He had his answer almost immediately. On the side of one of the first buildings in Vigàta was a large, colorful poster. He thought he saw, out of the corner of his eye, an image of a clown. He stopped the car, got out, and went to look. It was an ad for the Wonderland Circus and must have already been there for a few days because it looked a bit worn from the bad weather. It announced that the circus would be coming to Vigàta on the twentieth of October. Too late for the killer.
Below this announcement was a calendar of the performance dates around the province, which must have been how the guy who took himself for God, or at least thought he was part of the divine plan, had learned the date of the circus’s performance in Fiacca. Standing out on the poster was the list of attractions. Second on this list, in gold lettering, was the name of Irina Orlovska, elephant trainer and star of the Moscow Circus.
So there was the letter O to put after the G. By now there was no doubt that the whole word would indeed be God.
The man who thought he was God, or part of the divine plan, had clearly read the poster and acted accordingly, in a jiffy. What better opportunity could he have had?
But acting on the opportunity must not have been an easy task. The risks involved were enormous, so great that they might compromise the plan he had in mind. A night watchman passing by, or a reaction of fear from one of the animals at the sight of a stranger approaching, would have been enough to ruin everything. And yet he’d gone just the same to the circus at night, or very early in the morning, and had succeeded in killing an elephant. Was he a madman who acted rashly, carelessly, taking things as they came, or was he one of those equally insane people who belonged to the category of obsessed, methodical madmen? Everything pointed to the likelihood that the man left nothing to chance.
Then there was the increasing size of the victims to consider. Surely this must mean something, and there was a hidden message that needed deciphering. After the goat was killed, the inspector had thought, with considerable concern, that a human being would be next. Whereas instead of a human, the madman had killed a donkey. Followed by an elephant. Now, between a goat and an elephant, there was plenty of room for a human body. But the guy hadn’t done it. Why not? Because he thought little of humans? No, since for the humans he’d left the little messages communicating his stage of contraction—whatever that meant. And one could therefore conclude that he thought a lot about humans. He was alerting them to an imminent event. Maybe the guy would shoot a man on the coming Monday, which would mean that he put the man at the top of the pyramid of the animal kingdom. Yes, that must be it: Next time around, it would be a human’s turn. Man is, in fact, different from the other animals, being endowed with reason. And this makes him superior. Or at least that’s what people still think, despite all the proof to the contrary that humans have never ceased to exhibit over the course of their age-old history.
5
The meeting started later than planned because Fazio, on his way back from Fiacca, had run into some heavy traffic. As soon as he came in, he handed the inspector two bullet shells.
“Put these back in the drawer with the others.”
Montalbano looked bewildered.
“Two shells? Did he fire two shots?”
“No, Chief, just one.”
“So why’d Adragna give you two?”
“Chief, these are from the ones we have here. See, it occurred to me that if I asked my friend to lend me the shell and message, he would prick up his ears and start rightly wondering why we’re so interested in the murder of an elephant. So I told him I was in Fiacca to see an old friend and had dropped in just to say hello. I casually got him to start talking about the circus incident, and he showed me the shell and the piece of paper. At some point he had to leave the room for a few minutes, and so I compared his shell with ours, which I’d brought with me. They’re identical. And this time, the message says: ‘I’m almost done contracting.’”
“Yeah, I know, I heard that on TV.”
“I’m wondering what’s going to happen when the guy stops contracting,” Mimì said pensively.
“Did Adragna tell you whether anyone saw or heard anything strange during the night?” Montalbano asked.
“Nothing. The animals’ cages are set up rather far from where the stagehands and performers sleep. The trainer said she heard some . . . what do you call the noise elephants make?”
“Trumpeting?”
“Right, but since they often make noise when they’re startled by something unusual, like someone passing close by, she didn’t pay much attention.”
“And nobody heard the gunshot?”
“Nobody. He must have used a silencer. And he must have also brought along a powerful flashlight, because Adragna told me it’s very dark around those cages at night.”
“So how the hell did he pull it off?”
“We have to assume the guy’s a really good shot. Since he couldn’t very well go and shoot a big hunting rifle, since the bang would have been loud enough to wake up everyone in town, he climbed up the bars of the cage, getting practically as high as the elephants’ heads, and then fired at the beast from about a foot and a half away.”
“How do they know that?”
“Adragna noticed the mud tracked by the soles of his shoes. So, anyway, the guy lit the flashlight, pointed it at the eye of the nearest elephant, and fired.”
“He might be a good shot, but he’s really fucking lucky, too,” Mimì commented, continuing: “Now all he’s missing is the d in God.”
Montalbano looked at them with concern.
“You know what?” he said. “I think we have until Sunday night to prevent a murder.”
For the past three hours the man had been reading, never once taking his eyes off the book, turning the pages delicately, hands trembling.
He is one with His Power as the flame is one with its colors; his strength issues from his Oneness as the light of the gaze issues from the darkness of the pupil.
