The Smell of the Night

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Let’s proceed as if it was important,” he concluded.

  “Fazio, I want you to check if there was a reservation for Giacomo Pellegrino on the four o’clock flight for Germany on August the thirty-first.”

  “For where in Germany?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Chief, there are a lot of cities in Germany.”

  “You trying to be funny?”

  “No, Chief. And out of which airport? Palermo or Catania?”

  “Palermo, I would say. And now get outta here.”

  “Yes, sir. I just wanted to tell you that Headmaster Burgio phoned to remind you of something you’re supposed to know about.”

  Burgio, the retired secondary-school headmaster, had called the inspector some ten days earlier to invite him to a debate between those in favor and those against building a bridge over the Strait of Messina. Burgio was to be spokesman for those in favor. At the end of the meeting, who knows why, there was going to be a projection of Robert Benigni’s Life Is Beautiful. Montalbano had promised to attend to please his friend, but also to see the film, about which he’d heard contrasting opinions.

  He decided to go to Marinella to change clothes, since the jeans he was wearing seemed a little out of place. He got in his car, drove home, and had the unfortunate idea to lie down on his bed for a moment, not more than five minutes. He slept for three hours straight. Waking up with a start, he realized that if he hurried, he could get there just in time for the movie.

  The auditorium was jam-packed. The inspector arrived just as the lights were dimming. He remained standing. Every now and then he laughed. But things changed towards the end, and he began to feel a sadness welling up in his throat ... Never before had he cried while watching a film. He left the auditorium before the lights came back on, embarrassed that someone might see that his eyes were wet with tears. So why had it happened to him this time? Because of his age? Was it a sign of aging? It’s true that as one gets older one becomes more easily moved. But that wasn’t the only reason. Was it because of the story the film told and the way it told it? Of course, but that didn’t explain it, either. He waited outside for the people to exit so he could say hello to Burgio in passing. He felt like being alone and went straight home.

  The wind was blowing on the veranda, and it was cold. The sea had eaten up almost the whole beach. He kept a raincoat in the front closet, the kind with a lining. He put it on, went back out on the veranda, and sat down. He was unable, in the gusts, to light a cigarette. He would have to go back in his bedroom to do so. Rather than get up, he decided not to smoke. Out on the water he saw some distant lights that every few moments would disappear. If they were fishermen, they were having a rough time of it, on that sea. He sat there motionless, hands thrust in the pockets of his raincoat, rehashing what had come over him while watching the film. All at once, the true and sole reason for his weeping became perfectly clear to him. And just as quickly, he rejected it as unbelievable. Yet little by little, in spite of the fact that he kept circling around it, to attack it from every angle, that reason stood firm. In the end, he had to give in to it. And so he made up his mind.

  Before setting out the next morning, he had to wait at the Bar Albanese for the fresh ricotta cannoli to arrive. He bought about thirty of them, along with a few kilos of biscotti regina, marzipan pastries, and mostaccioli. Rolling along, his car left an aromatic cloud in its wake. He had no choice but to keep the windows open, otherwise the intense smell would have given him a headache.

  To get to Calapiano he chose to take the longest, roughest road, the one he’d always taken the few times he’d gone there, since it allowed him a glimpse of a Sicily that was disappearing a little more each day, made up of land spare in vegetation and men spare in words. After he’d been driving for two hours, just past Gagliano he found himself at the back of a line of cars moving very slowly along the beat-up macadam. A handwritten sign on a lamppost ordered:

  SLOW DOWN!

  Then a man with the face of an escaped convict (but are we so sure escaped convicts have faces like that?), in civilian dress and with a whistle in his mouth, blew his whistle hard like a referee and raised his arm. The car in front of Montalbano immediately stopped. After a minute or two in which nothing happened, the inspector decided to stretch his legs. He got out of the car and went up to the man.

  “Are you a policeman?”

  “Me? Not on your life! Gaspare Indelicato’s the name. I’m a maintenance man at the elementary school. Please step aside, there are cars coming this way.”

  “Excuse me, but isn’t today a school day?”

  “Of course, but the school is closed. Two ceilings collapsed.”

  “Is that why you were assigned traffic duty?”

  “Nobody assigned me anything. I volunteered. If I wasn’t here and Peppi Brucculeri—who also volunteered—wasn’t over there, can you imagine the mess?”

  “What happened to the road?”

  “It caved in about a kilometer from here. Five months ago. There’s only room for one car to pass at a time.”

  “Five months ago?!”

  “Yessirree. The town council says it’s the provincial council that should repair it, the provincial council says it’s the job of the regional council, the regional council says it’s up to the road department, and you, in the meantime, get screwed.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I get around on bicycle.”

