“Over three months ago.”
“There’s one thing I’m absolutely sure of, Inspector. She didn’t die three months ago. The body was in terrible shape, but that was only because every kind of animal had taken a piece of her. The process of decomposition was very slow. But it didn’t start three months ago.”
“When did she die, then?”
“About two months ago. Maybe less.”
“And what could she have done during her last month alive? Where did she go? Apparently nobody saw her!”
“That’s your fucking business, Inspector,” said Dr. Pasquano, in all politeness.
“So, shall I explain the situation to you?” said Mimì Augello, still pale from his bout with the flu. “Maria Lojacono’s sister is called Concetta. She seemed like a nice girl to me. Her husband too, whose job is freezing fish. They have three children; the oldest is six. Signora Concetta rules out that her sister could have found the poison at home. They’ve never had any in the house. She says the kids are so restless they’d be liable to eat it themselves. Which seems to me like a convincing argument. When I asked her outright whether they’d ever, out of necessity, been forced to tie Maria up, she looked at me disdainfully. I really don’t think they ever did. And so I asked if it could have been Piscopo, Maria’s husband. Concetta ruled that out: If Salvatore had done it, she would have known right away, the same with any other kind of violence. She explained to me that sometimes her sister would fall into a state of abulia, of complete apathy—she would turn into a kind of rag doll. Those were her exact words. And in those cases she, Concetta, was forced to take all her clothes off to wash her. If anybody bound Maria hand and foot, that’s not where we should be looking for them. Oh, and she asked me about a little ring.”
“What little ring?”
“Maria’s husband told her that, to identify the body, he was shown a sweater and a wedding ring. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Was she wearing any other rings?”
“No.”
“Signora Concetta told me Maria used to wear a small worthless ring on her pinky that she was very attached to. It was the first present anyone ever gave her when she was a little girl.”
“There definitely was no ring of that sort. Pasquano would have told me. Unless it was in one of her jeans pockets.”
Just to be sure, he rang Pasquano. He hadn’t found anything at all in her pockets.
Montalbano had copies made of the photo of Maria Piscopo, then called Gallo and Galluzzo. He wanted them to go, picture in hand, and ask around if anyone had seen her or thought he’d seen her, along a sort of zigzagging line that ran from the dead woman’s sister’s house to the bunker at Passo di Cane.
“It’s going to take at least three or four days,” said Montalbano. “Proceed in parallel lines, starting from Vigàta. That way you’ll be sure not to skip any houses.”
They’d just left when Catarella came in with a face fit for the Day of the Dead.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I jess now foun’ out about the ’signment ya gave Gallo ’n’ Galluzzo.”
“Do you have some objection?”
“Yer the boss ’ere, Chief, an’ don’ haff to asplain whatcha do.”
“Okay, so?”
“Beckin’ y’ pardin, Chief, but it don’ seem right to me.”
“Speak more clearly, Cat.”
“I’s the one told yiz ’bout the poor goil’s kiddaver. An’ so I tought iss only right f’me t’ have a same ’signment as Gallo ’n’ Galluzzo.”
“But Cat, you’re needed here! You’re a precious asset! With you away, the whole station’ll go to the dogs!”
“Chief, I know my importancy here. Bu’ still, it jess don’ seem right.”
“Okay, then. Here’s a photograph. But I want you to go to Passo di Cane and start your search from the area around the bunker.”
“Chief, yer great an’ moissyfull!”
Like Allah. But it was a subtle form of revenge, since Catarella would certainly feel obliged again to scale the vertical rock face.
Gallo and Galluzzo returned towards evening, empty-handed. Nobody they’d interviewed and shown the photo to had seen the girl. Catarella, on the other hand, never came back. As it was already dark outside, the inspector began to get worried.
“Want to bet he got lost?”
He was about to send out a rescue team when Catarella finally called in.
“Chief, izzatchoo poissonally—”
“—in person, Cat. What happened to you? I was starting to get worried.”
“Nuttin’ happen a me, Chief. I jess wannit a tell yiz I’ll be back atta station in about half a hour, max—actually I’m about to be on my way to come. Will ya wait f’me? I gotta talk t’yiz.”
