The Dance of the Seagull

by Andrea Camilleri

  “But, Chief . . .”

  “No arguments. Ring Augello’s cell phone and find out where things stand.”

  After talking, Gallo gave him a report.

  “Forensics are still at the scene, but they’re almost finished. Tommaseo and Pasquano have already left.”

  “All right. Tell Augello to wait for us at the drinking trough.”

  “Forensics found two empty shells” was the first thing Mimì said to him.

  “Where?”

  “Right beside the well. Nobody saw them earlier because they were hidden by all the pump equipment.”

  “So Forensics has them?”

  “Yes. But I was able to have a look at them and compare them with the one in my pocket that I found at the slips. At a glance, they look the same to me.”

  “Who was the dead guy?”

  “He didn’t have any papers on him. No name, about thirty.”

  “How’d he die?”

  “He fell.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. He died falling into the well. The damn thing’s a hundred feet deep, for crying out loud.”

  “How long ago did he die?”

  “About ten hours ago, max, according to Pasquano.”

  “Are we sure there were no bullet wounds on the body?”

  “Absolutely certain.”

  “Then let’s not waste any more time.”

  “Tell us what you want us to do.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. Let’s wait a little longer before informing the commissioner. First let’s have a look around ourselves.”

  “Fine, I agree. But do you have any sense of what might have happened?”

  “Look, guys, what I think happened is this: At some point Fazio, realizing they were going to throw him into the well, must have reacted wildly, so that one of the thugs holding him prisoner ended up falling into the well instead of him. And then he ran away, but the other guy started shooting, forcing him to stop.”

  “But if that’s how it went, then why, once the guy caught him again, didn’t he just shoot him and throw him into the well as they’d planned to do from the start?”

  “That’s a good point, but the fact is that he’s not in the well. So we have to look for him elsewhere, but still in the general vicinity.”

  “Where should we start?”

  “Over by Monte Scibetta. See that little house down there, near the high-tension pylon? Go there in the car, search the house, and if you don’t find anything in it, take the little dirt road that’s behind it—it’s the only one there—and take it up to the top. The mountain is full of caves and crags. Call out his name from time to time. Maybe he can’t move. We’ll stay in touch with each other via cell phone.”

  “All right. And what about you?”

  “I’ve got a little idea of my own. We’ll talk again in an hour.”

  “Where do you wanna go?” asked Gallo.

  “Into the tunnel that runs through the mountain.”

  “I think I heard that you can’t go in. It’s closed.”

  “Let’s go and have a look anyway.”

  The tunnel entrance was sealed by a palisade of dank, rotten boards. Cars, of course, could not pass through, but people certainly could.

  In fact, to the right, two of the planks had been smashed, making it possible to walk straight in. Apparently the tunnel served as a nocturnal shelter for vagabonds, or as a safe place for taking drugs.

  “We have to go in with the car,” said Montalbano.

  “Why?”

  “It’s pitch black in there. We need the headlights.”

  “I’ll go and have a look,” said Gallo, getting out of the car.

  The inspector watched him go up to the makeshift fencing. Gallo then took a step back, raised his right leg, and dealt a forceful kick to one of the planks. Which gave way like tissue paper.

  “Get out of the car,” Gallo said to the inspector, getting back into the driver’s seat.

  Montalbano obeyed. Gallo started it back up and approached the barrier ever so slowly, and when the car’s front bumper touched the wood, he continued going forward, applying more and more pressure. In a second, half the palisade fell apart, creating an opening a truck could have passed through.

  Montalbano returned to the car and got inside. The high beam lit up the tunnel brightly. To the right, they immediately noticed what looked like a man lying down. They got a better look. It was a pile of clothes and blankets riddled with holes.

  Bothered by the light, a cat dashed out from under the rags and ran away.

  “That cat doesn’t have it so bad,” said Montalbano, “with all the mice there must be in here.”

  “Chief, that wasn’t a cat, but a rat,” said Gallo. “We’ll have to be careful if we get out of the car. They might eat us alive.”

  They’d gone another fifty yards or so when a shot suddenly struck the windshield square in the middle.

  They leapt completely out of the car, both at the same time, Montalbano to the right and Gallo to the left, and remained sprawled out on the ground. Then, after a brief pause, Gallo started sliding backwards and, leaning on his elbows, passed behind the car and around, until he was beside the inspector.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No. You?”

  “Me neither.”

  They spoke softly, into each other’s ear. The car’s engine was still running, the high beams still on, lighting up a long stretch of tunnel. But there wasn’t a soul to be seen. Where had the shot come from?

  “You armed, Chief?” asked Gallo.

  “No.”

  “I am.”

  “If he’s smart, he should shoot out the headlights. Why isn’t he?”

  “Maybe because he doesn’t want us to know where he is, or because he hasn’t got many bullets left.”

  “Look. I think I see a sort of white streak along the wall, over there on the right—it sort of zigzags and then stops, about ten yards up.”