The one emanates from the other as scent emanates from a scent and light from a light.
In the emanation is all the Power of the Emanator, but the Emanator undergoes no diminution therefrom.
At this point the man could read no further. His eyes were full of tears. Of happiness. Nay, of joy. Superhuman joy. He looked at his watch: three o’clock in the morning. He let himself go, weeping convulsively, overwhelmed by emotion. He trembled as though feverish. He rose, had trouble standing, went over to the window, and opened it. An ice-cold wind was blowing. The man filled his lungs with air and screamed. The scream was so long it sounded like a howl. Then at once he felt his legs give out from under him. Unable to remain standing, he fell to his knees, the front of his shirt wet with tears.
Only seven more days until the Manifestation.
Montalbano looked at the clock. Three a.m. What point was there in lying in bed if there was no way he could fall asleep? He got up, went into the kitchen, and put a pot of coffee on the burner.
Three questions kept drilling into his brain:
Why did the guy always act on Mondays, in the wee hours of the morning, at the start of the new day?
Why was he so keen that one and all should know that a contraction was taking place inside him? What the hell was contracting?
And what, exactly, did the madman mean by “contracting”? Did it mean to shrink or grow smaller, as Mimì had said, or did it mean something only explainable by what was going through the unknown man’s sick mind?
Montalbano felt that it was essential to interpret that verb correctly if they were ever to understand what the madman’s ultimate intention was and where he wanted to go with it.
Was there an answer? No, there wasn’t.
Early the following morning, which was a Tuesday, he showed up at the office with bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep and already in a foul mood that was then aggravate
d exponentially by the cold, windy weather.
“Listen up,” he said to Augello and Fazio. “I’ve given this business a lot of thought. I was up all night. This fanatic—since that’s what he is, there’s no point pretending otherwise—is without a doubt someone who was born and raised in Vigàta.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Augello.
“Mimì, think for a second. The guy knows exactly who owns what kinds of animals and what their last names are. Those are the kinds of things you either get from the town hall’s records or you know directly by knowing the people.”
“You think for a second,” Mimì retorted sharply. “What does it take to know that there’s a fish tank at a seafood restaurant? Or that there are going to be chickens at a chicken farm?”
“Oh, yeah? So you yourself knew that Signor Lomonaco had a goat and Gaggiano had a donkey?”
Augello said nothing.
“Can I go on?” said Montalbano. “I repeat: He’s someone from Vigàta, and he’s not too young, either.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Mimì.
“Because he knows retired people, old folks . . .”
“Bah,” said Mimì.
Montalbano didn’t feel like having it out with him, so he just continued.
“He’s an educated man. He has the handwriting of someone who’s in the habit of writing.”
“Just a minute,” Fazio cut in. “He can’t be too old, either. It’s unlikely a man of advanced age can so easily pick locks, roam the countryside at night, climb up elephant cages, and—”
“At any rate he’s a fanatic, there’s no doubt about that.”
“Yes, Salvo,” Augello cut in, “but Fazio’s question was—”
“I understood perfectly what Fazio’s question was. And I am, in fact, answering it. Fanaticism leads people to do unthinkable things, it gives you strength you didn’t know you had and courage you’d never have dreamed of. Anyway, there’s no indication he’s working alone. He might be sending other people out with the pistol and messages. An adept.”
“A what?” asked Fazio.
“An adept. It means ‘follower.’ It’s not a dirty word, Fazio. So, here’s what we’re going to do. You, Mimì, are going to go to the town hall’s records office and get a list of everyone in town with a last name beginning with D. Don’t worry, there won’t be hundreds of thousands.”
“Hundreds of thousands, no, but a lot just the same. I, for example, know a Mario Danieli and a Stefano Doni,” Mimì retorted.
“And I know three,” said Fazio. “D’Arrigo, Delvecchio, and Dalla.”
“Not to mention,” Mimì continued, “that Stefano Doni has ten children, five boys and five girls. And that three of the five boys are married and have children of their own.”
“I don’t give a shit about grandparents, children, grandchildren, nieces or nephews, got that?” Montalbano fired back. “I want the full list, newborns included, by tomorrow morning.”
“And what do you plan to do with it?”
“If by Sunday morning we still haven’t figured this thing out, we’ll bring them together in one place and post a guard.”
“Maybe we should put them all in the soccer stadium the way Pinochet did,” Augello said ironically.
“You know, Mimì, I truly admire you. I knew you were an asshole, of course, but I had no idea you could reach such heights of assholery. My most heartfelt compliments. Ad majora. Now get the hell out of here.”
Augello got up and left.
“So what am I supposed to do?” asked Fazio.
“Start hanging out around town. See if you can find out whether the story of all these animals being killed has leaked out—and if it has, what people think about it.
