The Dance of the Seagull

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Did you ever call him back after he’d called looking for you?”

  “Yes. I had his cell phone number.”

  “Did you ever call him at a land line?”

  “Yeah, but it was a bar. He likes to be mysterious . . .”

  “Did he name any names?”

  “Not one, he was always vague . . . And I got more and more convinced he was just bullshitting.”

  “All right, we haven’t got much time left. Now just tell me why you went to the port.”

  “After not phoning me for a few days, he called. He said if I went there immediately I could catch them all red-handed. So I told my wife you’d called, and then I went out.”

  “He never explained what kind of smuggling it was?”

  “No. He only said he’d be waiting for me at the port, over by the storage houses, at three in the morning.”

  “So why did you go out shortly after eight o’clock?”

  “So the whole thing would seem more plausible to my wife.”

  “Did you bring your gun?”

  “No.”

  “Why the hell not?! You’re going to meet a bunch of clearly dangerous smugglers and—”

  “But I didn’t want to meet them! I only wanted to see them without being seen. Then, before making any moves, I would’ve called for reinforcements. And you know what? I still didn’t think any of it was real.”

  “Time’s up!” shouted the dwarf, coming in.

  “One last question. The evening that Manzella called to tell you to come to the port, are you sure it was him on the phone?”

  “It certainly sounded like him, though it’s true the voice sounded far away and sort of garbled. He always called from the cell phone. He said the reception wasn’t very good.”

  “All right, goodbye. See you tomorrow morning.”

  10

  Montalbano went out, but one second later he was back, reopened the door, and poked his head inside.

  “I just remembered that I have to go see the commissioner tomorrow morning. I’ll see you in the afternoon.”

  There was no sign of Angela in the corridor. It was exactly ten past four. He waited a few minutes, then went over to the policemen standing guard and held his badge up for them to see.

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano.”

  “Yes, sir,” they said in unison.

  “One of your colleagues from the Vigàta Police is in room fourteen. He suffered a head wound during a shootout. Could you keep a close watch over his room as well? It’s not certain that the armed man who slipped into the hospital had come for the Antimafia officials. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Absolutely, sir,” said one.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll keep an eye on him,” said the other.

  At the end of the corridor, he didn’t know whether to turn right or left. Then he spotted, at the back of the hallway on the right, the two cops with machine guns standing guard in front of the elevator. When he reached the ground floor, he took out the piece of paper Angela had given him. It was an internal number. He went up to the desk and asked one of the two women there to dial it for him. A moment later he was talking to Angela.

  “I’m sorry, but I wasn’t able to get free. Could we postpone everything till tomorrow?”

  “That’s perfectly fine with me.”

  “All right then, we can decide tomorrow morning on the time and place.”

  “No, Angela, I can’t come tomorrow morning.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I have an engagement.”

  “What about the afternoon?”

  “I’ll definitely be here at four in the afternoon.”

  “Okay, see you then. That way we can decide. My shift ends at six-thirty.”

  “Do you know a good place to eat here in Fiacca?”

  “There are so many. But . . .”

  “But?”

  “I don’t really want to be seen going out with . . . I mean, if somebody sees me with a stranger, there could be problems. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “It’s not a problem for you?”

  “Not at the moment, no. Want to come to Vigàta?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  She’d answered immediately. Clearly Angela had been expecting him to ask.

  “Have you got a car?”

  “Yes, but if you wait for about fifteen minutes after I get off, I can change here at the hospital, and we can go directly in your car.”

  What on earth was going through the girl’s head? He simply wanted to invite her out to a dinner without consequences. But he was sure that, whatever consequences there might be, he could dodge them without losing face.

  The visitors’ parking lot was behind the hospital complex, a good ten-minute walk away. The inspector found Gallo asleep, head thrown back and mouth open.

  “Hello!”

  Gallo gave a start and opened his eyes. He looked a little disoriented.

  “Sorry, Chief, I’m so behind on sleep, it’s eatin’ me alive.”

  “You didn’t sleep last night?”

  “No, and I didn’t the night before that, either. Soon as I lie down, I get this terrible stomachache. And now I can’t keep my eyes open.”

  “Go and get yourself a coffee at the hospital bar.”

  “I don’t feel like it.”

  “Listen, let’s get something straight. I’m not going to get in the car with someone who might suddenly fall asleep along a road full of traffic. I’ll drive. You get in the back and get some sleep.”

  Since he really did need to sleep, Gallo didn’t protest. In the time it took the inspector to maneuver out of the parking lot, Gallo, lying in back, was already in a deep sleep.

