The Other End of the Line

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Hello,” a pair of male voices said in unison.

  “Hello,” Montalbano replied.

  “Please sit down,” said Meriam, indicating a blue sofa. “The signora will be with you momentarily.”

  And she went and sat down in front of a sewing machine.

  Montalbano settled in and started looking around.

  It was an open, luminous room. Next to the sofa were two armchairs and a coffee table. The two voices that had just greeted him belonged to two workers, one older, the other quite young, seated behind a large tailor’s table.

  They had an old-fashioned manner of going about their work. They would lay the fabric out on the wooden surface, measure it with an outdated measuring tape, then circle around it as if performing a strange sort of ballet step. Apparently sensing they were being watched, they turned around, met his eyes, and smiled instinctively.

  The wall behind them was entirely covered with a set of shelves full to bursting with colorful fabrics.

  The inspector felt lost.

  He could no longer tell whether he was in Jemaa el-Fna Square in Marrakesh, the Cairo spice bazaar, or a shop in Beirut, but at any rate he felt at home.

  Then Signora Elena came in through the door, hand extended towards Montalbano and a big smile on her face.

  “Inspector Montalbano! What a pleasure to see you here!”

  In a flash the inspector realized that, this time, Mimì was absolutely correct.

  Montalbano stood up and shook her hand. Still holding his, Elena sat down beside him and then let go.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  Normally tea made Montalbano want to throw up, but to his immense surprise he heard his lips form the words:

  “Sure, why not? Thanks.”

  Meriam got up and left the room.

  Elena began speaking:

  “Your companion—who I must say is a beautiful, elegant woman—told me you need a dress suit. I was thinking of something relatively light, given the season, in summer wool, but not too dark, say, London-fog gray, a more autumnal sort of color . . . Or how about rust? I have some new fabric, very soft, almost like flannel, which I would like you to feel. You could even use the items separately, as sports jacket and trousers. A classic shirt for the wedding ceremony, of course, though the trousers would also go with an unstructured sports jacket . . .”

  As the woman was talking, Montalbano couldn’t take his eyes off her legs.

  When Meriam set the mint tea down on the coffee table along with a sugar bowl, the inspector’s eyes had come up to Elena’s bony knees. The tailor herself then bent down to the table, picked up the cup, and handed it to the inspector, who was thus forced, reluctantly, to take his eyes off her legs and look at her face.

  Which was no less appealing. Elena was blond, with an open, serene, smiling countenance as welcoming as a soft, comfortable pillow when one is dead tired.

  Montalbano did notice with some surprise, however, that the woman’s eyebrows were black. And so he wondered whether it was the blond hair or the black eyebrows that were fake. Then he concluded that, in a woman like that, it was all natural, genuine, real. As natural as her slender, sumptuously curvaceous body.

  Montalbano decided not to sip his tea. He would never manage. So he took a long draft instead, half emptying the cup.

  The taste it left behind in his mouth was not, however, unpleasant.

  Elena, meanwhile, had got up and gone over to the shelves.

  Montalbano watched her. She moved with unaffected elegance. Moments later she returned with two long bolts of fabric. Sitting back down beside Montalbano, she took his hand and had him touch the first bolt. The cloth was indeed soft and warm. And seemed comfortable to him. Then Elena had him feel the second bolt, which was even softer and more pleasing than the first.

  “That’s the one,” said Montalbano.

  The cloth was rust colored.

  “Oh, I’m so happy! You’ve chosen the one I thought would be best for you.”

  The woman then blushed, as if she felt she’d been too familiar with him.

  “I’m sure you know what’s best,” said Montalbano, to put her at her ease.

  She smiled and, taking his hand, made him stand up. They went over to the worktable.

  “Please take off your jacket.”

  As he was taking it off and setting it down, Montalbano realized, with some embarrassment, that the critical moment for measuring the crotch had come.

  Elena, however, touched the shoulder of the older of the two male workers and said:

  “Nicola, please show the gentleman into the dressing room.”

  Nicola looped a measuring tape around his neck, put on his glasses, grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper, and said:

  “Please follow me.”

  They went out of the big room towards the corridor and turned left this time, just once, then stopped. Nicola moved a velvet curtain that looked as if it had come from a theater, then gestured to the inspector to come forward. The dressing room was rather spacious and illuminated with warm spotlights. There was a three-paned mirror, two chairs, a metal clothes-stand, and a small table.

  Nicola started quickly taking his measurements, and as soon as he was done they heard Elena’s voice outside the curtain.

  “May I come in?” she asked.

  “Yes, go ahead,” said Nicola.

  “All done?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the helper, pulling the curtain aside and going out.

  Elena went and stood with her back to the central mirror and said:

  “Could you take two steps backwards, please?”

  Montalbano, at a loss, obeyed.

  Elena started looking him over slowly. Her eyes went from his shoulders to his chest, then from his belly to his legs.

  “Now turn around.”

  Montalbano felt like he was in a doctor’s office getting X-rays taken.

  He felt Elena’s eyes taking the same route over his body as before.

