“What, don’t you think it’s a good idea?”
“Well, in a general sense, sure, I think it’s a great idea, absolutely. But we should probably inform ourselves first.”
“Inform ourselves of what?”
“Well, I wouldn’t want them to be shooting.”
“What are you talking about? Shooting what?”
“I wouldn’t want to run into a film crew shooting an episode of that television series right as we’re walking around there . . . They film them around there, you know.”
“What the hell do you care?”
“What do you mean, what the hell do I care? And what if I find myself face to face with the actor who plays me? . . . What’s his name—Zingarelli . . .”
“His name’s Zingaretti, stop pretending you don’t know. Zingarelli’s a dictionary. But I repeat: What do you care? How can you still have these childish complexes at your age?”
“What’s age got to do with it?”
“Anyway, he doesn’t look the least bit like you.”
“That’s true.”
“He’s a lot younger than you.”
Enough of this bullshit about age! Livia was obsessed!
Montalbano felt offended. What the hell did youth and age have to do with any of this?
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean? Anyway, as far as that goes, the guy’s totally bald, whereas I’ve got more hair than I know what to do with!”
“Come on, Salvo, let’s not fight.”
And so, to avoid a quarrel, he’d let himself be talked into it.
“I’m well aware that you reserved a room. Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’ll have to come home from the office no later than four o’clock for us to make it there.”
“That’s not a problem. I’ve only got a few documents to sign.”
Livia laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Salvo. You say that as if this were the first time you—”
She broke off.
“Come on, finish your sentence. The first time I what?”
“Never mind. Have you packed a suitcase at least?”
“No.”
“Oh, great! It’s going to take you two hours to pack, and at your normal cruising speed we’ll be lucky to get to Ragusa before ten o’clock!”
“Ah, ‘my cruising speed’! Aren’t we witty today! How long does it take to pack a suitcase? I’ll do mine in half an hour!”
“Should I start packing it myself?”
“For heaven’s sake, no!”
The one time he’d let her pack his bags, he’d found himself on the island of Elba with one brown shoe and one black.
“What’s that ‘for heaven’s sake’ supposed to mean?” Livia asked, sounding irritated.
“Nothing,” he said, having no desire to quarrel.
After a few minutes of silence, Montalbano asked:
“Tell me something. Do seagulls die in Boccadasse?”
Livia, who’d been staring at the road in front of her as though still resentful over the business of the suitcase, turned towards him with a look of astonishment and said nothing.
“Why are you looking at me like that? I simply asked you if seagulls die in Boccadasse.”
Livia kept staring at him without saying anything.
“Would you please answer me? Do they or don’t they?”
“But don’t you think that’s a stupid question?”
“Can’t you just answer me without assigning an intelligence quotient to my question?”
“I think they probably die in Boccadasse like anywhere else.”
“And have you ever seen one die?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean, you don’t think so? It’s not a matter of faith, you know. You’ve either seen one or you haven’t! You can’t go wrong!”
“Don’t raise your voice. I’ve never seen one! Happy now? I’ve never seen one!”
“Now you’re the one who’s yelling!”
“But why do you ask me questions like that? You seem so strange this morning! Are you feeling all right?”
“I feel great! I feel like a god, goddammit! Jesus motherfucking Christ, do I feel good! I’ve never felt better in all my life!”
“Don’t use obscenities and don’t—”
“I’ll speak however I want, okay?”
Livia didn’t reply, and he fell silent. Neither of them said another word.
But how was it that they never failed to squabble over the slightest thing? And how was it that it never passed through either of their heads to draw the logical conclusion of the situation, which was to shake hands and break up once and for all?
They both remained silent for the rest of the drive back to Marinella.
Once home, instead of leaving at once for headquarters, Montalbano felt like taking a shower. Maybe it would wash away the agitation that had come over him after quarreling with Livia in the car. She, however, had locked herself in the bathroom upon arrival.
He took off all his clothes and tapped discreetly at the door.
“What do you want?”
“Hurry up, I want to take a shower.”
“Just wait. I’m going to take one first.”
“Come on, Livia, I have to go to the office!”
“But you said all you have to do is sign some papers!”
“All right, but don’t forget that I’ve just made a round trip, Vigàta–Palermo, to go pick you up! I need to take a shower!”
“And haven’t I just come all the way from Genoa? Isn’t that a little farther? So I get to go first!”
So now she’s counting the miles?
He cursed the saints, looked for a bathing suit, put it on, and went down to the beach.
Although the sun was high in the sky by now, the sand under his feet was cool.
