Montalbano was ready for anything, except Serravalle’s reaction. At first it seemed to him that the antiquarian, who had turned his back to him to look out the window, was crying. Then the man turned around and Montalbano realized he was trying very hard to refrain from laughing. But all it took was that split second in which his eyes met the inspector’s to make the man’s laughter burst forth in all its violence. Serravalle was laughing and crying at once. Then, with visible effort, he calmed down.
“Maybe it’s better if I come with you,” he said.
“I advise that you do,” said Montalbano. “The people waiting for you in Bologna have other things in mind for you.”
“Let me put a few things in my bag and we can go.”
Montalbano saw him bend over a small suitcase that was on a bench. Something in Serravalle’s movement disturbed him and he sprang to his feet.
“No!” the inspector shouted, leaping forward.
Too late. Guido Serravalle had put the barrel of a revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Barely suppressing his nausea, the inspector wiped away the warm, viscous matter that was dripping down his own face.
18
Half of Guido Serravalle’s head was gone. The blast inside the small hotel room had been so loud that Montalbano heard a kind of buzz in his ears. How was it possible that nobody had yet come knocking on the door to ask what had happened? The Hotel Della Valle had been built in the late nineteenth century and had thick, solid walls. Maybe at that hour all the foreigners were out amusing themselves taking pictures of the temples. So much the better.
The inspector went into the bathroom, wiped his sticky, bloodied hands as best he could, and picked up the phone.
“Inspector Montalbano here. There’s a police car in your lot. Tell the officer to come up here. And please send the manager immediately.”
The first to arrive was Gallo. The moment he saw his superior with blood on his face and clothes, he got scared.
“Chief, Chief! You hurt?”
“Calm down, it’s not my blood. It’s that guy’s.”
“Who’s that?”
“Mrs. Licalzi’s murderer. But for the moment, don’t say anything to anybody. Hurry into Vigàta and have Augello send out an all-points bulletin to Bologna, telling them to be on the lookout for a shady character named Eolo Portinari. I’m sure they’ve already got the facts on him. He’s his accomplice,” he concluded, gesturing at the suicide. “And listen. Come straight back here when you’re done.”
Gallo, at the door, stepped aside to let in the hotel manager, a giant at least six and a half feet tall and of comparable girth. When he saw the corpse with half a head and the room in disarray the manager said, “What?” as if he hadn’t understood a question, dropped to his knees in slow motion, then fell face forward on the floor, out cold. The manager’s reaction had been so immediate that Gallo hadn’t had time to leave. Together they dragged the colossus into the bathroom, propped him up against the edge of the tub, whereupon Gallo took the shower extension, turned on the water, and aimed it at his head. The man came to almost at once.
“What luck! What luck!” he mumbled while drying himself off.
As Montalbano gave him a questioning look, the manager confirmed what the inspector had been thinking, and explained:
“The Japanese group are all out for the day.”
Before Judge Tommaseo, Dr. Pasquano, the new captain of the Flying Squad, and the forensics team got there, Montalbano was forced to change out of his suit and shirt, having yielded to the pressures of the hotel manager, who insisted on lending him some of his own things. He could have fit twice in the giant’s clothes. With his hands lost in the sleeves, and the trousers gathered like accordions over his shoes, he looked like Bagonghi the dwarf. And this put him in a far worse mood than the fact of having repeatedly to describe, each time from the top, the details of his finding the killer and then witnessing his suicide. Between all the questions and answers, observations and explanations, the yeses, nos, buts, and howevers, he wasn’t free to return to the Vigàta—to the station, that is—until around eight o’clock that evening.
“Have you shrunk?” asked Mimì upon seeing him.
By the skin of his teeth he managed to dodge the punch Montalbano threw at him, which would have broken his nose.
There was no need for the inspector to say “Everybody in my office!” since they all came in of their own accord. And he gave them the satisfaction they deserved, explaining, in minute detail, how the clouds of suspicion first came to gather over Serravalle and how he met his tragic end. The most intelligent observation was made by Mimì Augello.
“It’s a good thing he shot himself. It would have been hard to keep him in jail without any concrete proof. A good lawyer could have sprung him in no time.”
“But the guy killed himself!” said Fazio.
“So what?” Mimì retorted. “It was the same with that poor Maurizio Di Blasi. Who can say he didn’t come out of the cave with his shoe in his hand in the hope that they’d shoot him down, which they did, thinking it was a weapon?”
“In fact, Inspector, why was he shouting he wanted to be punished?” asked Germanà.
“Because he’d witnessed the murder and hadn’t been able to prevent it,” Montalbano concluded.
While the others were filing out of his office, he remembered something, and he knew that if he didn’t get it taken care of at once, by the following day he was liable to have forgotten about it entirely.
“Gallo, listen. I want you to go down to our garage, get all of the papers that are in the Twingo, and bring them up here to me. Also, talk to our chief mechanic and have him draw up an estimate for repairs. Then, if he’s interested in selling it, tell him to go ahead.”
