August Heat

by Andrea Camilleri

  'If you need to come again, let me know first.'

  'Thanks. By the way, I must ask you something, Inspector.'

  'What?'

  'When will the seals come down?' 'Are you in a hurry?'

  'Well, sort of. I'd like to set a date with Spitaleri for digging the place out and restoring it. If I don't book ahead, that man, with all the things he's got going on—'

  'If Spitaleri can't do it, find someone else.'

  Paladino came back. 'We can go now.'

  'I can't,' Callara said.

  'What do you mean, you can't?'

  'There's a written guarantee I didn't know about. I found it among the papers that arrived this morning from Germany.'

  'Help me to understand this a little better.' 'It's a standard agreement,' said Paladino. 'Callara showed it to me.'

  'What does it entail?'

  This time it was Callara who spoke. 'It says that Angelo Speciale promises to employ the firm of Michele Spitaleri to dig out and restore the outside and inside walls of the illegal apartment once amnesty is granted. And he also promises not to turn to any other firms in the event that Spitaleri is busy with other jobs at the time, but to wait until he is available.'

  'A simple contract,' said Montalbano.

  'Yes, but properly executed, signed and countersigned. And if one of the parties fails to uphold it, especially with a character like Spitaleri, they may have serious problems on their hands,' said Paladino.

  'Excuse me, Mr Paladino, but have you come across this sort of thing before?'

  'This is the first time. I've never seen an agreement like this made so far in advance. And I don't understand it. I ask myself, what's a twopenny-ha'penny job like this to someone like Spitaleri?'

  'I'm sure,' said Callara, 'it was Speciale who wanted this agreement. He knew he could count on Spitaleri, and there would be no need for him to be around when the work got under way.'

  'Did you see the date?'

  'Yes, the twenty-seventh of October 1999, the day before Angelo Speciale left to go back to Germany.'

  'Mr Callara, I'll have the seals removed as soon as possible.'

  In the meantime, he put them back up. Then he got into his car and left. But he stopped after he'd driven just a few yards.

  The front door and two windows of Adriana's house were open. Had the girl gone there in search of a little peace after the gloom of the funeral?

  The inspector felt torn. Should he pop in to see her or continue on his way?

  Then he saw an elderly woman, a housekeeper, no doubt, close the two windows, one after the other. He waited a little longer. The woman came out of the front door, then locked it.

  Montalbano put the car into gear and drove to the station, a little disappointed yet a little relieved.

  SEVENTEEN

  'This morning I went to the funeral,' said Fazio. 'Were there many people?'

  'Indeed there were, Inspector, all overcome with emotion, of course. Women fainting, crying, former schoolfriends with pale faces — the usual drama, in short. And when the coffin left the church, everyone clapped. Can you tell me why anyone would clap for the dead?'

  'Perhaps because they thought she did the right thing by dying.'

  'Are you joking, Chief ?'

  'No. When do people clap? When they've seen something they like. Logically, then, it should mean, "I'm rather pleased you're no longer in my hair." Who of the family was there?'

  'The father. He was being held up by a man and woman who must have been relatives. Miss Adriana wasn't there. She must have stayed at home with her mother.'

  'I have to tell you something you're not going to like.'

  And he told him about his meeting with Lozupone. When he had finished, Fazio showed no surprise. 'You've nothing to say?'

  'What am I supposed to say, Chief? I was expecting it. By hook or by crook, Spitaleri's going to weasel his way out, now and for ever, in saecula saeculorum.'

  'Amen. Speaking of Spitaleri, I want you to do me a favour and give him a call. I have no desire to speak to him.'

  'What do you want me to ask him?' 'If, when he left for Bangkok on the twelfth of October, he remembers what day he came back.' I'll do it now.'

  He returned about ten minutes later.

  'I tried his mobile phone, but it was switched off. So I rang his office, but he wasn't in. The secretary, however, looked it up in an old diary and said Spitaleri definitely returned on the afternoon of the twenty-sixth. She told me she remembered the day well.'

  'Did she say why?'

