Voice of the Violin

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Thank you,” said Anna.

  “For what?”

  “For letting me talk about Michela. I don’t have anybody to . . . Thanks. I feel calmer now.”

  6

  No sooner had Anna Tropeano left than the door to the inspector’s office flew open, slamming into the wall, and Catarella came barreling into the room.

  “The next time you come in here like that, I’m gonna shoot you. And you know I mean it,” Montalbano said calmly.

  Catarella, however, was too excited to worry about this.

  “Chief, I just wanna say I got a call from the c’missioner’s office. Remember the concourse in pewters I tol’ you ’bout? Well, it starts Monday morning an’ I gotta be there. Whatcha gonna do witout me onna phone?”

  “We’ll survive, Cat.”

  “Oh, Chief, Chief! You said you dint wanna be distroubled when you was talking wit da lady an’ I did what you said! But inna meantime you gotta lotta phone calls! I wrote ’em all down on dis li’l piece a paper.”

  “Give it to me and get out of here.”

  On a poorly torn-out piece of notebook paper was written:

  “Phone calls: Vizzallo Guito Sarah Valli Losconti yer frend Zito Rotonò Totano Ficuccio Cangialosi Sarah Valli of Bolonia agin Cipollina Pinissi Cacamo.”

  Montalbano started scratching himself all over. It must have been some mysterious form of allergy, but every time he was forced to read something Catarella had written, an irresistible itch came over him. With the patience of a saint, he deciphered:

  Vassallo, Guido Serravalle (Michela’s Bolognese lover), Loconte (who sold fabric for curtains), his friend Nicolò Zito, Rotondo (the furniture salesman), Todaro (the plant and garden man), Riguccio (the electrician), Cangelosi (who’d invited Michela to dinner), and Serravalle again. Cipollina, Pinissi, and Cacamo, assuming that those were their real names, were unfamiliar to him, but in all likelihood they had phoned because they were friends or acquaintances of the murder victim.

  “May I?” asked Fazio, sticking his head inside the door.

  “Come on in. Did you get the lowdown on the engineer Di Blasi?”

  “Of course. Why else would I be here?”

  Fazio was apparently expecting to be praised for having taken such a short time to gather the information.

  “See? You did it in less than an hour,” the inspector said instead.

  Fazio darkened.

  “Is that the kind of thanks I get?”

  “Why, do you want to be thanked just for doing your duty?”

  “Inspector, may I say something, with all due respect? This morning you’re downright obnoxious.”

  “By the way, why haven’t I yet had the honor and pleasure, so to speak, of seeing Inspector Augello at the office this morning?”

  “He’s out today with Germanà and Galluzzo looking into that business at the cement works.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “You don’t know? Yesterday, about thirty-five workers at the cement factory were given pink slips. This morning they started raising hell, shouting, throwing stones. The manager got scared and called us up.”

  “And why did Mimì Augello go?”

  “The manager asked him for help!”

  “Jesus Christ! If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times. I don’t want anyone from my station getting mixed up in these things!”

  “But what was Augello supposed to do?”

  “He should have passed the phone call on to the carabinieri, who get off on that kind of thing! Mr. Manager’s always going to find another position when the going gets tough. The ones who get thrown out on their asses are the workers. And we’re supposed to club them over the head?”

  “Chief, excuse me again, but you’re really and truly a Communist, a hotheaded Communist.”

  “Fazio, you’re stuck on this Communist crap. I’m not a Communist, will you get that in your head once and for all?”

  “Okay, but you really do sound like one.”

  “Are we going to drop the politics?”

  “Yessir. Anyway: Aurelio Di Blasi, son of Giacomo and Maria Antonietta née Carlentini, born in Vigàta on April 3, 1937—”

  “You get on my nerves when you talk that way. You sound like a clerk at the records office.”

  “You don’t like it, Chief? What do you want me to do, sing it? Recite it like poetry?”

  “You know, as for being obnoxious, you’re doing a pretty good job yourself this morning.”