“Chief, hear me out for jest a minute?”
“Come on in, Cat.”
Catarella was red in the face, embarrassed and happy.
“What’s the matter? Talk.”
“Got my report card for the first week, Chief. The course runs from Monday to Friday morning. I wanted to show it to you.”
It was a sheet of paper folded in two. All A’s. Under the heading “Observations,” the instructor had written: “He was first in the class.”
“Well done, Catarella! You’re the pride of the department!”
Catarella nearly started crying.
“How many are there in your class?”
“Amato, Amoroso, Basile, Bennato, Bonura, Catarella, Cimino, Farinella, Filippone, Lo Dato, Scimeca, and Zìcari. That makes twelve, Chief. If I had my computer here, I’d a done it faster.”
Montalbano put his head in his hands.
Was there a future for humanity?
Gallo returned from his visit to the Twingo.
“I talked with the mechanic. Said he’d take care of selling it. In the glove box I found the registration card and a road map.”
He set it all down on the inspector’s desk, but didn’t leave. He looked even more uneasy than Catarella.
“What’s the matter?”
Without answering, Gallo handed him a little rectangle of heavy paper.
“I found this on the front seat, passenger’s side.”
It was a boarding pass for Punta Ràisi airport, 10:00 P.M. The date on the stub corresponded to Wednesday of the previous week, and passenger’s name was G. Spina. Why, Montalbano asked himself, did people always use their real initials when assuming a false name? Guido Serravalle had lost his boarding pass in Michela’s car. After the murder, he hadn’t had the time to look for it, or else he thought he still had it in his pocket. That was why, when speaking of it, he had denied its existence and even mentioned the possibility that the passenger hadn’t used his real name. But with the stub now in Montalbano’s hand, they could have traced the ticket back, however laboriously, to the person who actually did take that flight. Only then did he realize that Gallo was still standing in front of his desk, a dead-serious expression on his face.
&nbs
p; “If we’d only looked inside the car first . . .”
Indeed. If only they’d searched the Twingo the day after the body was found, the investigation would have taken the right path. Maurizio would still be alive and the real murderer would be in jail. If only . . .
It had all been, from the start, one mistake after another. Maurizio was mistaken for a murderer, the shoe was mistaken for a weapon, one violin was mistaken for another, and this one mistaken for a third. And Serravalle wanted to be mistaken for someone named Spina . . . Just past the bridge, he stopped the car, but did not get out. The lights were on in Anna’s house; he sensed she was expecting him. He lit up a cigarette, but halfway through he flicked it out the window, put the car back in gear, and left.
It wasn’t a good idea to add another mistake to the list.
He entered his house, slipped out of the clothes that made him look like Bagonghi the dwarf, opened the refrigerator, took out ten or so olives, and cut himself a slice of caciocavallo cheese.
He went and sat outside on the veranda. The night was luminous, the sea slowly churning. Not wanting to waste any more time, he got up and dialed the number.
“Livia? It’s me. I love you.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Livia, alarmed.
In the whole time they’d been together, Montalbano had only told her he loved her at difficult, even dangerous moments.
“Nothing. I’m busy tomorrow morning, I have to write a long report for the commissioner. Barring any complications, I’ll hop on a plane in the afternoon and come.”
“I’ll be waiting for you,” said Livia.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This fourth investigation of Inspector Montalbano (of which the names, places, and situations have been invented out of whole cloth) involves violins. Like his character, the author is not qualified to talk or write about musical instruments (for a while, to the despair of the neighbors, he attempted to study the tenor sax). Therefore all pertinent information has been culled from books on the violin by S. F. Sacconi and F. Farga.
I also express my gratitude to Dr. Silio Bozzi, who saved me from falling into a few technical errors in recounting the investigation.
NOTES
13 face that he hid under a Belfiore martyr’s mustache and beard: The martiri di Belfiore were Italian patriots executed by the Austrians between 1851 and 1854 in the Belfiore Valley outside of Mantua in northern Italy during the early phases of Risorgimento, the Italian struggle for unification and independence from foreign occupiers. Inspired by a clergyman, Don Enrico Tazzoli, who met the same end, the “martyrs” all wore mustaches and full beards, and their hirsute faces are a familiar sight in Italian textbooks.
25 “Pippo Baudo”: A famous Italian television personality and emcee of variety shows.
30 that more famous Nicolò Tommaseo: Niccolò Tommaseo (Srebrenica, 1802-Florence, 1874) was a well-known Italian philologist and man of letters, author of, among other things, Dictionary of Synonyms and Comment on the Divine Comedy, and editor of a collection of Balkan folk songs and tales. A liberal Catholic by belief, he was a member of the provisional Venetian Republican government constituted in 1848 in defiance of the Austrian occupation. The original text of the Manzoni quote, in Lombard dialect, is “Sto Tommaseo ch’eg gha on pè in sagrestia e vun in casìn.”