  “You’re right. It must be a recess in the tunnel wall, a kind of parking area.”

  “Then he’s there.”

  “Who?”

  “Whoever’s holding Fazio. He must have recognized the police car.”

  “What should we do?”

  “We have to do something immediately. I’m afraid he’s going to get some brilliant idea.”

  “What can he do?”

  “Well, if he comes out in the open holding a gun to Fazio’s head, all we can do is stand aside and let him leave, probably in our car!”

  “And so?”

  “Listen. Let’s get back in the car, really quietly, without closing the doors. Then we’ll start slowly backing up.”

  “Okay.”

  “Stay as low as you can, because once the guy hears us leaving, he’s going to start shooting again.”

  They moved very carefully, climbed into the car, expecting at any moment to be shot at. But nothing happened. The windshield had a round hole in it, with a spider web of cracks all around it. But they could still see perfectly well through it.

  “What should I do now?” Gallo asked when, still in reverse, they were almost at the tunnel entrance.

  “All right, listen closely. Now we’re going to take off forward at high speed with the siren on, and—”

  “Why the siren?”

  “Because it should make a tremendous noise in here, which will confuse him. When we reach the recess in the wall, you’re going to brake and swerve so that the space will be lit up by the headlights. Give me your gun.”

  Gallo handed it to him. Montalbano braced himself with his one hand clutching the dashboard from underneath, then leaned out the open door with three-fourths of hi
s body, pointing the weapon forward, ready to shoot.

  “Now be sure to make the car turn so that it lights up the recess. I can’t do anything until I know exactly where Fazio is. I don’t want to shoot him by accident.”

  “No problem, Chief.”

  “Go!”

  Gallo outdid himself. The moment he reached the recess, the nose of the car spun to the right, as if it wanted to enter it and then suddenly stopped. In the recess they saw a man dazzled by the headlights and disoriented by the siren, sticking his arm out and firing one shot blindly, left forearm covering his eyes. He didn’t have time to do anything else. Already out of the car before it had stopped, Montalbano dealt him a swift kick in the stomach. The man fell to the ground, writhing in pain, and let go of his pistol. Montalbano bent down to look at him. He paled. It wasn’t Fazio’s captor. It was Fazio.

  It was more than obvious that he hadn’t recognized them and continued not to recognize them. His head wound wasn’t deep, but must have been deep enough to make him lose his memory. As they were putting him in the car, he tried to escape, swinging at Montalbano’s face, though the inspector miraculously managed to dodge the punch.

  “Handcuff ’im.”

  “Handcuff Fazio?!”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Gallo. Don’t you see he can’t tell his friends from his enemies? He must have a pretty high fever.”

  “Should we take him to the hospital?”

  “Of course. And in a hurry. We’ll go to the one in Fiacca.”

  “Why not Montelusa?”

  “It’s better if everyone thinks we haven’t found him yet. And it’s even better if they don’t know what hospital he’s in. Let’s go now, and give me your cell phone.”

  The first call he made was to Mimì. He explained to him what had happened and told him to go back to Vigàta. The second call was to Fazio’s wife.

  But before dialing the number, he turned towards Fazio.

  “Want to talk to your wife?”

  Fazio acted as if he hadn’t heard the question and merely kept staring into the space in front of him. So the inspector phoned Fazio’s wife and told her the whole story.

  “How is he?” was the only thing she wanted know.

  “He’s got a head injury, but it doesn’t look too serious to me. He’s lost his memory. I’ll call you back as soon as we get him to a hospital. But please don’t worry, it’s going to be all right.”

  If only all women were like that! he thought, turning the cell phone off. For the whole drive, Fazio didn’t open his mouth. He didn’t even look out the window. He only kept his eyes glued to the back of Gallo’s head, as the driver raced wildly through the barren landscape.

  Some two hours later, they were back on the road to Montelusa. In the opinion of the doctor who examined him, Fazio was suffering from cranial trauma. The wound itself was minor. The memory loss could have been caused by two things: shock or something involving the brain. But the doctor couldn’t tell them much for another twenty-four hours. At any rate, it didn’t seem like anything life-threatening. Montalbano informed the wife, who said she would leave at once for Fiacca.

  “Would you like me to send a car to take you there?”

  “No, thank you, there’s no need.”

  Now that everything had been resolved, fatigue started to come crashing down on him, bit by bit, so that by the time he got home to Marinella, he barely had time to open the front door and close it before he fell to his knees like a horse that can’t take another step.

  There wasn’t a single muscle in his body that wasn’t slack.

  He crawled on all fours to the bedroom, climbed onto the bed, still fully dressed, gripping the covers, and fell immediately into a deep, fathomless sleep.

  He woke up the following morning around eight. He’d slept for twelve hours straight and felt completely rested, but was so hungry that he could have eaten the legs of a chair. How long had it been since he’d had a proper meal? He went to the refrigerator, opened it, and felt heartsick. Empty, as desolate as a desert. Not even an olive, a sardine, a piece of tumazzo. But how was it that Adelina hadn’t . . . But Adelina . . . Adel . . .