Catarella appeared exactly half an hour later, tired and seeming strangely perplexed, something the inspector had never seen before in him.
“I’m bewillered, Chief.”
“Why’s that?”
“Cuz o’ the tots in my ’ead, Chief.”
Ah, so that was it. Catarella’s bewilderment was the result of the few thoughts courageously venturing into the desert of his brain.
“And what are you thinking, Cat?”
Catarella didn’t answer his boss’s question directly.
“Well, Chief, a’ Passo di Cane ’ere’s a lotta villers an’ a lotta li’l pheasant ’ouses, an’ ’a fact is, they’s so far away from one anutters an’ ’ass why I’m late. After I’d a been already to fourteen of ’em—an’ I counted ’em—I says, less do ’em all!”
“Well done. But tell me something. How’d you get up to Passo di Cane? Did you climb the rock face again?”
“Nah, Chief. I did like you did lass time.”
Catarella was wising up.
“Anyways, Chief, so I knock atta door odda fifteenth li’l house, an’ iss really li’l, I mean, teeny weeny, wittout no plasser onna walls. But ’ere was a lotta sheeps an’ goats an’ chickens, an’ a cage full o’ rabbits, an’ a big fat pig . . .”
“Forget about the zoo, Cat, just get on with the story.”
“Well, who’s comes an’ answers the door but Scillicato hisself!”
“Really?” the inspector asked in amazement.
“Rilly an’ trully, Chief!”
“Okay, Cat, now that I’ve shown the amazement you wanted me to show, could you please tell me who the hell Scillicato is?”
“Wha’, din’t I tell yiz? Pasquale Scillicato’z the shippard ’at founna dead body, the one ’at called!”
“Didn’t you already know that? Didn’t you tell me he gave you his address?”
“’Ass right, Chief, ’e gave me ’is addriss, but I din’t know where th’addriss was localized. Anyways, Chief, Scillicato’s li’l house’s jest a li’l over a half miles away from the banker.”
“Interesting.”
“’Ass what I tought too. Diss Scillicato’s a wile man, Chief.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, iss true ’e gotta TV in ’is li’l house, an’ iss true ’e gotta refritcherator in ’is li’l house, an’ iss true ’e’s gotta sillphone, an’ iss true ’e goes aroun’ on one them motor cooters . . .”
“Scooters, Cat, scooters . . .”
“Oh, right, well, iss true ’es got one o’ them scooters—”
“Cat, just tell me what’s wrong with the guy, or tell me what isn’t wrong with the guy . . .”
“Chief, bessides from the fack ’e drisses like summon beggin’ for arms, an’ bessides from the fack ’e ’itches up ’is britches witta piece o’ string, an’ bessides from the fack ’e keeps a salami in one pocket an’ ’is bread in annutter, an’ besides . . .”
He was launching into another litany.
>
“Cat, just get to the point.”
“The point, Chief, izzat ’ere’s a’ least tree points. The foist point izzat when as ’ow I shewed ’im the pitcher o’ the goil, ’e tol’ me ’e only saw ’er after she’s already dead, which is when ’e foun’ her isside the banker and called the station.”
“So?”
“Ah, Chief, Chief! Atop of everyting eltz, when ’e seen the kiddaver i’ was dark ousside, so jest immagine wha’ i’ wuz like inside the banker! He couldna seen much assept fer the kiddaver bu’ not the face! An’ anyways, the poor ting’s face wuz all et up by dogs ’n’ rats! If ’e idinnified ’er, iss cuz ’e seen ’er foist!”
“Go on!” said Montalbano, extremely attentive.
“The seckin’ point is I had to go.”
“You had to leave?”
“No, Chief, I had to pee. ’N’ so I axed ’im where the batroom wuz, an’ he answered ’at ’ere waren’t none inna house. If I ’ad to go, I c’d go right ousside, like ’e done.”
“Well, Cat, I don’t see anything wr— “
“Beckin’ y’pardin, Chief, bu’ if summon is useta doin’ ’is bidness ousside, whass ’e doin inna banker when ’is bidness is to do ’is bidness?”
