The Track of Sand

by Andrea Camilleri

  On the way back to Marinella, a wolflike hunger assailed him. In the fridge he found a bowl of caponata whose scent filled the soul, and a plate of little wild asparagus, the kind that are bitter as poison, dressed only in olive oil and salt. In the oven was a loaf of wheat bread. He set the table on the veranda and enjoyed himself.The night was pitch-black. A short distance from shore shone the jacklamp of a fishing boat. Seeing it there, he felt relieved, since he was now certain that nobody aboard the boat was spying on him.

  He got into bed and started reading one of the Swedish books he had bought. Its protagonist was a colleague of his, Inspector Martin Beck, whose manner of investigation he found very appealing.When he had finished the novel and turned out the light, it was four o’clock in the morning.

  As a result, he woke up at nine, but only because Adelina had made noise in the kitchen.

  “Could you bring me a coffee, Adelì?”

  “Iss ready, Isspector.”

  He drank it in little sips, savoring it, then set fire to a cigarette.When he finished it, he got up and went into the bathroom.

  Later, all dressed and ready to go out, he went into the kitchen to have a second cup, as was his wont.

  “Oh, signore, I got somethin f’ you I keepa fuhgettin’ a give you,” said Adelina.

  “What is it?”

  “They gave itta me atta dry cleaner when I went a get you’ trousers.They foun’ it inna pocket.”

  Her purse was on a chair. She opened it, extracted something, and held it out to the inspector.

  It was a horseshoe.

  As the coffee was spilling onto his shirt, Montalbano felt the ground open up beneath his feet.Twice in twenty-four hours! It was really too much.

  “Whass ’appenin’, signore? You staina you’ shirt.”

  He couldn’t open his mouth. He kept staring, bug-eyed, at the horseshoe, benumbed, bewildered, flummoxed, and flabbergasted.

  “Isspector, you make a me frighten! Whass’ wrong?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” he managed to articulate.

  He grabbed a glass, filled it with water, drank it down in one gulp.

  “Nuthin’, nuthin’,” Adelina repeated, still looking at him, worried, with the horseshoe still in her hand.

  “Gimme that,” he said, taking off his shirt. “And make me another pot of coffee.”

  “But isn’t alla this coffee gonna make a you sick?”

  He didn’t answer. He drifted into the dining room as though sleepwalking and, still holding the horseshoe, picked up the receiver with one hand and dialed the number of the police station.

  “Halloo! Vigàta Po—”

  “Catarella, Montalbano here.”

  “Whass wrong, Chief? You gotta weird voice!”

  “Listen, I’m not coming in this morning. Is Fazio there?”

  “No, sir, ’e in’t onna premisses.”

  “Have him call me when he gets in.”

  He opened the French door, went out on the veranda, sat down, laid the horseshoe on the table, and started staring at it as if he had never seen such a thing in his life. Slowly, he felt his brain resume functioning.

  And the first thing that came back to him were the words of Dr. Pasquano.

  Montalbano, this is a clear sign of old age. A sign that your brain cells are disintegrating with increasing speed.The first symptom is memory loss. Did you know that? For example, does it sometimes happen that you’ll do something one minute, and the next minute you’ll forget that you did it?

  It had happened. Man, had it ever happened! He had taken the horseshoe and put it in his pocket, forgetting completely about it. But when? And where?

  “Here you’ coffee, sir,” said Adelina, setting a tray, with pot, cup, and sugar, on the table.

  He drank a cup, scalding hot and bitter, while staring at the empty beach.

  And all at once a dead horse appeared on the beach, lying on its side. And he saw himself belly-down in front of the animal, reaching out and touching a horseshoe almost completely detached from the hoof, held in place by a single nail sticking halfway out . . .

  And what happened next?

  What happened was that something . . . something . . . Ah! That was it! Fazio, Gallo, and Galluzzo had appeared on the veranda, and he had stood up, slipping the horseshoe mechanically into his pocket.

