The Other End of the Line

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Sorry, but I’m not going,” the inspector said decisively.

  “What do you mean, you’re not going? You just promised me you would.”

  “I said I would go and see a tailor, not a seamstress.”

  “Oh, come on, she’s a woman tailor who makes men’s clothes, too. What’s the difference?”

  “Oh, there’s a difference all right.”

  “And what is it?”

  “I’m not going to get undressed in front of a woman. And I don’t want a woman measuring my crotch and circling around me with her measuring tape telling me how broad my shoulders and waist are. I would rather be embraced by a woman for other reasons . . .”

  “I don’t know whether to call you a disgusting sexist or a cheap whoremonger!”

  At that point, Livia had slammed the kitchen door behind her and locked herself in the bedroom.

  Just to make a point, Montalbano had gone into the dining room, turned on the television, and spent a good hour watching a detective drama of which he managed to understand not a thing. After turning it off, he made up the sofa bed and, to avoid going into the bedroom to get some covers, he kept his clothes on and lay down, covering himself only with his bathrobe.

  He tossed and turned for a good while, unable to fall asleep. Then he heard the bedroom door open and Livia’s voice calling to him.

  “Stop acting like an idiot and come to bed.”

  Without answering, he got up and, hollow eyed, went into the bedroom and lay down, right at the edge of the bed, like someone just passing through.

  A short while later, he felt Livia’s warm hand caressing his hip. Followed by his total surrender, when he promised he would go and see the woman tailor.

  * * *

  On the evening of the third day, when Livia came home she luckily made no mention of the new suit, and so Montalbano was able to make up for the lost meals of the two previous evenings.

  Livia, on the other hand, had been unable to bring so much as a spoonful of fish soup to her lips, so keen was she to find out from the inspector about a person she’d met while working with Beba who’d impressed her quite a bit.

  “I met a gentleman of about sixty, tall, slender, and very elegant, with glasses. Apparently he’s friends with everyone here in Vigàta. He spoke perfect Italian and Arabic—also perfectly, I assume—with all the immigrants he encountered. They all call him ‘Doctor’—Dr. Osman. Do you know him?”

  Montalbano laughed.

  “Of course I know him; he’s my dentist. He’s a very special person, aside from being an excellent doctor. You know those old-time doctors with a clinical eye who could take one look at you and make an accurate diagnosis?”

  “Sure,” replied Livia. “But where’s he from?”

  “He’s Tunisian. Just imagine, aside from being a dentist, he’s also quite the art expert. He works as a consultant for the Museo del Bardo. And that’s not all. For the past few summers—and not only the summers, unfortunately—Dr. Osman gets up in the middle of the night and goes to the port to help with the immigrant arrivals, both as an interpreter and as a doctor.”

  “I’d like to get to know him a little better.”

  “The next time you’re here we can invite him to dinner.”

  “And where did he do his studies?”

  “He got his degree in London.”

  “So how did he end up in Vigàta?”

  “Dr. Osman is very discreet, and he’s never told me his life story, but apparently he got engaged to a woman from Vigàta when he was a student. The engagement eventually went by the boards, but he’d fallen in love with Sicily, and especially with the sea here, which is the same sea that washes his own country’s shores.”

  “I’ve been to Tunisia. And in fact, aside from the language, it’s not that different from here.”

  “I agree, Livia, but I don’t think there are that many people who feel that way. And there isn’t even any difference in the fact that in order to survive, they’re forced, even now, in 2016, to leave their homes, their land, and their families, in order to find a job, just like our own young people.”

  “You know, Salvo,” Livia continued in a melancholy tone, “I’m really sorry I have to leave tomorrow. I wish I could stay just to be with you, but also to keep helping Beba.”

  They embraced. And their embrace, over the course of the evening, grew longer and more passionate.

  * * *

  They finished breakfast. Montalbano got up, went over to Livia, bent down, and kissed her. But Livia held on to his hand.

  “I don’t feel like leaving you just now. Couldn’t you stay a little longer with me, just a little bit longer?”

  Montalbano didn’t feel up to saying no. He moved his chair and sat down beside Livia, who held her hand out to him. He took it, and they sat there for a few minutes, just like that, in silence, each looking the other in the eyes the way they used to do, sometimes for an entire morning, just feeling the warmth of each other’s hands and diving deep into each other’s gaze.

  The telephone rang.

  Neither of the two had the courage to unclasp their hands, but the temperature suddenly dropped just the same. Then Livia, resigned, said:

  “Go and answer.”

  Montalbano was expecting to hear Catarella’s voice, but it was Fazio calling instead.

  “Sorry to bother you, Chief, but could you come to the office as soon as possible?”

  “Why, what’s happened?”

  “What’s happened is that early this morning a patrol boat came in packed with a hundred and thirty migrants, including three pregnant women and four corpses, two of which were small children.”

  “And so?” said Montalbano.

  “Well, the fact is that the registration center counted only one hundred and twenty-nine. One is missing.”

