Which was the surname? Consolato or Damiano? After a moment’s doubt, the inspector figured that, in keeping with the rules of behavior in the presence of a representative of the law, the peasant must have given his last name first, as was the norm, and then his first name.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Listen, Signor Consolato.”
“You wanna talk to me formal-like or casual?” the peasant asked.
“Formally. I’m not in the habit of—”
“Well, then y’oughter know that my last name’s Damiano.”
Montalbano felt a little irked at having guessed wrong.
“What can I do for you?”
“Yisterday mornin’ I come down from the country into town, seein’ it was market day.”
The open-air market convened every Sunday morning in the elevated part of Vigàta, near the cemetery that bordered on an open countryside that was once all olive groves, almond orchards, and vineyards and was now almost entirely uncultivated, invaded by increasingly vast stretches of concrete, with and without zoning authorization.
Montalbano patiently waited for the man to continue.
“An’ the donkey broke my bùmmulu.”
A bùmmolo was a terra-cotta jar that held water and kept it very cold, and in the past peasants used to bring one along when they went out to the fields to work. This confirmed Montalbano’s impression that Consolato Damiano was truly an old-style peasant. And in spite of the fact that the story of the donkey and bùmmolo didn’t seem to him the sort of thing that might interest the police, he didn’t say a word, having decided to go along with the very slow flow of Consolato’s account.
“An’ so, at the market, I bought myself a new one.”
So far, nothing out of the ordinary.
“Yisterday evenin’, I put some water in it to try it out. To see if it was cooked right, ’cuz if iss still raw, then it don’t keep the water cool.”
Montalbano fired up a cigarette.
“So ’fore goin’ a bed, I emptied it. An’ when the water come out, so did a piece o’ paper that was inside the bùmmulu.”
Montalbano suddenly froze.
“I c’n read a little. Got as far as the third grade.”
“Was it a note?” the inspector finally ventured to ask.
“Yes and no.”
Montalbano decided it was better to keep quiet and listen.
“It was a strip of paper torn off a newspaper. An’ it was all wet. I put it next to the fire and dried it off.”
At that moment Mimì Augello poked his head inside the door.
“Salvo, don’t forget that the commissioner’s waiting for us.”
“Get me Fazio.”
The peasant waited politely. Fazio came in.
“This gentleman’s name is Consolato Damiano. I want you to listen to what he has to say. Unfortunately I have to go out now. See you later.”
By the time he got back to the station, he’d forgotten entirely about the peasant and his bùmmolo. He went back out to the Trattoria San Calogero for lunch, scarfing down a good pound of baby octopus boiled and seasoned with salt, black pepper, olive oil, lemon, and parsley. They were so tender they melted in your mouth.
Back at the office, when he saw Fazio, he remembered about Consolato Damiano.
“So what did the guy want? The one with the bùmmolo.”
Fazio gave a little smile.
“Frankly, the whole thing seemed silly to me, which is why I didn’t report back to you. He left me the piece of paper. It’s the upper part of a page of newspaper from last year. You can read the date: August 3, 1997.
“What newspaper is it?”
“That I don’t know; the newspaper’s name’s not visible.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. There’s also a few words written by hand. They say: ‘Help! He’s going to kill me!’ But—”
“And that seems silly to you?” Montalbano interrupted angrily. “Let me see it.”
Fazio went out, came back, and handed Montalbano a little strip of paper. Written in block capitals and almost childish handwriting, it actually said: “Halp! He gon kill me!”
“It must have been some joke somebody was trying to play on the old peasant,” a stubborn Fazio commented.
To a graphologist, certainly, handwriting speaks. And to Montalbano, who was not a graphologist, that illiterate handwriting also spoke: It represented a reality, an authentic cry for help. No joke at all, as Fazio maintained! This, however, was only an impression of his, nothing more. And that’s why he decided it was best if he handled the matter himself, without involving his men. If his impression turned out to be wrong, he would be spared the snide smirks of Augello and company.
He recalled that the area where the market was held had been marked off and subdivided into compartments indicated by chalk lines painted on the ground. Each compartment, moreover, had a number, to avoid disputes and quarrels among the merchants.
Montalbano went to city hall and got lucky. The man in charge of the allotment of spaces at the market, a certain Signor De Magistris, explained to him that there were only two boxes reserved for sellers of terra-cotta handicrafts. The first, which was compartment number 8, was allotted to a man named Giuseppe Tarantino. It was in the lower section of the market. The stand of the other seller of bùmmoli and quartare, a certain Antonio Fiorello, was in the upper part, the one closer to the cemetery, and had number 36.
“Mind you, Inspector, there’s no saying that things on the ground will be the way they appear on my chart,” said De Magistris.
“Why not?”
“Because often the vendors will agree among themselves to trade spots.”
“You mean the vendors of bùmmuli?”
“Not only. On the chart you might find, I dunno, that there’s a greengrocer at number twenty, and then you go there and find a guy selling shoes. Here we don’t care, as long as they are in agreement and get along.”