When he got home it was almost ten p.m., but he really didn’t feel like eating. His stomach was in knots. He was worried, but mostly unhappy with himself. Yes, he’d succeeded in connecting the dots between the different events, and he’d been able (perhaps) to predict the fanatic’s next move, but none of this was of any help unless he discovered what maniacal idea, what sinister intention had lodged itself inside the mystery man’s depraved mind and prompted him to act.
Not that he believed there necessarily had to be a specific, rational motive behind every crime. He’d once read a book by Max Aub on this question, called Exemplary Crimes, which, after the fun was over, had been more useful as a psychological study. On the other hand, it was equally true that the more you know about the person you’re looking for, the more likely you are to find him.
The telephone rang.
“So, are you going to be able to make it here on Saturday?”
With a string of excuses that were many and various and worthy of the first Nobel Prize for Lying, he’d managed to postpone the promised visit to Boccadasse from week to week, but felt that Livia was less and less convinced by his reasons. Perhaps it was best just to tell her the whole truth. He took a deep breath and plunged into the sea of things to say.
“In all honesty, Livia, I really don’t think I can make it.”
“Could you at least tell me what’s going on with you?”
“Livia, don’t you know what I do for a living? Have you forgotten? I don’t have the same working hours and rhythms as an office clerk. I have a very, very complex case on my hands at the moment. There’s been a whole series of strange killings . . .”
“A serial killer?” Livia asked in astonishment.
Montalbano hesitated.
“Well, I suppose you could call him that, in a sense.”
“Who’s he killed?”
“Well, he started with a fish—a mullet, to be exact.”
“What?!”
“That’s right, a gray mullet, but of the freshwater variety. Then he knocked off a chicken, then a—”
“Asshole!”
“Livia, listen . . . Hello? Hello?”
She’d hung up. How was it that she never believed him, whether he told the truth or not? Maybe he should have put his words in a different order or used different ones . . .
Words, for Chrissake! Words!
He’d used the right words when talking about the animal killer—he’d called him a madman, a religious fanatic, someone who thought he was God, or at least that he had direct access to him, but he had failed to draw the right conclusions from his own words! What an imbecile he’d been! That was the road he should follow, without wasting another minute. Frantic, he picked up the phone and started dialing. In his agitation he made a mistake. On the third try he got it right.
“Nicolò? Montalbano here.”
“What do you want? I’m about to go on the air.”
“I only need a few seconds.”
“I haven’t got any. If you make me a dish of pasta, I’ll come to your place after midnight, after the late edition.”
Nicolò Zito the newsman sat down to a dish of spaghetti dressed in oglio del carrettiere and pecorino cheese and, as a second course, large, black passuluna olives, a slice of caciocavallo cheese, and that’s all, folks.
“You shouldn’t have gone to all the trouble!” was his comment.
“I’m not hungry, Nicolò.”
“And because you’re not hungry, you think I’m not either? What’s with you? You’re getting me worried if you, of all people, tell me you don’t feel like eating. Now spit it out, what is it?”
Montalbano told him the whole story. As he was speaking, Zito became more and more attentive.
“This whole business,” he said when the inspector had finished talking, “can only end in one of two ways: in tragedy or farce. As things stand right now, however, I think the former is more likely.”
“Me too,” said Montalbano, frowning darkly.
“So why’d you call me?”
“You can help me.”
“I can?”
“Yes. I need to get in touch immediately with Alcide Maraventano.”
The person the inspector wanted to see was a man of incredible erudition who a few years earlier had lent him a hand in solving the case that came to be called the Terra-Cotta Dog. He lived in Gallotta, a little town near Montelusa. He may have once been a priest, maybe not, but he was certainly someone whose brain functioned in alternating currents. He was always wearing a sort of frock that had once been black but had long ago turned a sort of moldy green. Being frighteningly thin, he looked like a skeleton who’d just climbed out of its grave, and yet he was mysteriously alive. His house was an enormous, ramshackle hovel without telephone service or electricity. To make up for this it was stuffed so full of books that there was no place to sit down. When he spoke, he was in the habit of sucking milk from a baby bottle.
Upon hearing the man’s name, Zito grimaced.
“What is it?”
“Well, just yesterday a friend of mine told me he’d gone to see him, but Maraventano had refused to let him in and would only talk to him through the door.”
“Why was that?”
“He told him he was near the end and had no time to waste. He said he needs the little breath he has left for breathing the days remaining to him.”
“Is he sick?”
Dying people frightened Montalbano.
“Who knows? He’s certainly very old. He must be over ninety by now.”
“Well, try anyway, as a favor to me.”
Around noon the following day, having still not heard from Zito, he decided to ring him.
“Montalbano here, Nicolò. Have you forgotten the request I made you last night?”
Nicolò Zito reacted as if he’d been stung by a wasp.
“Forgotten?! I’ve wasted all morning on it! Don’t you know Maraventano doesn’t have a phone and you have to send someone to his house when you want to talk to him?”
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