  The telephone rang.

  “At this rate we’ll be here till midnight.” Fazio sighed.

  “H’lo, Chief? I got that Signor Càcano that called before onna line. Whaddo I do?”

  “Lemme talk to him.”

  “Inspector Montalbano? This is Gillo Jàcono. I had the pleasure of meeting you at Mrs. Vasile Cozzo’s house once. I’m a former student of hers.”

  Over the receiver, in the background, Montalbano heard a female voice announcing the last call for the flight to Rome.

  “I remember very well. What can I do for you?”

  “Excuse me for being so brief, but I’m at the airport and have only a few seconds.”

  Brevity was something the inspector was always ready to excuse, at any time and under any circumstance.

  “I’m calling about the woman who was murdered.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “No, but Wednesday evening, around midnight, I was on my way from Montelusa to Vigàta in my car when the motor started acting up, and so I began driving very slowly. When I was in the Tre Fontane district, a dark Twingo passed me and then stopped in front of a house a short distance ahead. A man and a woman got out and walked up the driveway. I didn’t see anything else, but I’m sure about what I saw.”

  “When will you be back in Vigàta?”

  “Next Thursday.”

  “Come in and see me. Thanks.”

  Montalbano drifted off. That is, his body remained seated, but his mind was elsewhere.

  “What should I do, come back in a little bit?” Fazio asked in resignation.

  “No, no. Go ahead and talk.”

  “Where was I? Ah, yes. Construction engineer, but not a builder himself. Resides in Vigàta, Via Laporta number eight, married to Teresa Dalli Cardillo, housewife, but a well-to-do housewife. Husband owns a large plot of farm-land at Raffadali in Montelusa province, complete with farmhouse, which he refurbished. He’s got two cars, a Mercedes and a Tempra, two children, male and female. The female’s name is Manuela, thirty years old, married to a businessman and living in Holland. They’ve got two children, Giuliano, age three, and Domenico, age one. They live—”

  “Now I’m gonna break your head,” said Montalbano.

  “Why? What did I do?” Fazio asked disingenuously. “I thought you said you wanted to know everything about everything!”

  The phone rang. Fazio could only groan and look up at the ceiling.

  “Inspector. This is Emanuele Licalzi. I’m calling from Rome. My flight was two hours late out of Bologna and so I missed the connection to Palermo. I’ll be there around three o’clock this afternoon.”

  “No problem, I’ll be expecting you.”

  He looked at Fazio and Fazio looked at him.

  “How much more of this bullshit have you got?”

  “I’m almost done. The son’s name is Maurizio.”

  Montalbano sat up in his chair and pricked up his ears.

  “He’s thirty-one years old and a university student.”

  “At thirty-one?”

  “At thirty-one. Seems he’s a little slow in the head. He lives with his parents. End of story.”

  “No, I’m sure that is not the end of the story. Go on.”

  “Well, they’re only rumors . . .”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Fazio was obviously having a ball playing this game with his boss, since he held all the cards.

  “Well, Engineer Di Blasi is the second cousin of Dr. Emanue
le Licalzi. Michela became like one of the Di Blasi family. And Maurizio lost his head over her. For everyone in town, it turned into a farce: whenever Mrs. Licalzi went walking around Vigàta, there he was, following behind her, with his tongue hanging out.”

  So it was Maurizio’s name Anna didn’t want to give him.

  “Everyone I spoke to,” Fazio continued, “told me he’s a gentle soul, and a little dense.”

  “All right, thanks.”

  “There’s one more thing,” said Fazio, and it was clear he was about to fire the final blast, the biggest in the fireworks display. “Apparently the kid has been missing since Wednesday evening. Got that?”

  “Hello, Pasquano? Montalbano here. Got any news for me?”

  “A few things. I was about to call you myself.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  “The victim hadn’t eaten dinner. Or very little, at least, maybe a sandwich. She had a gorgeous body, inside and out. In perfect health, a splendid machine. She hadn’t drunk anything or taken any drugs. Death was caused by asphyxiation.”

