sergeant. “I’m just passing through with Dottor Montalbano.” Would you give us a glass of water?”
“Water? Water’s for drowning. Sit yourselves down and I’ll get you some wine that’ll pick you right up,” said Peppi, heading off to the house.
The woman followed him, with the child still in her arms.
“No, I’m sorry,” Montalbano said loudly, “I really would like a little water.” Then, as if to justify himself: “I never drink on an empty stomach.”
“Well, if that’s the problem, there’s a solution.”
“No, thanks, really. I only want some water.”
They sat down at the table. The man with the cap on his head kept on working.
“How’s it going these days, Totò?’ Sergeant Billè asked him.
“Better,” the other replied tersely.
“Have you been unwell?” Montalbano politely asked in turn, noticing that Billè looked confused.
“Yes, I’ve been unwell,” said Totò, suddenly looking Montalbano in the eye. “Tell me, you’re a doctor: How’s a man supposed to feel after spending six months in jail, knowing he’s innocent?”
“The carabinieri sent our friend to jail in a case of mistaken identity,” Billè attempted to explain. “It was a—”
“And here’s the water and wine!” Peppi interrupted, coming out the door.
He hadn’t brought a glass of water, but a whole jug. The ceramic receptacle was sweating, a sign that the clay had been well fired. Montalbano brought his lips to the brim and took a long draft of water cooled to exactly the right temperature. Meanwhile, Billè had already knocked back his first glass of wine. When they got up to leave, the man in the cap stood up, shook Montalbano’s hand, looked him in the eye again, and said:
“Try not to do the same to Tano Borruso.”
“What did he mean by that?” Montalbano asked after they’d resumed their climb up to the paddock. The sergeant stopped and turned around.
“He meant what you think he meant. He doesn’t think Tano Borruso killed Casio Alletto.”
“How can he be so sure?”
“The same way everyone in town is.”
“You too, Sergeant?”
“Me too,” Billè calmly confirmed.
Montalbano fell silent for about five minutes before speaking again.
“I want you to explain your opinion.”
Again the sergeant stopped and turned around.
“Could I ask you something, Inspector?”
“Of course.”
“You see, Chief Inspector De Rosa would normally have told me to go get Borruso and bring him in. But you, when I asked you if you wanted me to go and get him, you said you preferred coming here in person, even though this involved a great deal of effort on your part. Why did you do it?”
“Well, Sergeant, maybe because I think it’s helpful to see the people I have to deal with in their everyday environment. It seems that, unless I’m mistaken, this lets me get a slightly better sense of what they’re like.”
“That’s just it, Inspector. All of us, in town, know exactly what Tano Borruso is like.”
“And what’s that?”
“The man would never cut down a nettle, let alone kill a man.”
He smiled, never taking his eyes off Montalbano.
“I hope you won’t take it the wrong way,” he continued, “if someone who’s served in the police force for thirty years and is about to retire speaks his mind to you.”
“Not at all. Go ahead.”
“I really wish I could have worked under someone like you in my early days, when I was a kid.”
Gaetano Borruso’s home consisted of a single room, which was nevertheless rather large. Behind the house was an immense fold from which a deafening chorus of bleats rang out. In front of the house was an open space of beaten earth, at one corner of which stood a rather spacious pergola. Under the pergola Montalbano was amazed to find some twenty or so rustic stools made of tree branches. Three of the stools had peasants sitting on them, engaged in lively discussion. They lowered their voices when they saw the sergeant and Montalbano appear. The oldest of the three, who sat facing the other two, raised a hand to excuse himself, as if to say that at that moment he was busy. Billè got the message and went to fetch two stools, which he set down in the shade, but at a good distance from the arbor.
He and Montalbano sat down. The inspector took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Billè, who accepted it, then lit his own.
As he was smoking, Montalbano couldn’t help but glance every so often at the three men, who were still discussing. The sergeant saw him looking over at them and at a certain point began talking.
“Administration,” he said vaguely.
“Do those two work for him? Are they employees?”
“Borruso has eight men who look after the goats and make cheese and other things. The goats you see here aren’t the only ones he owns. There are a lot more. But these two men aren’t part of his staff.”
“So what was that about administration? What’s he administering?”
“Justice.”
Montalbano looked at him with surprise. In the sort of gentle manner one uses with children and the mentally handicapped, the sergeant explained.
“Dottore, it’s known far and wide that Gaetano Borruso is a man of sound judgment and experience, always ready to lend a hand or put in a good word for someone. And so when there’s a dispute or a quarrel, people have taken to coming to ask his advice.”
“And do they then do what he prescribes?”
“Always.”
“And what if they decide on another course of action?”
“If they find a more just solution, Borruso endorses it. He’s always ready to admit when he’s made a mistake. But if the dispute degenerates and people pass from words to deeds, Borruso doesn’t want to see them anymore. And when Borruso refuses to see someone anymore, nobody in town wants to have anything more to do with him, and he’s better off moving to another town. And by ‘another town’ I don’t simply mean Castro.”
“A splendid example of Mafia behavior,�
�� Montalbano couldn’t help but comment.
The sergeant’s satyrlike face hardened.
“Excuse me, but if that’s the way you see this, it means you have no idea what the Mafia actually is. What on earth does Borruso get out of what he does?”
“Power.”
“Let me tell you something, from one cop to another,” the sergeant said after a pause. “What we’ve found out is that Borruso has used his power for only one purpose: to prevent violence. Did you know Inspector Mistretta, the one who died in a shootout six years ago?”
“I didn’t have the pleasure.”
“He was like you. Well, after he’d frequented Borruso for a little while after meeting him by chance, you know what he said to me? That Borruso was a latter-day shepherd king, and he explained to me who the shepherd kings were.”
Montalbano turned around and glanced over at the pergola again. The three were now standing and taking turns drinking from a flask of wine that Borruso had kept on the ground near his stool. They weren’t simply drinking, however. The slowness of their movements, the looks they exchanged each time the flask was passed, suggested a sort of rite. Each drank three times, and then they all shook hands. The two men who had come to talk to Borruso then walked away, after saying good-bye wordlessly, with only their eyes, to Billè and Montalbano.
“Come, gentlemen,” said Borruso, gesturing broadly for them to join him under the pergola.
“Inspector Montalbano and I are here about the murder of Casio Alletto,” Billè began.
“I’ve been expecting you. Do you want to arrest me?”
“No,” said Montalbano.
“Do you want to question me?”
“No.”
“What do you want, then?”
“To talk to you.”
Montalbano noticed a distinct change in the man before him. If at first Borruso had asked his questions with a certain indifference, he now had a keener, more attentive look in his eyes. And Montalbano was amazed at himself. During the climb up to the fold, had he not promised himself to arrest Borruso the moment the man contradicted himself? Why, then, was he now giving him so much time?
Montalbano's First Case and Other Stories Page 14