He went back to the office, had Fazio explain to him how to get to Consolato Damiano’s house, got in his car, and drove off. Contrada Ficuzza, where the peasant lived, was a secluded place between Vigàta and Montereale. To get there he had to park the car after about a half-hour drive and then hoof it for another half hour or so. It was already dark by the time he arrived at a small farm. He made his way through a flock of chickens, and when within earshot of the door, he called out:
“Hey! Anybody home?”
“Who is it?” asked a voice from inside.
“Inspector Montalbano.”
Consolato Damiano appeared in the doorway, beret on his head, looking not the least bit surprised.
“Come on in,” he said.
The Damiano family was just sitting down to supper. There was an elderly woman whom Consolato introduced as Pina, his wife; a fortyish man, Filippo, their son; and his wife, Gerlanda, around thirty and attending to their two small children, a boy and a girl. The room was spacious, and the part equipped as a kitchen had a wood oven.
“Would you like to join us?” Signora Pina asked, getting up to bring another chair to the table. “Tonight we’re having some pasta with broccoli.”
Montalbano accepted. After the pasta, Signora Pina went and pulled half a roast suckling goat with potatoes out of the oven, where she had been keeping it warm.
“You’ll have to excuse us, Inspector. It’s left over from yesterday, which was my son’s fortieth birthday.”
It was exquisite, sweet and tender as a suckling goat is by nature, whether dead or alive. When they’d finished, seeing that nobody was asking him the reason for his visit, Montalbano spoke.
“Signor Damiano, do you by any chance remember what stand at the market you bought your bùmmolo from?”
“Of course I remember. The one closest to the cemetery.”
The compartment assigned to Tarantino. But had he exchanged places with Fiorello?
“Do you remember the vendor’s name?”
“Yessir. His name’s Pepè. I don’ know his surname.”
Giuseppe. It could only be Giuseppe Tarantino. The whole thing could have been very easily resolved with a quick phone call. But if Consolato Damiano had had a phone, Montalbano would have missed the pasta with broccoli and the roast suckling goat.
At the office he found Mimì Augello apparently waiting for him.
“What is it, Mimì? Look, in five minutes I’m going home. It’s late and I’m tired.”
“Fazio told me the business about the bùmmolo. I figured you wanted to work on it behind the scenes and not tell anybody.”
“You figured right. What’s your take on it?”
“Bah. The whole thing could just as easily be a serious matter as a crock of shit. It might involve, for example, a kidnapping.”
“I’m of the same opinion. But there are certain factors that would tend to rule that out. It’s been more than five years since there was a kidnapping for ransom around here.”
“Even more than that.”
“And last year there were no kidnappings of any kind reported.”
“That doesn’t mean anything, Salvo. Maybe the kidnappers and the victim’s relatives have managed to keep the news of the kidnapping and negotiations a secret.”
“I doubt it. Journalists nowadays know how many hairs you’ve got on your ass.”
“Then why are you saying it might be a kidnapping?”
“Not a kidnapping for monetary gain, Mimì. Have you forgotten the case of that worm who kidnapped a little boy to intimidate his father, who was planning to turn state’s witness? He ended up strangling the kid and then putting him in acid.”
“I remember, I remember.”
“It could be something like that.”
“It could, Salvo. But then again, it could be that Fazio’s right.”
“And that’s why I don’t want you guys in my hair. That way, if I’m wrong and the whole thing’s a hoax, I’ll be the only one laughing.”
The following morning, he went back to city hall at the crack of dawn.
“I’ve found out that the vendor of bùmmuli I’m interested in is named Giuseppe Tarantino. Could you give me his address?”
“Of course. Just one minute while I look at the files,” said De Magistris.
Less than five minutes later, he returned with a piece of paper in his hand.
“He lives in Calascibetta, in Via De Gasperi, number 32. Do you want the phone number too?”
“Catarella, I want you to do me a special, important favor.”
“Chief, when y’ax me poissonally in poisson to do yiz a favor poissonally in poisson, yer doin’ me a favor jess by axin’.”
The baroque courtesies of Catarella.
“So, I want you to call this number. Somebody named Giuseppe or Pepè Tarantino will answer. Without telling him you’re from the police, you’re to ask him if he’ll be home this afternoon.”
Catarella looked confused, clutching the little piece of paper with the number between his forefinger and thumb and holding his arm a short distance away from his body, as if the piece of paper were some kind of repulsive animal.
“Is there something you don’t understand, Cat?”
“Well, iss not azackly clear.”
“What’s not exactly clear?”
“How’s I asposta act if the man ’at ansers the phone is Pepè isstead o’ Giuseppe?”
“It’s the same person, Cat.”
“An’ wha’ if it in’t needer Giuseppe or Pepè ’at ansers the phone, but summon else?”
“You tell them to put Giuseppe or Pepè on.”
“An’ wha’ if Giuseppe Pepè in’t there?”
“You say ‘thank you’ and hang up.”
The inspector was about to go out when a doubt overcame him.
“Cat, why don’t you tell me what you’re going to say over the phone?”