  'Chief, that lady's such a chatterbox that, if you don't stop her, she's liable to talk all day. She said the twenty-sixth of October is her birthday, and she was thinking Spitaleri wouldn't remember, but he gave her not only the orchid Thai Airways presents to every passenger but a box of chocolates. And there you have it. Why did you want to know?'

  'Well, today I went to Pizzo for a dip. As I was about to leave...' And he told him the whole story. 'Which means’ he concluded, 'that the following day he drew up this contract, perhaps because he'd found out that Angelo Speciale was about to leave for Germany.'

  'I don't see anything odd about it,' said Fazio. 'And I'm sure it was Speciale himself who asked for the contract, as Callara said. By that point he trusted Spitaleri.'

  Montalbano seemed unconvinced. 'Something doesn't make sense.'

  The telephone rang. It was Catarella, terrified. 'Jesus-Jesusjesus! Iss the c'mishner onna line!' 'So?'

  'He sounds crazy, Chief! Wit' all doo respeck, he sounds like a rapid dog!'

  'Put him on and have a nip of cognac. It'll calm your nerves.'

  He turned on the speaker and gestured to Fazio to listen in. 'Good evening, Commissioner.' 'Good evening, my arse!'

  As far as he could remember, Montalbano had never heard Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi use an obscenity. Whatever the problem was, it must be a big one. 'Commissioner, I don't understand why—'

  'The questionnaire!'

  Montalbano felt relieved. Was that all? He gave a little smile. 'But, Commissioner, the questionnaire in question is no longer in question.' What fun it was to apply every now and then the teachings of the great master Catarellal

  'What are you saying?'

  'I've already dealt with it and sent it over to you.'

  'Oh, you dealt with it, all right! You really did!'

  So why was he ranting on about it? What was the problem? He asked the question: 'So, what's the problem?'

  'Montalbano, are you working overtime at getting on my nerves today?'

  That 'working overtime' made the inspector stop joking and counterattack. 'What are you saying? You're raving, sir!'

  The commissioner appeared to calm down. 'Listen, Montalbano, I have the patience of Job, but if you're trying to make a fool of me...'

  Ah, 'the patience of Job', too! Was the man trying to drive him out of his mind? 'Just tell me what I've done and stop threatening me.'

  'What you've done? You sent me last year's questionnaire! Did you hear me? Last year's questionnaire!'

  'How time flies!'

  The commissioner was so beside himself that he didn't hear what the inspector had said. 'I'm giving you two hours, Montalbano. I want you to find the new questionnaire, answer the questions and fax it to me within two hours. Do you understand? Two hours!' He hung up.

  Montalbano looked disconsolately at the ocean of papers he had to wade through again. 'Fazio, will you do me a favour?'

  'At your service, Chief

  'Would you shoot me, please?'

  It took them three hours in all: two to find the questionnaire, one to fill it in. At a certain point they realized that it was exactly the same as the one from the previous year, with the same questions, in the same order; only the date in the heading had changed. They made no comment. They no longer had the strength to say what they thought about bureaucracy.

  'Catarella!'

  'Here I am.'

  'Send this fax to the c'mishne
r right away and tell him to stick it you know where.'

  Catarella turned pale. 'I can't, Chief.'

  'That's an order, Cat!'

  'Well, Chief, if you say it's an order...'

  Resigned, he turned to leave. But wait! Catarella was only too liable to do it!

  'No! Just send him the fax. Don't say anything.'

  How many tons of dust can there be among the papers in an office? At home, Montalbano spent a good half-hour in the shower, then put on fresh clothes; the others stank of sweat.

  He was heading towards the refrigerator in his underpants to see what Adelina had prepared for him when the telephone rang.

  It was Adriana. She didn't say hi, didn't ask how he was, but shot straight to the point. 'I can't make it to your place tonight. My nurse friend isn't free. She'll be coming here tomorrow morning. But you're working then, aren't you?'

  'Yes.'

  'I want to see you.'

  Quiet, Montalbano, quiet. Bite your tongue, Salvo. Don't say, 'Me too,' as you were about to.

  The girl's words, practically whispered, had made him break into a sweat.