  “Thank you,” she then said. “We can go back out now.”

  Once in the big room, Montalbano went over to get his jacket and put it on.

  “Your lady friend told me you’ll be needing the suit in just a few days. I’ve got a lot of work on my hands, but I’ll try to put your job in the fast lane. Is it all right with you if we have the first fitting three days from now, at the same hour?”

  “That’s perfectly fine with me,” said the inspector, “as long as nothing unexpected comes up for me at work.”

  “All right, then, we’ll leave it at that,” replied Elena. “Here are the phone numbers for the shop and my cell phone, so you can call me if there’s any change of plan. Come, I’ll see you out.”

  Montalbano said good-bye, and the others replied in chorus.

  He went back up the long corridor, with Elena beside him this time. She opened the glass door for him, handed him a business card, kissed him on the cheeks, and said:

  “It was a pleasure to meet you. You’re a very nice man.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine,” Montalbano replied in all sincerity.

  The moment the glass door closed behind him, the inspector heaved a big sigh. For a short while he’d felt as if he was briefly in heaven. And he knew that what awaited him now at the station would be hell.

  * * *

  Upon entering, he immediately noticed that Catarella’s eyes were all red and swollen and he was holding a handkerchief in his hand, which he used to wipe his nose.

  “Catch a cold, Cat?”

  “Nah, Chief,” said Catarella, as if to cut the conversation short.

  Montalbano persisted.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “No, sir, Chief.”

  “That’s an order. Speak.”

  The corner
s of Catarella’s mouth began to quiver, as if he was about to cry.

  “Wha’ happen izzat lass night when the ’vacuees all came offa the boat—”

  “They’re not evacuees, Cat,” Montalbano said, interrupting him, “they’re migrants. Evacuees were the people who would flee one town for another in the last war to escape the constant bombing.”

  “’Scuse me, Chief, but ain’t these people also runnin’ away from bombs?”

  Montalbano didn’t know what to say. Catarella’s logic was flawless.

  “Go on.”

  “Anyways, ’tween all ’ese ’vacuees a girl lookin’ nine-month prennant and big as a jug so that she cou’n’t e’en walk, fell inna my arms. An’, holdin’ ’er up wit’ one arm roun’ ’er waist, I started walkin’ ’er right tord a amblance, wit’ ’er wailin’ alla whiles. An’ so I ast ’er what ’er name was an’ she said ’er name was Fatima. Finally, when we got to the amblance—”

  “Sorry, Cat,” the inspector interrupted him again, “but weren’t there any nurses there on the scene?”

  “Yeah, Chief, but they ’adda take care of a guy witta serious inchery. Anyways, I ’elped ’er get into this ambulance, an’ when I was about to leave, she says to me in perfect Italian: ‘Don’t leave me.’ So I ast if I cou’ stay wit’ ’er an’ ’ey said no. An’ so I got in my car an’ went to the haspital in Montelusa. When I foun’ Fatima there, still lyin’ onna same goiny inna hallway, I took ’er ’and an’ ’eld it rilly tight till they took ’er into the ’livery room, an’ ’en I came back ’ere.”

  “Have you got any news of her?”

  “Yeah, Chief. I got a call ’bout half a hour ago. It was a boy. Bu’ she died.”

  Catarella couldn’t contain himself any longer, and the tears began gushing out of his eyes.

  “Be strong, Cat,” said the inspector, who was about to go back to his office when Catarella stopped him.

  “Chief, can I make a riquess?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “C’n I be azempted from port duty? Please, Chief, if I have to go troo anyting like ’at agin, I’m not so sure my ’eart c’n take it. I migh’ jess get a ’eart attack.”

  “All right,” said Montalbano, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  He’d just sat down when Mimì Augello walked in.

  “How’d it go with the lady tailor?”

  “Quite well,” said Montalbano, “but let’s talk about more serious matters.”

  “Why, don’t you think that woman is a serious matter?” Augello retorted.

  “There’s something I have to ask you,” said Montalbano. “Why did you summon Catarella for port duty last night?”

  “I had to replace someone who called in sick.”

  “Try not to do it again.”

  “Why?”

  “The rest of us are used to that sort of thing. We’ve been forced to grow thicker skin. But Catarella’s like a little kid, and he can’t really fathom what’s happening. And maybe he’s right.”

  “Okay,” said Augello.

  At that exact moment, Fazio came in. His face looked weary and dark. He sat down in front of the desk.

  “I’ve just heard a rumor,” he said, “which I hope isn’t true. Supposedly almost four hundred more desperate souls are arriving tonight.”

  Mimì reacted.

  “Right, like the other night when a thousand were supposedly arriving and in fact it was barely a hundred and thirty. I really don’t understand why people always like to bullshit.”

  The telephone rang.

  “Chief, ’Specter Sileci wants a talk t’yiz poissonally in poisson.”

  “Put him on.”

  “I can’t, Chief, insomuch as ’e ain’t onna line, but ’ere onna premisses.”

  “Then show him in.”