  “Is that it?”

  “No. She’d clearly had sexual intercourse.”

  “Was she raped?”

  “I don’t think so. She’d had very rough vaginal intercourse, intense, I guess you could say. But there was no trace of seminal fluid there. Then she’d had anal intercourse, also very rough, and again no seminal fluid.”

  “But how can you know she wasn’t raped?”

  “Quite simple. To prepare for anal penetration an emollient cream was used, probably one of those moisturizing creams women keep in the bathroom. Have you ever heard of a rapist worried about minimizing his victim’s pain? No, trust me: the lady consented. And now I have to let you go. I’ll give you more details as soon as possible.”

  The inspector had an exceptional photographic memory. Closing his eyes, he put his head in his hands and concentrated. A moment later he could clearly see the little jar of moisturizing cream with the lid lying beside it, the last item on the right-hand side of the messy bathroom’s shelf.

  The nameplate next to the intercom outside Via Laporta 8 said only: “Eng. Aurelio Di Blasi.” He rang, and a woman’s voice answered.

  “Who is it?”

  Better not put her on her guard. They were probably already on pins and needles.

  “Is Engineer Di Blasi there?”

  “No, but he’ll be back soon. Who is this?”

  “I’m a friend of Maurizio’s. Could I come in?”

  For a moment he felt like a piece of shit, but it was his job.

  “Top floor,” said the voice.

  The elevator door was opened by a woman of about sixty, disheveled and looking very upset.

  “You’re a friend of Maurizio’s?” the woman asked anxiously.

  “Sort of,” replied Montalbano, feeling the shit spill out over his collar.

  “Please come in.”

  She led him into a large, tastefully furnished living room, pointed him towards an armchair, while she herself sat down in a plain chair, rocking her upper body back and forth, silent and desperate. The shutters were closed, some miserly shafts of light filtering through the slats. Montalbano felt as if he were attending a wake. He even thought the deceased was there, though invisible, and that his name was Maurizio. On the coffee table, scattered, were a dozen or so photos that all showed the same face, but in the shadowy room one couldn’t make out the features. The inspector heaved a long sigh, the way one does before holding one’s breath to go underwater, for he was about to dive into the abyss of sorrow that was the mind of Mrs. Di Blasi.

  “Have you heard from your son?”

  It was clear as day that things were exactly as Fazio had said.

  “No. Everyone’s been looking for him over land and sea. My husband, his friends . . . Everyone.”

  She started weeping quietly, tears running down her face, falling onto her skirt.

  “Did he have much money on him?”

  “Half a million lire, for certain. He also had a card, how’s it called, an ATM card.”

  “Let me get you a glass of water,” said Montalbano, standing up.

  “Please don’t bother, I’ll get it myself,” the woman said, standing up in turn and leaving the room. In a flash Montalbano seized one of the photos, glanced at it—a horse-faced kid with expressionless eyes—and stuck it in his jacket pocket. Apparently Mr. Di Blasi had had them made to be passed around. Mrs. Di Blasi returned, but instead of sitting back down, she remained standing in the arch of the doorway. She’d become suspicious.

  “You’re quite a bit older than my son. What did you say your name was?”

  “Actually, Maurizio is friends with my younger brother, Giuseppe.”

  He’d chosen one of the most common names in Sicily. But the signora’s thoughts were already elsewhere. She sat down and resumed rocking back and forth.

  “So you have no news of him since Wednesday evening?”

  “None whatsoever. He didn’t come home that night. He’d never done that before. He’s a simple boy, good-hearted. If you tell him dogs can fly, he’ll believe you. At some point that morning, my husband got worried and started making phone calls. A friend of his had seen him walking by in the direction of the Bar Italia. It was probably around nine in the evening.”

  “Did he have a cell phone?”

  “Yes. But who are you, anyway?”