  'I really, really want to see you.'

  The sweat on his skin was turning to steam, an ever so light, watery vapour, since it was still, at nine in the evening, hot enough to make one faint.

  'You know something?' Adriana asked, her tone changing.

  'What?'

  'Do you remember that uncle and aunt of mine who were supposed to go back to Milan this afternoon?'

  'Yes.' You couldn't have said he wasted words with Adriana.

  'Well, they left the house, but when they got to the airport, they discovered their flight had been cancelled, with all the others, because of a wildcat strike.'

  'What did they do?'

  'They decided to take the train, poor things. You can imagine what kind of journey they'll have in this heat! Tell me what you were doing.'

  'Who — me?' he replied, wrong-footed by the sudden change in subject.

  'Would Chief Inspector Salvo Montalbano like to say what he was doing at the moment he received a telephone call from the student Miss Adriana Morreale?'

  'I was on my way to the fridge to get something to eat.'

  'Where do you eat? In the kitchen, as people who eat alone usually do?'

  'I don't like eating in the kitchen.' 'So where do you like to eat?' 'On the veranda.'

  'You have a veranda? Fantastic! Do me a favour and lay the table for two.' 'Why?'

  'Because I want to be there too.' 'But you just said you couldn't come!' 'No, silly, I meant in my mind. I want you to take a bite from my plate, and I'll take one from yours.' Montalbano's head was spinning. 'O ... okay.'

  'Bye. And goodnight. I'll phone tomorrow. I love you.' 'Me t—'

  'What did you say?'

  'Meat. I said "meat". I was just thinking of what I was going to eat.'

  He'd saved himself by kicking the ball out.

  'Oh, listen, I've just had an idea. Why don't you call me into the station for questioning tomorrow morning and grill me with one of those eye-to-eye investigations like Tommaseo wants to do?' And she hung up laughing.

  So much for the refrigerator! So much for eating! The only thing to do, and immediately, was to dive into the sea and go for a long swim, to cool his head and lower the temperature of his blood, which had reached boiling point. Now Adriana, too, was doing her best to turn up the August heat.

  As he was swimming in the dark of night, a new torment began. It was a sensation he knew well. He turned over to float on his back, eyes open and gazing at the stars.

  The sensation was one of a hand drill boring into his brain. And it made the classic sound of a drill with each turn: zzzrr ... zzzrr ... zzzrr...

  This tremendous nuisance — which no longer caused him any surprise, since it had been happening to him for years — meant that at some time during the preceding day he had heard something of great importance, something that might lead to a resolution of the case and to which he had not immediately paid any attention.

  But when had he heard it? And who had said it?

  Zzzzrr ... zzzrr ... zzzrr...

  Like a woodworm gnawing, making him nervous.

  With broad, slow strokes, he returned to shore.

  Entering his house, he realized his appetite was gone so he grabbed a new bottle of whisky, a glass and a packet of cigarettes, then went to sit on the veranda, dripping wet, without bothering to take off his swimming trunks.

  He racked his brains, but nothing came to him.

  After an hour, he gave up. It used to be, he thought, that with a little concentration he could recall what was bothering him. But when, exactly? he asked himself. When you were younger, Montalba, came the inevitable answer.

  He decided to have something to eat. And he remembered that Adriana had asked him to lay a place for her as well ... He was tempted to do so, but felt ridiculous.

  He laid the table for himself, went into the kitchen, put his hand on the refrigerator door, still thinking of Adriana, and experienced an electric shock.

  How could that be? Apparently the refrigerator wasn't working properly. It was dangerous, in fact. He'd better buy a new one.

  But then again, why, though his hand was still on the door, wasn't he still being shocked? Maybe it hadn't been an electrical shock at all, but something inside him, a short-circuit in his head.

  He'd felt the shock when he was thinking of Adriana.' It was something the girl had said.'

  He went back out on to the veranda. His appetite had disappeared again.

  All at once Adriana's words resurfaced in his mind. He sprang to his feet, grabbed the cigarettes and went to walk along the water's edge.