The instant he got in the water, the cold nearly gave him a heart attack. The only solution was to start swimming at once, and vigorously. After a good fifteen minutes of breaststrokes, he started floating on the surface.
In the sky there wasn’t a bird to be seen anywhere, not for all the money in the world. As he lay there with his mouth open, a few drops of seawater slid down his face and into his mouth, between his palate and tongue. It tasted strange.
He took a bit of water into his hand and brought it to his mouth. There was no doubt about it: the sea didn’t taste the way it used to. It seemed to lack salt, and tasted bitter and nasty, like stale mineral water. Maybe that was why the seagulls . . . But then why did the mullets he feasted on at the trattoria still have the same delightful fragrance they’d always had?
As he was swimming towards the beach, he saw Livia sitting on the veranda in her bathrobe, drinking coffee.
“How’s the water?”
“Stale.”
When he came out of the shower, he found Livia standing in front of him.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. Do you have to go to the station right away?”
“No.”
“Well, then . . .”
He understood. Hearing a sort of symphony orchestra strike up in his head, he squeezed her tight.
It was a beautiful way to make peace.
“Four o’clock, and I mean it!” she reminded him afterwards, accompanying him to the door.
“Get me Fazio right away,” he said to Catarella, passing in front of his post.
“He ain’t onna premisses, Chief.”
“Has he called?”
“Nossir, Chief.”
“As soon as he gets in, tell him to come to my office.”
There was a veritable m
ountain of papers teetering on his desk. He felt disheartened. He was tempted to blow it all off. What could they do to him if he didn’t sign them? The death penalty had been abolished, and even life sentences were on the way out. And so? Maybe with a good lawyer he could drag things out until his crime of refusal to apply his signature fell under the statute of limitations. There were even prime ministers who had benefited from this statute of limitations to dodge prosecution for much more serious crimes.
But then his sense of duty won out.
2
Augello came in without knocking or even saying hello. He looked downcast.
“What’s wrong, Mimì?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, Mimì.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Come on, Mimì.”
“I spent the whole night quarreling with Beba.”
“Why?”
“She says I don’t earn enough money with my salary and so she wants to find a job. Actually, she’s already been offered a good one.”
“And you’re against it?”
“No. The problem is the kid.”
“I see. You mean, how can she work at a job with the kid?”
“For her there’s no problem. All taken care of. She wants to send him to day care.”
“So?”
“Well, I’m against it.”
“Why?”
“He’s too small. It’s true he’s old enough, but he’s too small and I feel bad for him.”
“You think he’ll be mistreated?”
“Of course not! He’d be treated just fine! But I feel bad for him anyway. I’m hardly ever at home. If Beba starts working, she’ll end up going out in the morning and not coming home till evening. And the little kid’ll think he’s been orphaned.”
“Cut the crap, Mimì. Being an orphan is something else altogether. I can tell you from experience, as you know.”
“Sorry. Let’s change the subject.”
“Any news?”
“Nah. Dead calm.”
“Do you know why Fazio hasn’t shown up yet?”
“No.”
“Listen, Mimì, have you ever seen a seagull die?”
“No.”
“This morning I watched one die right in front of the veranda.”
“Had it been shot?”
“I can’t say.”
Augello stared at him. Then he stuck two fingers into the breast pocket of his jacket, pulled out his glasses, and put them on.
“What do you mean?”
“No, first you have to tell me why you put on your glasses.”
“To hear you better.”
“Do they have a hearing device built in?”
“No, I can hear just fine.”
“So why did you put on your glasses?”
“To see you better.”
“Oh, no you don’t, Mimì, that’s cheating! You said you put them on to hear me better! Hear, not see!”
“It’s the same thing. If I can see you better, I can understand you better.”
“And what’s to understand?”
“What’re you getting at?”
“I’m not getting at anything, Mimì! I just asked you a simple question!”
“And since I know you well, I know where this simple question is going to lead.”
“And where’s that?”
“To us starting an investigation into who killed that seagull! You’d be perfectly capable of it!”
“Cut the shit, Mimì!”
“Oh, no? And what about the time you found that dead horse on the beach? You made trouble for everyone until you were able to—”
“You know what I say to you, Mimì? Get the hell out of here and go scratch your balls in your own office.”
He’d been signing papers upon papers for half an hour when the phone rang.
“Chief, ’at’d be a Signor Mizzica ’at wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”
“On the phone?”
“Nossir, ’e’s onna premisses.”
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“Says iss a quesshin o’ fishin’ boats, the kine witt motors.”
“Tell him I’m too busy and have him talk to Inspector Augello.”