  As might be expected, the roadblock was still up outside of Fiacca, and Montalbano’s car was stopped. Seeing a man lying on the backseat with his arm over his face, the carabiniere grew suspicious. He’d started bending down to say something through the window, but then suddenly stood back, as though changing his mind. As the carabiniere was calling a couple of his colleagues over for a look, the inspector decided to play a little trick on Gallo. The three carabinieri approached cautiously, hands over their revolvers. Montalbano leaned back and enjoyed the scene, sitting motionless with his hands clearly visible above the steering wheel.

  “What’s he doing, sleeping?” the first carabiniere asked the inspector.

  “Yeah. Deeply.”

  “Wake him up.”

  “Wake him up yourself. But I should warn you: he gets upset whenever somebody startles him awake. His reactions are unpredictable. So now I’ve told you, I don’t want the responsibility.”

  “So how should I wake him up?”

  “I don’t know. Try saying something sweet to him, stroke his cheek . . .”

  “Come on, are you joking?”

  “Do I seem like someone who likes to joke around?” Montalbano replied, looking offended.

  The carabiniere went to discuss matters with the other two officers, then said to the inspector:

  “Please get slowly out of the car.”

  “With my hands in the air?”

  “There’s no need.”

  Montalbano got out without making the slightest noise. The carabiniere then jerked open the back door, jumped aside, and yelled:

  “You! Get out with your hands up!”

  Gallo woke up with a start to find three guns pointed at him and started shouting.

  “I’m a policeman! Don’t shoot!”

  “Let’s see your papers.”

  Gallo took them out, and the first carabiniere tore into Montalbano.

  “Why didn’t you tell us he was a policeman?”


  “You didn’t ask.”

  The carabiniere called the marshal over. His superior wanted to see Montalbano’s papers.

  “Why didn’t you identify yourself?” he asked.

  “Nobody asked me to. This carabiniere simply asked me if my officer was asleep. And I said yes. Is this business going to take much longer?”

  “No, Inspector. Just long enough to write you up a ticket. Is this your car?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “You’re driving with your lights off and a broken taillight.”

  Just deserts for screwing around with the carabinieri and not letting Gallo drive.

  When he entered his office, he found Mimì sitting there, waiting for him.

  “What can you tell me?”

  “Found them all.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Montalbano, who at that moment was thinking about Angela.

  “It means all five gentlemen around sixty who like to have their feet pedicured answered the call. I also checked the Montelusa phone book, which Galluzzo gave me. All alive and kicking. Therefore the victim did not go to any of the pedicurists in Vigàta or Montelusa. Nor did he have anything to do with the callus specialist. Fazio tell you anything?”

  “Yes.”

  The inspector told him about Manzella.

  “And why did they shoot at him at the port?”

  “I’ll find that out in the next installment.”

  “I believe I heard you say Manzella told Fazio he was married and his wife was pregnant,” said Mimì.

  “You heard right. And it’s the only thing we’ve got to go on at the moment.”

  Without saying a word, Augello got up, went out, and returned with the telephone book, which he started thumbing through.

  “There are two Filippo Manzellas in Vigàta. And another in Montelusa,” he concluded from his search.

  “Turn on the speakerphone and start with Vigàta.”

  The first Filippo Manzella was a surly old man who started verbally abusing Mimì. The second wasn’t at home, a woman calling herself his wife assured him; he’d left about an hour earlier on a fishing boat.

  “So we have to rule this one out, too, since at least until an hour ago, he was still alive,” Augello concluded.

  Montalbano looked at him with an expression somewhere between admiration and astonishment.

  “Mimì, you sometimes arrive at staggering conclusions that would put even Monsieur Lapalisse to shame.”

  “I’ve learned from you,” Augello rebutted, dialing the Montelusa number.

  “Hello, who’s there?” asked a female voice.

  “Police,” said Mimì.

  The woman got scared.

  “Ohmygod, what happened?”

  “Please don’t be alarmed, signora. I’m just calling about a fine. Does Filippo Manzella live there?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that my husband and I no longer live together. We separated five years ago.”

  “I see. Do you know where he lives now?”

  “Well, until about two weeks ago I knew he was living in Vigàta at 13, Via della Forcella, but the last time he called me on the phone, he said he’d moved.”

  “When was the last time he called?”

  “As I said, about two weeks ago.”

  “And he hasn’t called back since then?”

  “No.”

  “Aren’t you worried that he hasn’t contacted you?”

  “No, I’m used to these silences. He only calls me for news of his son. But sometimes he’ll go a whole month without calling.”

  “Did he give you his new address?”

  “No.”

  At this point Montalbano took the phone away from him.

  “Hello, signora, this is Chief Inspector Montalbano. Would you mind if I came to Montelusa to talk to you?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes. Let’s say in about half an hour.”

  “No, I was just about to go out. If you want, you can come tomorrow morning anytime after eleven.”