  “Well,” the inspector said. “I think I’ll go now.”

  He headed quickly for the door, opened it, then turned around:

  “When was the last time Michela came here?”

  Mrs. Di Blasi turned red in the face.

  “Don’t you mention that slut’s name to me!”

  And she slammed the door behind him.

  The Bar Italia was practically next door to police headquarters. Everyone, Montalbano included, was family there. The owner was sitting at the cash register. He was a big man with ferocious eyes that contrasted with his innate kindheartedness. His name was Gelsomino Patti.

  “What’ll it be, Inspector?”

  “Nothing, Gelso. I need some information. Do you know this Maurizio Di Blasi?”

  “Did they find him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “His dad, poor guy, has come by here at least ten times to ask if there’s any news. But what kind of news could there be? If he comes back, he’s gonna go home, he ain’t gonna come and sit down at the bar.”

  “Listen, Pasquale Corso—”

  “Inspector, the father told me the same thing, that Maurizio came here round nine o’clock that night. But the fact is, he stopped on the street, right here in front, and I seen him real good from the register. He was about to come in, and then he stopped, pulled out his cell phone, and started talking. A little while later he was gone. But on Wednesday evening, he didn’t come in here, that much I know for sure. What reason would I have for sayin’ something that wasn’t true?”

  “Thanks, Gelso. So long.”

  “Chief! Dr. Latte called from Montelusa.”

  “Lattes, Cat, with an s at the end.”

  “Chief, one s more or less don’ make no difference. He said as how you should call ’im ’mediately. And then Guito Sarah Valli called after ’im. Left me ’is number in Bolonia. I wrote it on this here piece a paper.”

  It was time to eat, but he could squeeze in one call.

  “Hello? Who’s this?”

  “Inspector Montalbano. I’m calling from Vigàta. Are you Mr. Guido Serravalle?”

  “Yes, Inspector. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning, because when I called the Jolly to talk with Michela I found out . . .”

  A warm, mature voice, like a crooner’s.

  “Are you a relative?”

  He’d always found it to be a good tactic to pretend, during an investigation, that he knew nothing about the relationships between the various persons involved.

  “No. Actually, I . . .”

  “Friend?”r />
  “Yes, a friend.”

  “How much?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “How much of a friend?”

  Guido Serravalle hesitated before answering. Montalbano came to his aid.

  “An intimate friend?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “So, what can I do for you?”

  More hesitation. Apparently the inspector’s manner was throwing him off.

  “Uh, I just wanted to tell you . . . to make myself available. I own an antiques shop in Bologna that I can close whenever I want. If you need me for anything, I’ll get on a plane and come down. I wanted . . . I was very close to Michela.”

  “I understand. If I need you for anything, I’ll have someone call you.”

  He hung up. He hated people who made useless phone calls. What could Guido Serravalle tell him that he didn’t already know?

  He headed out on foot to have lunch at the Trattoria San Calogero, where the fish was always the freshest. All of a sudden he stopped, cursing the saints. He’d forgotten that the trattoria was closed for six days for kitchen renovations. He went back, got in his car, and drove towards Marinella. Just past the bridge, he noticed the house that he now knew belonged to Anna Tropeano. The urge got the better of him and he pulled up, stopped the car, and got out.

  It was a two-story house, very well maintained, with a little garden all around. He approached the gate and pressed the button on the intercom.

  “Who is it?”

  “Inspector Montalbano. Am I disturbing you?”

  “No, please come in.”

  The gate opened, and at the same time, so did the front door of the house. Anna had changed clothes and recovered her normal skin tone.

  “You know something, Inspector? I was sure I would see you again before the day was over.”

  7

  “Were you eating lunch?”

  “No, I’m not hungry. And anyway, all alone like this . . . Michela used to come and eat here almost every day. She hardly ever had lunch at the hotel.”

  “May I make a suggestion?”

  “Come inside, in the meantime.”

  “Would you like to come to my house? It’s right here, just a stone’s throw away.”