  “Were you able to find out whether the missing person is male or female, old or—”

  “Yeah, Chief, apparently it was a fifteen-year-old kid traveling by himself.”

  At that moment, out of the corner of his eye Montalbano saw Livia opening the French door onto the veranda. The wan light of before had become the shadowy light of a gray day. The sea boomed more loudly.

  “But now,” Fazio continued, “the problem is that the commissioner is having conniptions and demanding that this person be found at once. So we’ve all been busy looking for him for the last three hours, and there’s nobody at the station.”

  “I’ll be right there,” said Montalbano, thinking that by this hour the lad had no doubt already reached, only God knew how, the German border.

  No sooner had he hung up than the phone rang again.

  “Montalbano!”

  He immediately recognized the imperious voice of Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi.

  He felt like hanging up. Then he thought better of it, realizing that he would have to answer sooner or later anyway. Sighing deeply, he said:

  “I’m sorry, who am I speaking to?”

  “It’s me, for the love of God!”

  “Me who?”

  The commissioner’s voice exploded in rage:

  “The commissioner! Wake up, Montalbano!”

  “Sorry, sir. Good morning.”

  Bonetti-Alderighi returned the greeting.

  “Good morning my ass! There you are, lolling about your house instead of going to the station and taking control of this very delicate situation.”

  “What delicate situation?”

  “Do you not consider the escape of a terrorist a deli—”

  “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Commissioner, but we’re only talking about a poor migr—”

  Bonetti-Alderighi, furious, interrupted him in turn.

  “Poor migrant, my ass. I’ve received a confidential memo from the antiterrorism bureau. Apparently an extremely da
ngerous ISIS militant was hiding among that boatload of refugees.”

  “Apparently, or do they know for certain?”

  “Montalbano, don’t start cavilling with me, for the love of God. It is quite simply our duty, and responsibility, to track him down and take him to the proper processing center, where he will be detained.”

  “I beg to differ, Mr. Commissioner. In this instance, it is absolutely essential to cavil with you, as you put it. These boatloads are full of poor migrants, most of whom are Muslim, and if we don’t distinguish between regular Muslims and ISIS militants, we’re only adding to the general ignorance and creating more panic and hostility by playing right into the terrorists’ hands.”

  Bonetti-Alderighi fell silent. But for only a few seconds.

  “Find me that terrorist, goddammit!” said the commissioner, hanging up without saying good-bye.

  Two “asses,” two “for the love of Gods,” and one “goddammit” in four minutes. Bonetti-Alderighi must really be in a state.

  Montalbano got up slowly.

  He went over to Livia, who was looking out at the rough sea. Putting his arm around her shoulders, he pulled her towards him.

  “I’m sorry, Livia, but I really have to go.”

  Livia didn’t move.

  Montalbano went into the bedroom to get his jacket and the car keys.

  Then he returned to Livia’s side.

  “All right, then, I’ll wait for your phone call.”

  Only then did Livia turn to look at him, and with her forefinger pointing out at the sea, she asked:

  “What’s that bundle out there?”

  “What bundle?”

  “That black thing floating there off to the left, near the far end of the port.”

  Montalbano took two steps forward on the veranda and started carefully looking where Livia was pointing.

  They stayed that way for a few moments in silence. Then the inspector went down onto the beach.

  “You stay here,” he said.

  The inspector got as close as he could, given that the libeccio had eaten up a good part of the beach, and then he leaned against an overturned boat that the usual early-morning fisherman had pulled ashore to safety.

  He stood there briefly looking out at the sea, then made his way very slowly back to the veranda.

  His eyes were spooked.

  “That’s no bundle,” he said.

  2

  Livia’s face turned white as a sheet.

  “Is it a dead body?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said the inspector, starting to take his jacket off and unbuckling his trousers.

  “What are you doing?” Livia asked.

  “I should go and get him before the current carries him back out to the open sea. Go and get me my sandals and bathing suit.”

  Livia rushed into the house, and when she returned she found Montalbano completely naked with the telephone receiver in his hand.

  “Hello, Fazio? Listen, I’m about to recover a dead body from the sea right in front of my house. Inform the circus and try to get here as soon as possible yourself.”

  He hung up, put on his bathing suit and sandals, and, the moment he reached the veranda, found himself face-to-face with the early-morning fisherman.

  “Good morning, Inspector. Have you seen that there’s a dead—”

  “Yeah, I know. I was about to go and get it.”

  “We can go in my boat.”

  The two men turned the boat right side up and pushed it towards the wet sand, and then the first wave grabbed hold of it and pulled it into the water.

  Montalbano and the fisherman hopped in. The man laid on oars and started rowing forcefully. Minutes later they were beside the floating corpse. The fisherman let go of the oars and went over beside the inspector, and together they got a good grip on the body and hoisted it onto the boat.

  The inspector studied it.