  Montalbano thanked her, hung up, and rose.

  “You coming with me?” he asked Augello.

  “Where?”

  “Wake up, Mimì! To 13, Via della Forcella!”

  Via della Forcella was in one of those recently built-up areas along the road to Montereale. Number 13 was a six-story building, and beside the main entrance door was a sign that said:

  APARTMENTS FOR RENT. SEE PORTER.

  Montalbano parked, got out, and went in. Mimì had decided it was best for the inspector to go in alone, after phoning Beba and learning that little Salvuzzo had taken a tumble and hurt his forehead.

  Inside the porter’s lodge, which was actually a small apartment, he looked through an open door and saw a woman busying herself with a broom.

  “Is the porter here?”

  “No.”

  “Could you tell me who I should talk to for information on the available apartments?”

  “Me.”

  “And who are you, may I ask?”

  “The porter’s wife. Is that good enough?”

  “It’s good enough for me.”

  But he really didn’t feel like talking about Manzella with a woman who seemed like a busybody.

  “Listen, do you know when your husband will be back?”

  “If he can still find the way home, he should be back around eleven.”

  “Does he have a job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “At Gnazio Cutaja’s shop. His job is to empty glass after glass of wine. Know what I mean?”

  Witty, the porter’s wife.

  “I do.”

  An alcoholic. It was hopeless; he had no choice but to talk to her. Meanwhile the woman had stopped and, leaning on the broomstick, was eyeing him with a hint of malevolence.

  “Mind if I say something?” she asked.

  “Go ahead.”

  “You smell like a cop. No offense.”

  It was best to lay his cards on the table.

  “You’re right. I’m an inspector.”

  “Please come in and sit down.”

  Montalbano sat down on one of the chairs around a small table. From a tiny little kitchen came a wonderful smell of fish soup.

  “Would you like a little wine?”

  “Please don’t bother, thanks. My compliments on the fish broth, though. It must be delicious, to judge from the smell.”

  The woman’s attitude changed. She propped the broom up in a corner, smoothed out her apron, and sat down in one of the other chairs.

  “Ask me anything. I can tell you whatever you want to know.”

  “Signora, we’ve learned that a man named Filippo Manzella is supposed to have lived in one of the small apartments in this building until about twenty days ago. Is that correct?”

  “Yessir. He’s a good man.”

  “How long did he live here?”

  “’Bout three years.”

  “Why did he leave?”

  “He said he found something better.”

  “Did he leave a forwarding address?”

  “No.”

  “So what was he going to do about the mail and bills?”

  “He said he’d come by once a week.”

  “When did he last come by?”

  “He never came. I put aside three letters for him and an electrical bill.”

  “Did he ever receive visitors?”

  “Not during the day.”

  “How about at night?”

  “Mr. Inspector, how should I k
now? I lock up the lodge at seven-thirty every night, have dinner, watch TV, and go to bed. Whoever wants to come in uses the intercom outside.”

  “Could I have a look at the apartment where he used to live?”

  “What do you think you’re gonna find there? When I cleaned it up, all’s I found was a telescope he tol’ me he’d come by to pick up.”

  “And where’s this telescope?”

  “It’s still in the apartment. Just the way he left it, ’cause the apartment’s not been rented yet.”

  “Could I see it?”

  The woman sighed, got up, went into the other room, returned with a set of keys, and handed them to the inspector.

  “You can go by yourself. Sixth floor, number eighteen. Sorry, but I gotta look after my soup. There’s an elevator.”

  The door to apartment number 18 opened directly onto a small sitting room endowed with a television niche and an alcove kitchen. The sitting room led into the bedroom, where there was barely enough room for a double bed, a tiny closet, two bedside tables, and a window. A narrow door led into a microscopic bathroom with a shower. There were two telephone jacks, one in the living room, one in the bedroom, but there was no sign anywhere of a functioning phone. The telescope was enormous: resting on a tripod, it took up half the sitting room. It was pointed towards the port of Vigàta. The moment the inspector brought his eye to the eyepiece, he felt as if he could touch the outer wall of one of the cold storage warehouses on the side facing the sea, where the fishing boats docked to unload. The broad main door was open, and inside he could clearly see two men busy working.

  As he was leaving the tiny apartment, it suddenly occurred to him that he should look inside the closet. In addition to some blankets and a change of sheets, he found a pair of binoculars in their case. He took them out. They were powerful military binoculars with infrared lenses.

  Manzella must have bought them on the black market for a hefty sum.

  He put them back, closed up, went down the stairs, and gave the keys back to the porter’s wife.

  “A few more questions and then I’ll leave you in peace.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why didn’t I see any telephones in the place?”

  “Signor Manzella used only a cell phone.”

  “Do you know where he worked?”