  Three hours later, he had finished the packet and his legs ached. He went home, looked at the clock. It was three in the morning. He washed, shaved, got dressed, then drank a mug of coffee. At a quarter to four he went out, got into his car, and drove off.

  At that hour he could cruise in the cool of the night. At his customary pace, without needing to race around like Gallo.

  He was chasing a hope. One so subtle, so ethereal, that the slightest doubt would make it disappear into thin air. Actually, to tell the truth, he was chasing a wild idea.

  When he pulled into Punta Raisi airport it was almost eight o'clock in the morning. It had taken him as long as it would a normal driver to make a round trip. But it had been a peaceful ride. He hadn't felt hot and had had no occasion to grumble at any other drivers.

  He parked and got out of the car. The air there was less oppressive than it was in Vigata. He could actually breathe. The first thing he did was go to the bar: a double espresso, extra strong. Then he went to the airport police station. 'I'm Inspector Montalbano. Is Inspector Capuano there?' Every time he was at the airport for Livia's arrival or departure, he dropped in on Capuano.

  'He's just arrived. You can go in, if you like.'

  He knocked and entered.

  'Montalbano.' You waiting for your girlfriend?'

  'No, I'm here to ask you to lend me a hand.'

  'At your service. What is it?'

  Montalbano told him.

  'That'll take a little while. But I've got just the right person.' And he called, 'Cammarota!'

  He was a thirty-year-old, black as ink, eyes sparkling with intelligence.

  'I want you to make yourself available to Inspector Montalbano, who's a friend of mine. You two can stay in here and use my computer. I have to go now and report to the commissioner.'

  They remained holed up in Capuano's office till noon, drinking two coffees and two beers each. Cammarota proved competent and clever, telephoning a variety of ministries, airports and airlines. By the end, the inspector knew exactly what he had wanted to know.

  When he got back into his car, he sneezed: the delayed effect of the air-conditioning in Capuano's office.

  Halfway home, he saw a trattoria with three articulated lorries parked in front, a sure sign that the
food was good. After ordering, he went to make a phone call. 'Adriana? Montalbano here.'

  'Oh, goody! Have you decided to give me the third degree?'

  'I need to see you.'

  'When?'

  'This evening, around nine, at my house in Marinella. We'll have dinner there.'

  'I hope I can get myself organized in time. Is there any news?'

  How had she known? 'I think so.' 'I love you.'

  'Don't tell anyone you're coming to my place.' 'You must be joking!'

  Then he called Headquarters and asked for Fazio.

  'Chief, where are you? I was looking for you this morning because—'

  'You can tell me later. I'm on my way back from Palermo and need to talk to you. We'll meet at the station at five. Make sure you drop all other engagements.'

  The restaurant had a vast ceiling fan that filled him with joy, allowing him to remain seated without his shirt and underpants sticking to him. As he'd expected, the food was good.

  Getting back into the car, he thought that if, when he'd left, his hope had been thin as a cobweb, now, on his return, it was as thick as a rope.

  A gallows' rope.

  He started singing, as off-key as a dog, 'O Lola', from Cavalleria Rusticana.

  At home in Marinella, he had a shower, put on clean clothes, and headed in haste for the station. He felt feverish and restless, irritated by the slightest thing.

  'Aah, Chief, you gotta call from—'

  'I don't give a shit. Send me Fazio straight away.'

  He turned on the mini-fan. Fazio came running. Curiosity was eating him alive.

  'Come in, close the door and sit down.'

  Fazio obeyed and sat on the edge of his chair, eyes trained on the inspector. He looked exactly like a hunting dog.

  'Did you know there was a strike at Punta Raisi yesterday and most of the flights were cancelled?' 'No, I didn't.'

  'I heard it on the regional news report.' It was a lie. He didn't want to tell him he'd heard it from Adriana.

  'Okay, Chief, so there was a strike. Who doesn't go on strike, these days? What's that got to do with us?'

  'Oh, it's got a lot to do with us. A lot.'

  'I get it, Chief. You're beating about the bush to make me stew.'

  'So? How many times have you done the same to me?' 'Fine, but now you've had your revenge. Talk.'