  The sea hadn’t yet had time to inflict any damage. The naked body was still intact. It was clear it hadn’t been in the water for very long. It belonged to a boy who looked barely fifteen years old. Death had rendered his facial features more childish.

  Montalbano became suddenly aware that he was now in control of the “very delicate situation” that Bonetti-Alderighi had alluded to.

  The fisherman, while steering the boat shoreward, said:

  “You know, Inspector, lately there’s been no point in going out to fish. You haul in more dead bodies than fish.”

  They touched the shore. Montalbano hoisted the corpse onto his shoulders and brought it onto dry land.

  * * *

  Livia meanwhile had come running up with a bathrobe, which she handed to the inspector.

  “Dry yourself off. It’s cold out,” she said, never once looking at the corpse.

  Montalbano took the robe and, instead of drying himself off, covered the boy’s dead body with it.

  From afar they began to hear the sirens of the approaching police cruisers.

  Once he was dressed, to satisfy a whim, Montalbano phoned Hizzoner the C’mishner:

  “I just wanted to let you know the case of the dangerous terrorist has been solved. I found him dead in the water.”

  “How can you be so sure that it’s the same person?”

  “Dr. Pasquano has just reported to me that the victim died no more than five hours ago, at the very moment the patrol boat was outside the harbor. The boy must have fallen accidentally and nobody noticed. So I’d like authorization to suspend the search.”

  Bonetti-Alderighi had a moment of hesitation.

  “And you will take responsibility for this upon yourself?”

  “Full responsibility,” Montalbano replied, hanging up without saying good-bye.

  “It’s almost noon,” said Livia. “What are you going to do? Go to the office?”

  “No,” said the inspector. “Let’s stay another half hour together, and then I’ll take you to the bus.”

  He took Livia by the hand and led her into the kitchen.

  “We need something hot to drink.”

  He prepared another mug of coffee for himself and some tea for Livia.

  They drank in silence, then Livia finally went into the bedroom and grabbed her suitcase while Montalbano put on his jacket and closed the French door to the veranda.

  They went out of the house.

  * * *

  After saying good-bye to Livia, who didn’t forget to remind him of the promise he’d made, the inspector went to his favorite trattoria to eat.

  “So, what have you got for me today?” he asked Enzo.

  “I’ve got something new for you today I want you to try, Inspector.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I call it ‘migrants’ soup.’ Since Signora Beba’s committee asked us to help feed those poor folks, I invented a kind of fish soup that’s also full of pasta and a variety of vegetables. So it’s also very nutritious. Wanna try it?”

  “Sure, why not?” said the inspector.

  Montalbano liked the new dish so much that he asked for another helping. It revived his spirits and filled his belly so nicely that he felt no need to order a second course.

  Since it was still early, and the weather was too nasty for a walk along the jetty, he headed in the direction of the Caffè Castiglione, where he ran into Mimì Augello, who was coming out on his way back to the office.

  Montalbano had an idea.

  “Excuse me, Mimì, do you by any chance know a woman tailor by the name of Elena?”

  Mimì smiled and gestured with his head as if to say, Man, do I ever know her.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because Livia has forced me to agree to get myself a tailor-made suit, and she made an appointment with this Elena. But for me it’s a pain in the ass.�
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  “The pain’ll go away the minute you see her,” said Mimì.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because she’s a very beautiful woman. Exceptionally so. She’s just over forty, but, believe me, Salvo, her most impressive gift is her ability to win people’s sympathy almost immediately. I’m sure it’ll be the same with you.”

  “So you also had her make a suit for you?”

  “I certainly wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity, but as soon as Beba found out about it, she threatened not to let me back in the house if I was wearing a suit made by that woman.”

  As he drank his coffee Montalbano realized that he didn’t find Mimì’s words at all reassuring, since for his second-in-command, every woman who came within reach seemed extremely beautiful and not to be missed.

  * * *

  The rolling metal shutter outside number 32 was raised. Montalbano stopped and had to make a huge effort not to turn his back and head on to the police station.

  Then he made up his mind, tried turning the knob on the glass door, but it was locked. He rang the doorbell. It had a pleasant sound. Opening the door was a slender, brown-skinned woman of about thirty with her hair gathered under a white headscarf, two deep, dark eyes, and a friendly smile.

  “Buongiorno, I’m Meriam. Please come in.”

  She spoke perfect Italian, but with a slight foreign inflection.

  Montalbano followed the young woman down a long corridor. The walls were a dark, welcoming Pompeiian red. On the left was a row of furnishings—armoires, small tables, bookcases, glass cupboards, a hutch—that had originally been made for a kitchen but were now stuffed with fabric, sweaters, shirts, ties, and the like, all so colorful that it would have put the rainbow itself to shame.

  Along the right-hand wall was instead a long tree branch, all white, probably found in the sea, bleached and eroded by salt water. Appended to this branch were a great many coat hangers displaying men’s suits, overcoats, and raincoats.

  At the end of the corridor they twice turned right, whereupon the inspector found himself in a very large room.