“Straightaways, Chief. ‘Hallo?’ axes the guy. ‘Lissen,’ I says, ‘if you’s called Giuseppe or Pepè, iss the same ting.’ ‘Who’s this?’ axes the guy. ‘You jess fughettabout whoozziss ’ass talkin’ t’yiz in poisson. An’ I’m not wit’ the police. Gott ’at? So: By order o’ Mister Isspecter Montalbano, you can’t leave yer home dis aftanoon.’ Izzat awright, Chief?”
In his throat Montalbano felt a scream of rage rise up, enough to shatter glass, but, sweating from the effort, he managed to suppress it.
“So iss not awright, Chief?”
Catarella’s voice was trembling, and his eyes looked like those of a lamb before slaughter. Montalbano felt sorry for him.
“No, Cat, it’s fine. But I’ve decided maybe it’s better if I call. Give me back the piece of paper with the number.”
A woman picked up after the second ring. She sounded young.
“Signora Tarantino?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“This is De Magistris at Vigàta City Hall, in charge of—”
“My husband isn’t here.”
“But is he in Calascibetta?”
“Yes.”
“Will he be home for lunch?”
“Yes. But if you could tell me—”
“Thanks. I’ll call back this afternoon.”
Between one thing and another it got to be well past eleven before he could finally get in the car and head for Calascibetta. Via Alcide De Gasperi was a little out of the way; number 32 corresponded to a sort of large courtyard packed full with hundreds of bùmmuli, bummuliddri, pots, amphorae, and jugs. There was even a broken-down little truck. Tarantino’s house of unplastered tufa stone consisted of three rooms in a row on the ground floor at the far end of the courtyard. The front door was closed. Montalbano knocked with his fist, since there was no doorbell. A young man a bit over thirty came and opened the door.
“Good afternoon. Are you Giuseppe Tarantino?”
“Yes. And who are you?”
“I’m De Magistris. I phoned this morning.”
“Yeah, my wife told me. What do you want?”
Montalbano had forgotten to think of an excuse on the way there. Tarantino took advantage of his momentary uncertainty.
“I’ve paid my taxes, and my license is still valid.”
“We know that already.”
“So what is it?”
The man was neither overly hostile nor overly suspicious. Somewhere in between. Maybe he wasn’t thrilled to have a stranger interrupt his meal. A strong scent of ragù wafted out from the house.
“Have the gentleman come in,” said a woman’s voice from inside, the same one that had answered the phone.
The man seemed not to have heard her.
“So, what is it?”
“Where’s your workshop?”
“What workshop?”
“Where you work the clay. You know, the kiln, the—”
“You’re misinformed. I don’t make my own jugs and bùmmuli. I buy them wholesale, an’ I get a good price for them. Then I go round to the different markets and sell them an’ I make a little money.”
At that moment they heard the shrill cry of a newborn.
“The baby just woke up,” Tarantino said to Montalbano, as if to hurry him.
“I’ll be on my way. Just give me the address of the workshop.”
“It’s called Marcuzzo and Sons, in the Vaccarella district near Catello. It’s about twenty-five miles from here. Have a good day.”
He shut the door in his face. The inspector would never get to taste Tarantino’s wife’s ragù.
He drove around Catello and environs for two hours, but nobody could tell him how to get to Vaccarella. And nobody had ever heard of a clay wo
rks called Marcuzzo and Sons that made jugs and bùmmuli. How could they not know? Or was it because they’d sniffed him out as a cop and didn’t want to help? He made the difficult decision to go to the local carabinieri compound. He told the whole story to a marshal there, named Pennisi. When Montalbano had finished talking, Pennisi asked:
“What do you want from the Marcuzzos?”
“I couldn’t really tell you, Marshal. I’m sure you know more about them than I do.”
“I’ve only got good things to say about the Marcuzzos. Their clay works was built by the father of the current owner, Aurelio, at the start of this century. Aurelio has two sons, both married, and at least ten grandchildren. They all live together, in a big house next to the factory. Do you really think they could keep a kidnap victim in a place with a good ten children running around? No, they’re very honest, serious people, respected by everyone.”
“All right, Marshal, forget I ever mentioned it. But let me ask you a different sort of question. Do you think that someone who was perhaps kidnapped or threatened could have slipped that piece of paper into a bùmmolo without the Marcuzzos finding out?”
“Let me ask you a question, Inspector: What would a kidnap victim or someone whose life has been threatened be doing around the Marcuzzos’ factory? Any criminal who knew what the Marcuzzos are like would have known to stay away.”
“Do they have any employees, any workers?”
“Nobody. Everything’s done within the family. Even the women work.”
Then something clearly occurred to the marshal.
“Was there a date on that piece of newspaper?” he asked.
“It’s from August the third of last year.”
“The factory was most certainly closed at that time.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve been living here for five years. And for five years the factory has closed on the first of August and reopened on the twenty-fifth. I know this because every year Aurelio phones me and tells me they’re leaving. They all go to Calabria, to the house of the eldest son’s wife.”
“I’m sorry, but why do they tell you they’re leaving?”
“Because if one of my men happens to be passing by, he can keep an eye on things. Just to be safe.”
Montalbano's First Case and Other Stories Page 46