  Afterwards, he had gone to change his trousers, tossing them into the dirty clothes hamper.

  And after this, he had taken a shower, chatted with Fazio, and when the astronauts had arrived, the carcass was gone. Keep your cool, Montalbà. You need another cup of coffee.

  So, let’s start at the beginning. During the slaughter, the poor dying horse manages to escape, running desperately across the sand—Good God! Want to bet that this, in fact, was the track of sand in the bad dream he’d had? And that he had misinterpreted the dream?—and ending up outside his window, where it collapses and dies. But its killers need to get rid of the carcass. So they get organized and come back with a handcart and a van, or small truck, or whatever.When they arrive a short while later to retrieve the carcass, they realize he has woken up, seen the horse, and come down onto the beach.And so they hide and wait for the right moment. Which comes when he and Fazio go into the kitchen, which has no windows facing the sea.They send a man out for reconnaissance. The man sees them in the kitchen, blithely chatting, and gives the others the go-ahead signal, all the while keeping his eye on him and Fazio. And in the twinkling of an eye, the carcass disappears. But then . . .

  Was there another cup?

  There wasn’t any left in the pot, and he didn’t have the courage to ask Adelina to make him another. So he stood up, went inside, grabbed a bottle of whisky and a glass, and turned to go back out on the veranda.

  “First ting inna morning, Isspector?” came the voice of Adelina, who was standing in the kitchen doorway, watching him.

  He froze. But he didn’t answer her this time, either. He poured the whisky and started to drink.

  But then, if those guys were watching him when he was taking a close look at the animal, they must have seen him take the horseshoe and put it in his pocket. Which meant that . . .

  . . . you got it all wrong, Montalbà. All wrong.

  They weren’t trying to influence your behavior at the Licco trial, Montalbà. The Licco trial doesn’t have a goddamn thing to do with any of this.

  They wanted the horseshoe. That was what they were looking for when they searched his house. And they had even returned his watch to let him know that it wasn’t a case of burglary.

  But why was that horseshoe so important to them?

  The only logical answer was that as long as it was in his possession, it rendered the disappearance of the carcass useless.

  But if it was so important to them, why, then, after the failed attempt to burn down his house, had they stopped trying?

  Quite simple, Montalbà. Because Galluzzo had shot Gurreri, who then died. An unforeseen hitch. So surely they would be back, in one way or another.

  He picked up the horseshoe again and started examining it. It was a perfectly normal horseshoe, like dozens of others he had seen.

  What was so important about it that it should already have cost a man his life?

  He raised his eyes to look out at the sea and was momentarily blinded by a flash of light. No, there wasn’t anyone on a boat watching him through a pair of binoculars. The flash had gone off in his head.

  He bolted upright, ran to the phone, and dialed Ingrid’s number.

  “Hillu? Who colling?”

  “Is Signora Rachele there?”

  “You wait.”

  “Hello, who is this?”

  “Montalbano here.”

  “Salvo! What a lovely surprise! I was just about to call you, you know. Ingrid and I thought of inviting you out to dinner tonight.”

  “All right, but—”

  “Where would you like to go?”

  “Come over to my place, you can be my guests. I’
ll ask Adelina to . . . But . . .”

  “What are all these ‘buts’?”

  “Tell me something.Your horse . . .”

  “Yes?” said Rachele, expectant.

  “Did your horse’s shoes have anything unusual about them?”

  “In what sense?”

  “I don’t know, I’m not very familiar with this sort of thing, as you know . . . Was there anything engraved in them, some sort of sign or symbol . . . ?”

  “Yes.Why do you want to know?”

  “A silly idea of mine.What kind of symbol?”

  “Right at the center of the arch, on top, there is a small W, engraved in the metal. There’s a blacksmith in Rome who makes them specially for me. His name is—”

  “And does Lo Duca use the same smith for his—”

  “Of course not!”

  “Too bad,” he said, appearing disappointed.