Then the inspector changed his mind.
“Actually, no, I’ll talk to him first.”
If Signor Mizzica dealt in fishing boats, maybe he could tell him something about seagulls.
“Hello, Inspector, Adolfo Rizzica’s the name.”
As if Catarella would ever get a name right . . .
“Please sit down and tell me what I can do for you. But I should warn you that I’ve got barely five minutes to listen to you. Just give me a general sense, and you can tell the rest to my second-in-command, Inspector Augello.”
Rizzica was about sixty and well dressed, with a polite and respectful demeanor. He had a salt-eaten face typical of a man of the sea. Sitting at the edge of his chair, he was quite nervous. His forehead was beaded with sweat and he was clutching a handkerchief. He kept his eyes lowered and couldn’t make up his mind to begin talking.
“I’m waiting, Signor Rizzica.”
“I own five fishing trawlers.”
“I’m glad to hear it. And so?”
“I think I can talk straight with you, so I’ll get right to the point. One of these five boats seems suspicious to me.”
“Suspicious in what way?”
“Well, once or twice a week, this trawler comes in late.”
“I still don’t understand. Comes in later than the others?”
“Yessir.”
“So where’s the problem? Please try to be—”
“Inspector, normally I know where these guys piss, how much time they take to do it, and I’m always in touch with them via radiophone. And when they’re done, they tell me they’re on their way in.”
“And so?”
“Even the captain of this boat, whose name is Maria Concetta—”
“The captain’s a woman?”
“Nossir, he’s a man.”
“So why does he have a woman’s name?”
“It’s the boat that has a woman’s name, sir. The captain’s name is Salvatore Aureli.”
“Okay, and?”
“Captain Aureli’ll tell me he’s coming in with the others, but then will put in an hour late, sometimes an hour and a half.”
“Does his boat have a slower engine?”
“Nossir, on the contrary.”
“So why’s he coming in late?”
“That’s the mystery, Inspector. I think the whole crew’s in on it.”
“In on what?”
“That sea’s full of traffic, Inspector. Worse than an autostrada, know what I mean?”
“No.”
“I think—but it’s only what I think, mind you—I think he stops somewhere to load.”
“To load what?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“Listen, Signor Rizzica, I haven’t got time for guessing games.”
“In my opinion, Inspector, they’re trafficking drugs. An’ if anyone finds out about this, I don’ want any part of it.”
“Drugs? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely sure, no. But, you know . . .”
“And what sort of explanations has Aureli given for being late?”
“He comes up with a new story every time. Once it was because the motor seized up, another time the net got caught—”
“Listen, perhaps it’s best if you go at once and talk to Inspector Augello about all this. But first I’d like to ask you one question.”
“Sure, by all mea
ns.”
“Have you ever happened to see a seagull die?”
Hardly expecting such a question, Rizzica gave him a bewildered look.
“What’s that got to do with—”
“It’s got nothing to do with it, nothing at all. It’s just something I’m personally curious about.”
The man thought it over briefly.
“Yes, there was one time, when I had only one trawler and was boarding the boat, I saw a gull fall down dead.”
“Did it do anything before dying?”
The man grew even more bewildered.
“What was it supposed to do, write a will?”
Montalbano got irritated.
“Listen, Mizzica—”
“Rizzica.”
“—don’t get wise with me! I asked you a serious question.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.”
“So, what did it do before it died?”
Rizzica thought about it for a minute.
“It didn’t do anything, Inspector. It fell like a rock into the water and just floated there.”
“Ah, so it died at sea,” said Montalbano, disappointed.
If it fell into the water, there was no way it could have performed its dance.
“I’ll show you into Inspector Augello’s office,” he said, getting up.
Was it possible that nobody else had ever seen a seagull dancing as it died? Was he the only one? Who could he ask? The telephone rang. It was Livia.
“Did you know your refrigerator’s empty?”
“No.”
“This is clearly an act of sabotage by your beloved Adelina. You told her I was coming, and the woman, who obviously hates me, cleaned it out.”
“Good lord, such strong words! She doesn’t hate you, you just don’t particularly like each other, that’s all.”
“So you put me on the same level as her?!”
“Livia, for heaven’s sake, let’s not start! There’s no need to make a big fuss over an empty refrigerator. You can come and have lunch with me at Enzo’s trattoria.”
“And how will I get there? On foot?”
“All right, then, I’ll come and pick you up.”
“How soon?”
“Jesus, Livia, I’ll come and get you when it’s time.”
“But can’t you give me even a vague idea of when—”
The Dance of the Seagull Page 2