  Half an hour later, Montalbano was able to resume his journey. He remembered that the farm was about four kilometers outside of Calapiano, and to get there one had to take a little dirt road so full of holes, rocks, and dust that even goats shunned it. This time, however, he found himself on a road that was narrow, yes, but paved and well maintained. There were two possibilities: He had either made a wrong turn or the town of Calapiano had an efficient administration. The latter proved to be the case. The big farmhouse appeared round a bend, a light plume of smoke rising from the chimney, a sign that somebody was cooking in the kitchen. He looked at his watch. It was almost one o’clock. He got out of the car, filled his arms with cannoli and pastries, went into the house and into the big room that served as both dining and living room, as demonstrated by the television in the corner. He put his packages down on the table and went into the kitchen. Franca, Mimi’s sister, had her back to him and didn’t realize he’d come in. The inspector stood there a moment, watching her in silence, admiring the harmony of her movements but mostly spellbound by the aroma of ragù filling his lungs.

  “Franca.”

  The woman turned around, face lighting up, and ran into Montalbano’s arms.

  “Salvo! What a big surprise!” she said. Then: “Have you heard about Mimi’s wedding?”

  “Yes.”

  “Beba phoned me this morning; her father’s feeling better.”

  She said no more and went back to the stove. She didn’t bother to ask Salvo why he’d come to see them.

  What a woman! thought Montalbano. Then he asked:

  “Where are the others?”

  “The grown-ups are working. Giuseppe, Domenico, and François are at school. But they’ll be back soon.

  Ernst has gone in the car to pick them up. Remember him? The German student who spent the summer here lending a hand? He liked it so much, he comes back whenever he can.”

  “I need to talk to you,” said Montalbano.

  He told her about the passbook and the money he’d entrusted to the notary. He’d never mentioned it before to either Franca or her husband, Aldo, for the simple reason that he always forgot. As he was explaining, Franca kept going back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, the inspector following behind her. When he’d finished, her only comment was:

  “You did the right thing. I’m so happy for François. Want to help me set the table?”

  9

  When he heard the car pull into the courtyard, he couldn’t help himelf and ran outside.

  He recognized
François at once. God, how he’d changed! He was no longer the little boy he remembered, but a lanky youth with dark, curly hair and big dark eyes. At that same moment François saw him.

  “Salvo!”

  And he flew to him and hugged him tight. Not like the time when he’d run towards him and then sidestepped at the last second. Now there were no more problems between them, no more shadows, only great affection, and Salvo could feel it in the intensity and duration of their embrace. And thus, with Montalbano resting a hand on François’s shoulder and the boy trying to wrap his arm around the inspector’s waist, they went into the house, followed by the others.

  Then Aldo and his three helpers arrived and they all sat down at the table. François was sitting at Montalbano’s right, and at a certain point the boy’s hand came to rest on Salvo’s knee. The inspector moved his fork out of his right hand and contrived somehow to eat his pasta al ragù with his left, keeping his other hand on top of the boy’s. Whenever the two hands had to quit each other’s company to take a sip of wine or to cut a piece of meat, they would come immediately back for their secret rendezvous under the table.

  “If you want to rest, there’s a room ready,” said Franca when they had finished eating.

  “No, I’m going to leave right away.”

  Aldo and his helpers stood up, said good-bye to Montalbano, and went out.

  Giuseppe and Domenico did the same.

  “They’re going to work until five,” Franca explained. “Then they’ll come back and do their homework.”

  “And what about you?” Montalbano asked François.

  “I’m staying here with you until you leave. I want to show you something.”

  “Go,” Franca said to both of them. Then, turning to Montalbano: “In the meantime I’ll write down what you asked me.”

  François led him round behind the house, where there was a big meadow of alfalfa. Four horses were grazing in it.

  “Bimba!” François called.

  A young mare with a blond mane raised her head and came towards the boy. When she was within reach, François started running and with a leap he was on the an-. imal’s bare back. He made a circle and returned.

  “Do you like her?” François asked happily. “Papa gave her to me.”

  Papa? He must mean Aldo, of course. He was right to call him papa. Still, for a brief moment it was a pinprick to the heart. Nothing, really, but he felt it.

  “I also showed Livia what a good rider I am,” said François.

  “Oh, you did?”

  “Yes, the other day, when she came to visit. She was afraid I would fall off. You know how women are.”

  “Did she sleep here?”

  “Yeah, one night. Then she left the next day. Ernst drove her back to the airport. I was so happy to see her.”

  Montalbano said nothing, didn’t even breathe. They walked back towards the house in silence, just like before, with the inspector’s arm around the boy’s shoulders and François trying to embrace him around the waist but actually clutching his jacket. At the door François said in a low voice:

  “I want to tell you a secret.”

  Montalbano bent down.

  “When I grow up, I want to be a policeman like you.”

  For the drive back he took the other road, and instead of taking four and a half hours it took only three. At the station he was immediately assailed by Catarella, who seemed more distressed than usual.

  “Ah, Chief, Chief! Hizzoner mister c’mishner says that—”

  “Out of my hair, both of you.”

  Catarella was crushed. He didn’t even have the strength to react.

  Once inside his office, Montalbano set about frantically searching for a sheet of paper and envelope without the Vigàta Police letterhead. He succeeded. Then he sat down and wrote a letter to the commissioner with no formal mal greeting whatsoever.

  I hope by now you’ve received the copy of the notary’s letter I anonymously sent to you. Included herewith you’ll find all the documents pertaining to the lawful adoption of the child you actually accused me of having kidnapped. I,for my part, consider the matter settled. If you persist in pursuing it, let me warn you that I will sue you for slander.