  He hung up. He didn’t want Rachele to start asking questions.The last piece of the puzzle that had first started to come together in his head on the evening in Fiacca had fallen into place and given a meaning to the whole scheme.

  He started singing. Who was there to stop him? He broke into “Che gelida manina” in a loud voice.

  “Signore! Signore! Wha’ss got inna you this morning?” asked the housekeeper, who had come running from the kitchen.

  “Nothing, Adelì. Ah, listen. Make some good things for tonight. I’ve got two guests coming to dinner.”

  The phone rang. It was Rachele.

  “We got cut off,” the inspector said at once.

  “Listen, what time do you want us to come?”

  “Would nine o’clock be all right with you?”

  “Nine is perfect. See you then.”

  He hung up and the telephone rang again.

  “It’s Fazio.”

  “No, no, I’ve changed my mind. I’m on my way there. Wait for me.”

  He sang all the way to the station. By this point he couldn’t get those notes and words out of his head. And when he reached the part where he couldn’t remember them, he started over again from the top.

  “Se la lasci riscaldare ...”

  He pulled up, got out, passed by Catarella, who, hearing him sing, sat there spellbound and open-mouthed.

  “Cercar che giova . . . Cat, tell Fazio to come to my office straightaway. Se al buio non si trovaaa . . .”

  He went into his room, sat down, leaned back in his chair.

  “Ma per fortunaaa . . .”

  “What’s happened, Chief ?”

  “Close the door, Fazio, and have a seat.”

  He took the horseshoe out of his pocket and set it down on the desk.

  “Take a good look at it.”

  “Can I pick it up?”

  “Sure.”

  As Fazio was studying the horseshoe, the inspector kept singing under his breath.

  “È una notte di luuuna . . .”

  Fazio gave him a questioning look.

  “It’s a perfectly ordinary horseshoe,” he said.

  “Exactly. And that’s why they did everything within their power to get it back: They broke into my home, they tried to burn the place down, Gurreri lost his life . . .”

  Fazio’s eyes widened.

  “All for this horseshoe . . . ?”

  “Yessirree.”

  “And you had it all the while.”

  “Yessirree. And I’d completely forgotten about it.”

  “But it’s an ordinary horseshoe with no distinguishing characteristics!”

  “And that is exactly what distinguishes it: the fact that it has no distinguishing characteristics.”

  “But what does that mean?”

  “It means that the horse that was slaughtered did not belong to Rachele Esterman.”

  And he resumed in a low voice:

  “Vivo in povertà mia lieta . . .”

  18

  Mimì Augello arrived late, and so the inspector had to repeat everything he had already told Fazio.

  “All things considered, the horseshoe brought you good luck” was Augello’s only comment. “It made you realize how things really stood.”

  Afterwards, Montalbano explained to both the idea he had in mind: to set up a complicated trap, an ambush, which would have to function like clockwork.And if all went well, they would haul in a net full of fish.

  “Are you two in agreement?”

  “Absolutely,” said Mimì.

  Fazio, for his part, seemed slightly doubtful.

  “Chief, it’s going to have to take place here, at the station, there’s no question about that. The problem is that here, at the station, there’s also Catarella.”

  “So what?”

  “Chief, Catarella’s liable to blow the whole thing for us. He’s liable to bring Prestia into my office and Lo Duca into yours.You realize that, with him around—”

  “All right, have him come see me. I’ll send him on a secret mission.You, Fazio, make the phone calls you need to make, and then come back.You, too, Mimì, get organized.”

  The two went out, and a millionth of a second later, Catarella arrived on the run.

  “Come in, Cat, lock the door, and sit down.”

  Catarella did as he was told.

  “Now listen closely, because I’m going to give you a very delicate assignment that nobody else must know about. You mustn’t whisper a word of this to anyone.”

  Getting excited, Catarella started squirming in his chair.

  “I want you to go to Marinella and take up a position in a house under construction, just across the road from my house.”