  All at once he remembered.

  And at the very same moment he remembered, he wished he had lost his memory like Fazio. They say the light of truth makes him upon whom it shines rejoice and keeps him warm. Whereas the light of the truth that shone on Montalbano—which in this case was the little light inside the refrigerator—made him freeze, turning him at once into a block of ice.

  He’d completely forgotten about Livia, Jesus fucking Christ!

  He called her name, not moving, since he was unable to take so much as a single step.

  “Livia!”

  The voice that came out of his mouth sounded rather like a cat mewling. No, Livia was nowhere around, there was no point in calling her name. With great effort he unfroze, went back into the bedroom, and looked around. No trace of Livia whatsoever, as though she’d never come down from Boccadasse. He went into the dining room.

  On the table was a letter.

  A last goodbye, no doubt. For good, this time, with no change of mind possible. How could he blame her? All the same, he didn’t have the courage to pick up the piece of paper just yet. Before reading it, he needed to pull himself together, to find the strength necessary to listen to what he deserved to hear. He took all his clothes off, threw them into the hamper, took a shower and shaved, made coffee, drank three cups, one after the other, got dressed, phoned the hospital, and managed to talk to Signora Fazio.

  “Any news?”

  “They have to operate on him, Inspector.”

  “Why?”

  “He has a blood clot on his brain.”

  “Because of the wound?”

  “The doctor says he must also have fallen and hit his head in the same place as the wound.”

  “When is the operation?”

  “I don’t know. Sometime this morning, in any case.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “Listen, Inspector, the chief physician here, who’s a wonderful person, told me he’s in no danger for his life, and it’s a relatively easy operation. But just in case, take down my cell phone number.”

  “Thanks, I’ll take it down, but I’m coming anyway.”

  He hung up, grabbed Livia’s letter, and went out on the veranda and sat down.

  Dearest Salvo,

  After waiting for you for three hours (we had agreed we were going to have dinner together, remember?) I got absolutely furious.

  As I was about to ring you, I had an idea: to come to the police station in person and start slapping you in front of everyone. I wanted to make an ugly scene that your men would remember for a long time.

  So I called a taxi and came to the station. I told Catarella I wanted to see you and he replied that you weren’t in your office. When I asked him if he knew what time you’d be back, he said he didn’t know. And he added that the only thing he knew was that you’d had to go to Montelusa.

  Since I had no intention of abandoning my plan to slap you, I told him I would wait for you in your room. Which I did.

  But a few minutes later Catarella appeared.

  He closed the door behind him, started acting mysterious, and said he wanted to talk to me, even though he wasn’t convinced he was doing the right thing. And he told me that, in his opinion, something had happened to Fazio.

  Something serious, because you had seemed very concerned.

  That was when I understood in a flash that if you’d totally forgotten about your appointment with me, then the situation must be very dire.

  I know how much you care about Fazio.

  And so my anger simmered down immediately.

  I went to have a bite to eat at Enzo’s and then go
t in another taxi and went back to Marinella. Around 6 pm, I phoned Catarella. He told me there was no news, and that you weren’t back yet.

  And so I thought that if I stayed around I might just get in the way.

  I reserved a seat on the ten o’clock flight for tomorrow morning. I sincerely hope everything turns out all right.

  So, too bad for now. Maybe next time.

  There’s only one thing I hold against you: not having found the time to call me and tell me what was happening.

  Please keep me informed about Fazio.

  A big hug,

  Forever yours

  Livia

  It would have been a thousand times better if Livia had written a letter full of obscenities, insults, and abuse. This way, it only made him feel like the shit that he was. Or maybe Livia had written him so understanding a letter just to humiliate him all the more. Because, even admitting that his tremendous concern for Fazio had muddled his brain, there still was no excuse for not having even given Livia a ring. How on earth had Livia managed to slip his mind entirely?

  It’s not just absurd, said Montalbano Two. The truth is that you erased Livia completely out of your consciousness. That was why you didn’t phone her. Because there was nobody left in your head to phone.

  And what are you getting at with that observation? Montalbano One asked polemically.

  I’m not getting at anything. I’m simply saying that Livia is only intermittently present in your thoughts.

  Okay, fine, but now that Livia is in fact extremely present in my thoughts for the moment, what, in your opinion, should I do?

  Call her at once.

  Instead Montalbano decided not to call her.

  By that hour she was already at the office, and the phone call would have necessarily been short and constrained. No, he would call her that evening, when he would have all the time he needed to sort things out. The best thing to do right now was to leave at once for Fiacca.

  But before getting in his car, he rang Fazio’s wife.

  “He’s in the operating room, Inspector. There’s no point in coming now. They won’t even let me see him.”

  “Could you then call the station after the operation and let us know how it went? I would really appreciate it.”