Montalbano gawked at him. Catarella’s reasoning made perfect sense.
“’N’ so the toid point, Chief, izzat dis Scillicato went into the banker at tree-toity inna mornin when there in’t nobuddy roun’ Dog’s Pass, not e’en a dog. ’Oo’s gonna see’im anyways, at ’at time o’ the night?”
Catarella chuckled, pleased with his witticism. Montalbano shot to his feet, embraced Catarella, and kissed him noisily on both cheeks.
“In my opinion, Mimì, here’s how it went. Maria Lojacono runs away from her sister’s house and, to her misfortune, crosses paths with Scillicato, who is driving by on his scooter. The shepherd stops—maybe Maria asked him for a ride. It doesn’t take long, however, for Scillicato to figure out that the girl isn’t right in the head. So he decides to take advantage of her and takes her home. Maria is almost certainly going through a period of abulia, as happens after days of being in a useless frenzy, which drove her to flee. The situation suits Scillicato just fine, and he carries on for a good month. Whenever he has to go out, he ties the girl up with rope. He sees her the same way he sees his chickens and sheep. But one day Maria wakes up, frees herself, and runs away. Before doing this, however, she’s tempted to kill herself, as in the past, and she grabs the rat poison that Scillicato surely has in his house. When the shepherd comes home and finds her missing, he doesn’t get too worried. Maybe he thinks the girl went back to her family. In fact she’s gone and hidden in the bunker, where she poisons herself. Much later, Scillicato finds out that they’re still looking for Maria. And so he starts to look for her himself, fearing perhaps that she might tell about being repeatedly raped for a whole month. In the end he finds the body and calls us.”
“What I don’t understand,” said Mimì, “is why did he want to get involved at all? If he hadn’t told us he’d found the body, who knows how long it would have stayed there in the bunker without anybody knowing?”
Montalbano shrugged.
“No idea,” he said. “Go figure. Maybe he thought she died of hardship and felt reassured that she couldn’t talk anymore. And so he wanted to look like a law-abiding citizen. He must have thought he was throwing us off the trail.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Get yourself a search warrant and pay Scillicato a visit.”
“What should we look for?”
“I don’t know. We haven’t found either the bra or the red blouse of the victim, and by now they’ve probably been burned. Decide for yourself. I mostly want you to put Scillicato under pressure.”
“All right.”
“Ah, one thing. Bring Catarella along with you. If Scillicato is to be arrested, let Catarella put the handcuffs on him. He deserves that small satisfaction.”
They searched the cottage for hours without finding anything. They’d already given up hope when, in the dark corner of a windowless closet that stank so bad you wanted to throw up, Catarella noticed something shining amidst the filth. He bent down to pick it up. It was a cheap little ring. The very first present a little girl had been given a long time ago.
BEING HERE . . .
The moment the man walked into his office, Montalbano thought he was hallucinating. The visitor was a dead ringer for Harry Truman, the decidedly deceased former president of the United States, as he had appeared in the photographs and documents that the inspector had seen from that era. The same double-breasted pin-striped suit, the same light hat, the same gaudy tie, the same eyeglass frames. But when you looked closely, there were two differences: The first was that the man was pushing eighty, if he hadn’t already reached that milestone, but wore his years extremely well. The second was that while the former president was always laughing, even when doing things like ordering the atomic bombing of Hiroshima, the present man not only wasn’t smiling, but had an air of composed melancholy about him.
“Excuse me for bothering you, sir. My name is Charles Zuck.”
He spoke textbook Italian, with no trace of regional accent or dialect. Or, more precisely, he did have an accent, and a rather clear one.
“Are you American?” the inspector asked him, gesturing to him to sit down in the chair in front of the desk.
“I’m an American citizen, yes.”
A subtle distinction, which Montalbano correctly interpreted to mean: I wasn’t born an American, but became one.
“What can I do for you?” the inspector asked.
He took a liking to the man. It wasn’t just his melancholy air; he seemed out of his element, lost in an alien land.
“I arrived in Vigàta three days ago, intending to make a very brief visit. In fact I’m flying out of Palermo the day after tomorrow to go back to Chicago.”