31 He was a raven to boot: In Italian, a person who enjoys bearing bad news is called a corvo (raven or crow).
32 given the government in power at that moment, and the fact that the Free Channel always leaned to the left: Italy at the time was still being governed by a center-left coalition.
45 “goes around with half a billion in her bag”: At the time of the novel’s writing (1996-1997) half a billion lire was worth about $275,000.
46 side dish of gentle tinnirùme: Tinnirùme are gently steamed flower tops of long zucchini.
52 from Punta Ràisi to Bologna: Punta Ràisi is the airport serving the greater metropolitan area of Palermo and gets its name from the headland where it is located.
60 “I teach at the liceo scientifico of Montelusa”: Italian secondary schools are called licei. There exist three different kinds of liceo: liceo scientifico, emphasizing scientific studies; liceo classico, emphasizing humanistic studies; and liceo artistico, emphasizing the arts. Students are grouped according to natural proclivities and personal preferences.
75 “Half a million lire”: About $275.
81 prepared the napoletana: A napoletana is an old-fashioned, usually tin espresso pot that one turns upside down at the first moment of boiling, allowing the hot water to filter down through the coffee grounds by force of gravity. The coffee thus obtained is judged to be superior to that created when the water is forced up at full boil through the grounds.
100 “Azione Cattolica”: A Catholic youth organization disbanded during the Fascist era and reconstituted after World War II.
100 Famiglia Cristiana . . . L’Osservatore Romano: Famiglia Cristiana is a weekly magazine published by the Catholic Church. L’Osservatore Romano is the daily newspaper of the Vatican.
102 “Ah, these repenters!”: Montalbano is referring ironically to the so-called pentiti (“repenters”), Mafia turncoats who turn state’s evidence and are then treated very leniently, and practically coddled, by the government. See A. Camilleri, The Snack Thief (Viking, 2003).
105 it was called La Cacciatora. Naturally, they had no game: La Cacciatora means “the huntress.”
105 a hefty serving of delicious caponata: Caponata is a zesty traditional southern Italian appetizer usually made up of sautéed eggplant, tomato, green pepper, garlic, onion, celery, black olives, vinegar, olive oil, and anchovies.
105 “A joyous start is the best of guides”: In Italian: “Principio sì giolivo ben conduce.” Matteo Maria Boiardo (1441-1494), Orlando Innamorato.
109 tetù, taralli, viscotti regina, and Palermitan mostaccioli: These are all varieties of hard Italian biscotti. Tetù and taralli are covered with sugar but vary in size; viscotti regina are covered with sesame seeds; and Palermitan mostaccioli are made out of dough soaked in mulled wine.
109 a colorful cassata: A traditional Sicilian sponge cake filled with sweetened ricotta, candied fruit, raisins, pine nuts, pistachios, and jam, usually apricot. Not to be confused with the ice cream of the same name, which has some of the same ingredients.
112 Aldo Gagliardo . . . as hale and hearty as his name: Gagliardo means “strong, vigorous, robust.”
153 a gigantic Saracen olive tree: The ulivo saraceno is a very ancient olive tree with gnarled trunk, tangled branches, and very long roots. The name suggests that the tree dates from the time of the Arab conquest of Sicily (ninth to eleventh centuries).
155 “Di Blasi doesn’t have a license to carry a gun, nor has he ever reported owning any weapons”: In Italy, there are two kinds of firearms permits. The first is the license to carry a gun, whether a pistol or rifle. With the second, one may only keep the firearm at home.
157 baby octopus alla luciana: In this simple dish, the octopi are cooked in a spicy tomato sauce with garlic and hot pepper.
193 five million lire: About $2,750.
193 one hundred fifteen million lire: About $65,000.
207 like one of Boldini’s ladies: Giovanni Boldini (1845-1931) was a cosmopolitan Italian painter originally from Ferrara who spent much of his career in Paris. A friend of both Whistler and Sargent, he likewise was greatly influenced by the French painting of the period. He is best known for his portraits of characters from Parisian high society and the artistic milieu.
212 “Two, three billion lire”: Roughly between $1,000,000 and $1,500,000.
212 “a few hundred thousand lire”: A few hundred dollars.
221 The hotel . . . zoning regulations be damned: Outside the Sicilian city of Agrigento, Camilleri’s model for the city of Montelusa, stands the Greek Temple of Concord (440 B.C., named retroactively), by far the best preserved of the ruins in this so-called Valley of Temples. I
n the modern age, against the protests of conservationists, historians, and people of good sense, a large, unsightly hotel was built directly behind the archaeological site, right on the boundary line designating the perimeter beyond which it is now illegal to build—a demarcation determined only after the hotel was erected.
237 Bagonghi the dwarf: Bagonghi was a famous Italian dwarf who performed as a clown in circuses all over Europe and often wore clothes that were far too big for him.
Notes compiled by Stephen Sartarelli
Voice of the Violin Page 18