  Montalbano

  “Catarella!”

  “Yessir, Chief!”

  “Here’s a thousand lire. Go buy a stamp, stick it on this envelope, and mail it.”

  “But, Chief, there’s stamps galore in this office!”

  “Do as I say. Fazio!”

  “Yessir.”

  “Any news?”

  “Yes, Chief And I have to thank a friend of mine with the airport police who’s got a friend whose girlfriend works at the ticket counter at Punta Raisi. That was a lucky break. Otherwise we would’ve waited at least three months for an answer.”

  The Italian method for streamlining bureaucracy. Fortunately there’s always somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody else.

  “And so?”

  Fazio, who wanted to relish his hard-earned triumph, took an eternity to slip his hand in his pocket, pull out a folded sheet of paper, unfold it, and hold it in front of him as a guide.

  “It turns out that Giacomo Pellegrino had a ticket, issued by the Icarus Travel Agency of Vigàta, for a four P.M. flight on August the thirty-first. And you know what? He never got on that flight.”

  “Is that certain?”

  “Gospel, Chief. But you don’t seem too surprised.”

  “I was feeling more and more convinced that Pellegrino never left.”

  “Let’s see if you’re surprised by what I tell you next. Pellegrino showed up in person, two hours before departure, to cancel his flight.”

  “At two o’clock, in other words.”

  “Right. Then he changed destination.”

  “Now I’m surprised,” Montalbano conceded. “Where’d he go?”

  “Wait. It doesn’t end there. He booked a flight for Madrid, first of September, ten A.M., but ...”

  Fazio grinned triumphantly. Perhaps in the background he was hearing the march from Aïda. He opened his mouth to speak, but the inspector knavishly beat him to the punch line.

  “... but he didn’t get on that one, either,” he concluded.

  Fazio, visibly irritated, crumpled the sheet and shoved it unceremoniously back in his pocket.

  “It’s no use with you. You’re no fun at all.”

  “Come on, don’t get upset,” the inspector consoled him. “How many travel agencies are there in Montelusa?”

  “There are three more right here in Vigàta.”

  “I’m not interested in the ones in Vigàta.”

  “I’ll go look it up in the phone book and get you the numbers.”

  “Don’t bother. Call them yourself and ask if, at any time between the twenty-eighth of August and the first of September, there were any reservations made in the name of Giacomo Pellegrino.”

  Fazio looked dumbfounded. Then he shook himself out of it.

  “It can’t be done. Working hours are over. I’ll take care of it tomorrow morning as soon as I come in. But, Chief, if I find out this Pellegrino made still another reservation for, I dunno, Moscow or London, what does it mean?”

  “It means our friend wanted to muddy the waters. He’s got his ticket to Madrid in his pocket, when in fact he told everyone he was going to Germany. Tomorrow we’ll find out if he had any other tickets in his pocket. Have you got Mariastella Cosentino’s home phone number anywhere?”

  “I’ll go check Augello’s files.”

  He went out, came back with a scrap of paper, dictated the number to Montalbano, and left. The inspector dialed the number. There was no answer. Maybe Miss Cosentino had gone out grocery shopping. He put the scrap of paper in his pocket and decided to go home to Marinella.

  He had no appetite. The pasta al ragù and pork he’d eaten at Franca’s sat a little heavy on his stomach. He fried himself an egg, then ate four fresh anchovies tossed in oil, vinegar, and oregano.
After eating, he tried Miss Cosentino’s number again. She must have been waiting with her hand over the phone, because she answered before the first ring had time to finish. The voice of a dying woman, thin as a spiderweb, said:

  “Hello? Who’s this?”

  “Montalbano here. Sorry to bother you, perhaps you were watching television and—”

  “I don’t have a television.”

  The inspector didn’t know why, but he had the impression he’d heard a distant, faraway bell ring very briefly in his brain. It was so quick, so sudden, that he wasn’t really sure if he’d heard right or not.

  “I wanted to know, if you still remember, of course, whether Giacomo Pellegrino didn’t come to work on the thirty-first of August, either.”

  Her response came immediately, without the slightest hesitation.

  “Inspector, I could never forget those days, since I’ve gone over them time and again in my mind. On the thirty-first, Pellegrino showed up late for work, around eleven. And he left almost immediately; he said he had to meet with a client. He came back after lunch, probably around four-thirty, and stayed until closing time.”

  The inspector thanked her and hung up.

  It made sense, added up. Pellegrino, after going to talk to his uncle in the morning, comes in to work. At midday he goes out, not to meet with a client, but to catch a cab or pick up a rental car. He goes to Punta Raisi, arriving at the airport around two, cancels the ticket for Berlin and books a flight to Madrid instead. He gets back in the cab or the rental car, and by four-thirty he’s back at the office. The timing worked out.

  But why did Pellegrino go to all this trouble? Granted, so he couldn’t be easily tracked down. But by whom? And, most of all, why? Whereas the ragioniere Gargano had twenty billion reasons for vanishing, Pellegrino, to all appearances, had none.