So what? Anyone other than Montalbano might have lost patience.
“And what’s the problem?”
“The mayor of Vigàta won’t see me.”
And what did this have to do with the inspector?
“Look, sir, although you speak perfect Italian, you’re a foreigner and I guess you must be unaware that a police inspector has no say in—”
“Thank you for the compliment,” said Charles Zuck, “but I taught Italian for decades in the U.S. I fully realize that you have no power to make the mayor receive me. But you could try to persuade him.”
Why was he sitting there patiently listening to this man? Because the man aroused his curiosity?
“I suppose I could,” said the inspector, but wanting to excuse the town’s first citizen in the eyes of a foreigner, he added: “But the election is only three days away, and our mayor is up for reelection. So it’s actually his duty to receive you.”
“All the more because I’m from Vigàta, or I used to be.”
“Ah, so you were born here,” Montalbano said, surprised, but only a little. At a rough guess, the man must have been born sometime in the 1920s, when the port was going strong and foreigners were a dime a dozen.
“Yes.”
Charles Zuck paused; his melancholy seemed to harden, grow denser, and his pupils started bouncing off the walls.
“And I died here.”
The inspector’s first reaction was not one of surprise but anger—anger at himself for not having realized that the man was just a crazy old geezer, someone not quite right in the head. He decided to call one of his men to throw the guy out of the station. He stood up.
“Excuse me for a moment.”
“I’m not insane,” said the American.
The whole thing seemed according to script, madmen claiming their sanity like so many lifers protesting that they’re as innocent as Christ.
“There’s no need to call
anyone,” said Zuck, standing up in turn. “And please forgive me for having wasted your time. Good day.”
He walked past the inspector and headed for the door. Montalbano felt sorry for the man, who suddenly showed all his eighty-plus years. He couldn’t very well let the old guy go just like that. At his age and, if not crazy, then surely addled and estranged, he was likely to get into trouble outside.
“Please sit back down.”
Charles Zuck obeyed.
“Do you have some kind of identification?”
Without speaking, the man handed him a passport.
There was no mistake: His name was as he’d said, and he was born in Vigàta on September 6, 1920. The inspector gave him back his passport. They looked at each other.
“Why did you say you died?”
“I’m not just saying it. It was written.”
“Where?”
“On the monument to the fallen.”
The monument to the fallen, which stood in a square along the main street of Vigàta, consisted of a bronze statue of a soldier raising a dagger in defense of a woman with a baby in her arms. The inspector had stopped a few times to look at it because in his opinion it was a good sculpture. It stood on a rectangular pedestal and on its most visible side had a stone plaque with the names of the local soldiers killed in World War I, to whom the monument had been originally dedicated. Then, in 1938, a second plaque appeared on the right-hand side with the names of those who’d given up the ghost in the Abyssinian War and the Spanish Civil War. Finally, in 1946, a third plaque was added on the left bearing the names of the soldiers fallen in World War II. The fourth and last side remained empty for the time being.
Montalbano searched his memory.
“I don’t recall having seen your name there,” he said in conclusion.
“In fact, the name Charles Zuck isn’t there. But Carlo Zuccotti is—and that’s still me.”
The old man told his story in clear, succinct, and orderly fashion. It took him just a little over ten minutes to give a summary of his seventy-seven years on earth. His father, he said, was named Evaristo, came from a Milanese family, and at a very young age married a girl from Lecco, Annarita Vismara. Shortly after their wedding, Evaristo, who worked for the railways, was sent to Vigàta, which at the time had no less than three train stations, one of which was exclusively reserved for commercial traffic and stood at the entrance to the port area. And so Carlo was born in Vigàta, becoming the couple’s first and last child. Carlo spent the first twelve years of his life there, attending Vigàta’s municipal elementary school and then the middle school in Montelusa, where he went by bus. Then his father earned a promotion and was transferred to Orte in central Italy. After finishing his high school years there, he enrolled at the University of Florence, where his father had been newly transferred in the interim. One year before his graduation, Carlo’s mother, Signora Annarita, died.
Montalbano's First Case and Other Stories Page 32
