im6 The Scent of the Night (2005)

by Andrea Camilleri

  A woman's muffled voice answered from above.

  What is it?'

  'Come downstairs, signora, there's someone here wants to talk to you.'

  'I'll be right down.'

  Montalbano stepped out onto the landing. He heard a door open and close upstairs, then a strange noise that sounded like a bellows in action. It all became clear to him when he saw Signora Catarina appear at the top of the stairs. She must have weighed no less than twenty-one or twenty-two stone, and with every step she took, she made that huffing sound. As soon as she saw the inspector, she stopped.

  'And who are you?'

  I'm a police inspector. Montalbano's the name.' What do you want from me?' To talk to you, signora.' Will it take long?'

  The inspector made an evasive gesture with his hand. Signora Catarina looked at him thoughtfully.

  It's better if you come upstairs' she finally decided, beginning the difficult manoeuvre of turning herself around.

  The inspector lingered. He would wait until he heard the key turn in the door upstairs before he moved.

  'Come on up' the woman's voice guided him.

  He found himself in the right living room. Madonnas under bell jars, reproductions of tearful Madonnas, little Madonna-shaped bottles full of Lourdes water. The signora was already seated in an armchair that had obviously been made to measure. She signalled to Montalbano to sit down on the sofa.

  'Tell me something, Mr Inspector. I was expecting this! I could sense he would end up this way, that degenerate hoodlum! In jail! Behind bars for his whole life, till the day he dies!'

  'Who are you talking about, signora?'

  'Who do you think? My husband! He's been out of the house for three days straight! Gambling, drinking, whoring, the vile, filthy wretch!'

  'I'm sorry, signora, but I didn't come here because of your husband.'

  'Ah, no? So who'd you come for, then?'

  'For Giacomo Pellegrino. He was renting the apartment downstairs, wasn't he?' The sort of globe that was Signora Catarina's face began to look more and more bloated, and the inspector was beginning to fear it might explode. In reality the woman was smiling with delight

  'Now there's a line boy for you! So educated and polite! I'm so sorry I lost him!'

  'You lost him in what sense?' 'I lost him because he left my house.' 'He no longer lives downstairs?' 'No, sir.'

  'Please tell me the whole story from the beginning, signora.'

  'What beginning?' she said in dialect. 'Round about the twenty-fifth of August, he comes up here and tells me he's gonna move out, and since he dint give no advance notice, he puts three months' rent in my hands. On the thirtieth, in the morning, he packed two suitcases with his stuff, said goodbye to me, and left the apartment empty. And that's the beginning and the end.'

  'Did he say where he was going to live?'

  'An' why should he tell me that? What are we? Mother and son? Husband and wife? Brother and sister?'

  'Not even cousins?' asked Montalbano, offering another variation on the possibilities of relation. But Signora Catarina didn't grasp the irony.

  'Not a chance! All he said to me was he was going to Germany for about a month, but when he got back he was gonna move into his own house. Such a good boy. May the good Lord stand by him and help him!'

  'Has he written or phoned you from Germany?'

  'Why would he do that? What are we, relatives or something?'

  'I think we've well established the answer to that question,' said Montalbano. 'Has anyone come looking for him?'

  'No, sir, nobody. Except around the fourth or fifth of September, when somebody did come looking for him.' 'Do you know who it was?'

  'Yessir, a pliceman. He said Mr Giacomo was supposed to report to the p'lice station. But I told him he left for Germany.'

  'Did he have a car?'

  'Who, Giacomino? No, he knew how to drive, had his licence and all, but he din't have no car. He had a little broken-down motorbike. Sometimes it'd start, sometimes it wouldn't.'

  Montalbano stood up, thanked her, and said goodbye. ' 'Scuse me if I don t walk you to the door,' said Signora Catarina, 'but it's hard for me to stand up.'

  'Reason with me for a minute' said the inspector to the red mullets he had on his plate. 'According to what Signora Catarina told me, Giacomo left the house on the morning of August the thirtieth. According to his namesake uncle, the next day Giacomo told him he was flying to Germany at four o'clock that afternoon. So the question is this: Where did Giacomo sleep on the night of the thirtieth? Wouldn't it have been more logical to leave the apartment on the morning of the thirty-first after spending the night

  there? And also: What happened to the motorbike? But the main question is: Is Giacomo's story of any importance to the investigation? And, if so, why?' The mullets did not answer, among other reasons because they were no longer on the plate but in Montalbano's belly.

  '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 favour of and those against building a bridge over the Strait of Messina. Burgio was to be spokesman for those in favour. At the end of the meeting, who knows why, there was going to be a projection of Roberto 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 film.

  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 ageing? 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 cupboard, 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 regno, 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 tarmac 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 caretaker at the primary 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 half a mile 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 two and a half miles outside Calapiano, and to get there one had to take a little track 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 comer. 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, adniiring the harmony of her movements but mostly spellbound by the aroma of ragu 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 Francois 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 Francois. Want to help me lay the table?'

  NINE

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

  He recognized Francois 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 Francois 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 Francois'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. Francois 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 ragu with his left, keeping his other hand on top of the boy's. Whenever the two hands had to quit each others 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 straightaway.'

  Aldo and his helpers stood up, said goodbye 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 Francois.

  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'

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

  'Bimbai' Francois called.

  A young mare with a blonde mane raised her head and came towards the boy. When she was within reach, Francpis started running and with a leap he was on the animal's bare back. He made a circle and returned.

  'Do you like her?' Francois 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 Francois.

  '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 Francois trying to embrace him around the waist but actually clutching his jacket At the door Francois 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, the 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 Vigata Police letterhead. He succeeded. Then he sat down and wrote a letter to the commissioner with no formal 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.