  “I know the locality of the location, Chief. But whaddo I do after I take a position?”

  “You must bring along a sheet of paper and a pen. I want you to take notes on every person who walks past my house along the beach. Write down if they’re male, female, children, and so on . . . When it gets dark, come back to the station with the list. Be sure not to let anyone see you! This is a top-secret matter. Now go.”

  Burdened with this tremendous responsibility, and moved to tears by the trust the inspector had placed in him, Catarella stood up, red as a turkey-cock, and, unable to speak, gave a military salute, clicking his heels, then fumbled with the key in the lock, trying with great effort to open the door, which he finally did, and left.

  “It’s all done,” said Fazio, returning after a brief spell. “Michilino Prestia will be here at four, and Lo Duca at four-thirty, on the dot. And here is Bellavia’s address.”

  He handed him a little piece of paper which Montalbano put in his pocket.

  “Now I’m gonna go tell Gallo and Galluzzo what they’re supposed to do,” Fazio continued. “Inspector Augello told me to let them know that it’s all set, and that he’ll be ready in the parking lot at four o’clock.”

  “Good.You know what I say? I’m gonna go eat.”

  He pecked at some antipasti, decided against pasta, and forced himself to eat two sea bream. His stomach felt tight as a fist. And he no longer felt like singing.Without warning, apprehension about the afternoon’s operation had come over him.Would it work?

  “Inspector, you didn’t do me justice today.”

  “Forgive me, Enzo, but today’s just not the day.”

  He looked at his watch.There was just enough time for a stroll to the lighthouse, but not to sit down on the rock.

  In Catarella’s place there was Patrolman Lavaccara, a bright kid.

  “Do you know what you have to do?

  “Yes, sir, Fazio explained it all to me.”

  The inspector went into his office, opened the window, smoked a cigarette, closed the window, and sat down at his desk. At that exact moment, there was a knock at the door. It was ten minutes past four.

  “Come in!”

  Lavaccara appeared.

  “Inspector, Signor Prestia is here.”

  “Show him in.”

  “Good afternoon, Inspector,” said Prestia, entering.

  As Lavac
cara was closing the door and going back to his post, Montalbano stood up and held his hand out to Prestia.

  “Please make yourself comfortable. I’m sincerely sorry to have bothered you, but you know how it is, sometimes . . .”

  Michele Prestia was over fifty, well dressed, with gold-rimmed eyeglasses and the air of an honest accountant. He looked completely calm.

  “Give me about five minutes, and I’ll be right with you.”

  He needed to stall. He pretended to be reading a document, every so often chuckling or knitting his eyebrows. Then he set it aside and stared at Prestia a long time without saying anything. Fazio had said that Prestia was a nobody, a rag doll in Bellavia’s hands. He appeared, however, to have nerves of steel. At last the inspector made up his mind.

  “Your wife has filed a report with us. Against you.”

  Prestia balked. He blinked a few times. Perhaps, being already in with the wrong crowd, he was expecting something else. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before managing to speak.

  “My wife?!! Reported me?!”

  “She wrote us a long letter.”

  “My wife?!”

  He couldn’t get over the shock.

  “And what does she accuse me of?”

  “Continuous abuse.”

  “Me?! So I supposedly—”

  “Signor Prestia, I advise you not to keep denying the fact.”

  “But this is insane! I’ve stumbled into a nuthouse! May I see the letter?”

  “No.We’ve already sent it to the prosecutor.”

  “Look, Inspector, there’s clearly been some kind of mistake. I—”

  “Are you Michele Prestia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fifty-five years old?”

  “No, sir. Fifty-three.”

  Montalbano wrinkled his brow, as though suddenly prey to doubt.

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Hmph. Do you live at 47 Via Lincoln?”

  “No, I live at 32 Via Abate Meli.”

  “Really? Could I see some identification, please?”

  Prestia took out his wallet and handed him his ID card, which Montalbano studied very long and carefully. Every so often he looked up at Prestia, then back down at the document.