  Sileci was a colleague of Montalbano’s, around fifty years old, a bit portly, and sporting a big mustache, whom the commissioner had put in charge of the squad dealing with the emergency situation created by all the migrant landings.

  Upon entering, he greeted everyone roundly and sat down in the chair Fazio had vacated for him.

  “We’re in deep shit,” he declared.

  They all looked at him questioningly.

  “I’ve just received an official communiqué,” Sileci went on, “stating that two ships are on the way here. The first has picked up two hundred shipwreck victims, the second, two hundred and twelve. They’re about seven hours’ sailing from here.” He glanced at his watch and continued: “In other words, all hell should be breaking loose again around midnight.”

  “Then that means that this time,” said Montalbano, “we risk drowning in shit.”

  “That’s exactly right. Therefore we need to come up with a plan. Any ideas?”

  A heavy silence descended.

  Each was looking at the others in the hopes that someone might have a solution, any solution.

  Moments later, Montalbano was the first to speak.

  “Well, I think I have an inkling of a plan. But first there are two things I need to know. Fazio, do me a favor and ring Dr. Osman right now and find out if he’s available to lend us a hand. If so, tell him to come here to the station tonight around eleven-thirty.”

  Fazio got up and dashed out of the room.

  “The second thing,” the inspector continued, turning to Sileci, “is this: Do you think you can call the harbormaster and arrange for the second boat to dock about half an hour late?”

  Sileci stood up, pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, and went over to the window. He spoke briefly and then returned.

  “Yeah, they can manage that. I wanted to add that before coming here, I got a call from the commissioner, who gave me a warning. He said that this time—and these are his words—we mustn’t let so much as a needle slip through our net.”

  “What’s this about?” asked Montalbano. “The usual business of the terrorist who’s weaseled his way into the mass of migrants?”

  “Exactly. Ever since Cusumano was named chief of Antiterrorism, he practically checks under his bed every night before going to sleep, to make sure there isn’t a terrorist hiding there. So you think it’s not true?”

  “I suppose it’s possible some nutcase could be hiding among the refugees. But why would he face the risk of an extremely dangerous passage across the sea, not to mention the security checks he’d be subjected to upon arriving? If you ask me, any terrorist, if and when he comes here, will waltz blithely off a plane with a regular passport in hand and get his explosives later, from some accomplice already here.”

  Fazio returned.

  “Osman says he’s completely available.”

  “All right, then, tell us your plan.”

  3

  “I think I know what the most critical point of the landing process is,” said the inspector, “the point where our surveillance becomes very difficult and the meshes in the net become so large that anyone who wants to can escape.”

  “And when would that be?” asked Sileci.

  “It would be the moment the boat’s gangway touches the dock. At that moment there’s total chaos on board, despite the efforts of the sailors to maintain some semblance of order. The migrants become overwhelmed with the irresistible need to set foot on dry land, immediately. They can’t stand being at sea any longer. And that’s not all. These poor folks have staked everything, every hope they’ve ever had, on this one sea crossing, all the spare change they’ve saved up or borrowed from their families over the course of an entire existence. They’re well aware that the journey is very dangerous and might even cost them their lives, and so all their chances of living are concentrated in taking that first step on dry land. So, what happens, then? They all rush headlong to be the first to disembark, pushing every which way, falling into the water, climbing over one another. When
they reach the bottom of the gangway, we find ourselves having to sustain the violent impact of twenty or thirty people unable to control themselves. They scream, wail, cry, and laugh, but mostly they’re trying to run somewhere—where, even they don’t know. It’s just instinct, and they race blindly. And there are never enough of us to contain the thrust of this great mass. Clear?”

  “Perfectly,” said Sileci. “So what do you suggest?”

  “I’ll tell you in a second,” Montalbano replied.

  Then he told him. After which, he asked:

  “Are you in agreement?”

  “Yes. Let’s just hope it works,” replied Sileci, rising to his feet.

  * * *

  The first thing the inspector did when he got home was, as usual, to look in the refrigerator.

  He found it empty.

  And so he raced over to the oven. But there was no need to open it. The wondrous aroma of Adelina’s pasta ’ncasciata was already penetrating his nostrils.

  He lit the oven to heat up the casserole. Although the wind had dropped, the evening air remained chilly, and so he set the table in the kitchen.

  While waiting he went and watched a little TV. There was a news feature on the arrival, at Lampedusa, of a ship that had saved sixty people. Seven, however, had died. Rather than ruin his appetite, he turned off the set.

  And at that moment the phone rang. It was Livia. Her first question was:

  “How did it go with Elena?”

  “Elena who?” said Montalbano.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t go . . .” said Livia, assuming the worst.

  Only then did the inspector remember that that was the tailor’s name.

  “Of course I went. I keep my promises.”

  “And so? What was it like?”

  “What was it supposed to be like? It was fine.”

  “I knew it would be.”

  “But tell me something, Livia. When I got to the tailor’s shop, I saw that Elena had two male helpers and a seamstress who was working at a sewing machine. One of the helpers took my measurements. She then had me choose a fabric to my liking, and limited herself to looking at me from the front and back.”